Intimacy of a Spiritist family.

Mrs. G… was widowed three years ago, left with four children. The eldest son is an amiable young man of seventeen, and the youngest daughter a charming little girl of six. For a long time this family has devoted itself to Spiritism, and even before this belief had become popularized as it is today, the father and the mother had a kind of intuition, which various circumstances had developed. The father of Mr. G… had appeared to him several times in his youth, and each time forewarned him of important things or gave him useful counsel. Facts of the same kind had likewise occurred among their friends, so that, for them, the existence beyond the tomb was not the object of the slightest doubt, just as neither was the possibility of communicating with the beings who are dear to us. When it arose, Spiritism was but the confirmation of an idea well settled and sanctified by the sentiment of an enlightened religion, for that family is a model of evangelical piety and charity. They drew from the new science the most direct means of communication; the mother and one of the sons became excellent mediums. Yet, far from employing this faculty in futile matters, all regarded it as a precious gift of Providence, of which it was permitted to make use only for serious things. Thus, they never practice it without recollection and respect, and far from the gaze of the importunate and the curious. Meanwhile the father fell ill and, sensing the approaching end, gathered his children and said to them: “Dear children and most beloved wife, God calls me to Him. I feel that I shall leave you before long; but I feel that you will find in your faith in immortality the strength necessary to bear this separation courageously, just as I carry the consolation that I shall always be able to be among you and to help you with my counsels. Call me, then, when I am no longer on the Earth; I shall come to sit by your side, to converse with you, as our ancestors do. In truth we shall be less separated than if I departed for a distant country. My adored wife, I leave you a great task; yet, the heavier it is, the more glorious it will be. I am certain that our children will help you to bear it; is it not so, my children? Second your mother; avoid all that may make her suffer; be good and benevolent toward all; extend your hand to your unfortunate brethren, because you would not like to extend it one day, asking in vain for yourselves. May peace, concord, and union reign among you; may interest never separate you, for material interest is the greatest barrier between the Earth and Heaven. Think that I shall always be near you, that I shall see you as I see you at this moment, and better still, for I shall see your thought. Do not, then, wish to sadden me after death, just as you did not do so in my life.” n It is a truly edifying spectacle to witness the intimacy of that pious family. Nourished in spirit ideas, these children do not consider themselves at all separated from the father. For them, he is present, and they fear to perform the least action that may displease him. One evening a week, and sometimes more, is consecrated to conversing with him; there are, however, the necessities of life, which must be provided for – the family is not rich – which is why a fixed day is set for these pious conversations, a day always awaited with impatience. Often the little one asks: “Is it today that papa comes?” That day is dedicated to family conversations, in instructions proportioned to the intelligence, sometimes childlike, at other times grave and sublime. There are counsels given on the subject of little mischiefs that he points out. If he gives praise, neither does he spare criticism, and in that case the guilty one lowers the eyes, as if the father were before him; he asks his pardon, which is granted only after several weeks of trials: his sentence is awaited with fervent anxiety. Then, what joy when the father says: “I am pleased with you!” To say, however: “I shall not come next week” is the most terrible threat. The annual feast is not forgotten. It is always a solemn day, to which they invite the ancestors already deceased, without forgetting a little brother who died some years ago. The portraits are adorned with flowers, each child prepares a little work, even a traditional greeting. The eldest gives a dissertation on a grave subject; one of the young girls executes a musical piece; the little one, finally, recites a fable. It is the day of the great communications, and each guest receives a remembrance from the friends he left on the Earth.

How beautiful are these reunions, in their touching simplicity! How everything there speaks to the heart! How can we leave there without being imbued with the love of good? No mocking glance, no skeptical smile comes to disturb the pious recollection; a few friends share the same convictions, and the persons devoted to the family's religion are the only ones admitted to take a seat at this banquet of sentiment. Laugh as much as you wish, you who scoff at the most holy things. However proud and hardened you may be, I do not do you the injury of believing that your pride could remain impassive and cold before such a spectacle.

One day, however, was one of mourning for the family, a day of true sorrow: the father had announced that for some time, a very long time even, he would not be able to come; a great and important mission summoned him far from the Earth. The annual feast was not for that reason any less celebrated; but it was sad, for he was not there. He had said on departing:

“My children: may at my return I find you all worthy of me,” which is why each one strives to become worthy of him. They are still waiting.

[1] Translator's note: We have used now the second person singular, now the second person plural, as it appears in the original, in order better to bring into focus the intimacy of that moment so significant for a father who was bidding farewell to his family.