SELECTIONS FROM VARIOUS LETTERS.[331]

SELECTIONS FROM VARIOUS LETTERS.[331]

A Supper.—We supped again yesterday with Madame de Scarron and the Abbé Têtu, at Madame de Coulanges’. We had a great deal of chat, in which you had your share. We took it into our heads to conduct Madame de Scarron home, at midnight to the very furthest end of the Faubourg St. Germain, a great way beyond Madame de la Fayette’s, almost as far as Vaugirard, and quite in the country, where she lives in a large handsome house—the entrance of which is forbidden to every one—with a large garden, and beautiful and spacious apartments; she has an equipage, servants, and a genteel table; dresses neatly, but elegantly, in the style of a woman who associates with people of rank; she is amiable, handsome, good, free from affectation, and, in a word, an excellent companion. We returned very merrily, in the midst of a number of flambeaux, and in full security from thieves.

Port Royal.—That Port Royal is a perfect Thebais, a very paradise; a desert where all that is left of true Christian devotion is retired. The whole country for a league round breathes the air of virtue and holiness. The nuns are angels upon earth. Mademoiselle de Vertus is wearing out the remains of a miserable life there, in the most excruciating pain, but with inconceivable resignation. The very meanest of the inhabitants have a virtuous serenity in their countenances, and a modesty of deportment to be met with in no other place. I own to you I was delighted to see this divine solitude of which I have heard so much; it is a frightful valley, calculated to inspire a taste for religion.

Hints about Children.—A word about the little Marquis (de Grignan);[332] I beseech you not to be under any apprehension about his timidity. Remember that the charming Marquis (de la Châtre) used to tremble and quake till he was twelve years old, and that La Troche, when young, was so terrified at the least thing, that his mother could not bear to have him in her sight; and yet you see how much they have distinguished themselves since: let that comfort you. Fears of this kind are the mere effect of childhood, and when childhood is surmounted, instead of being afraid of raw-head and bloody bones, these personages are afraid only of being thought fearful, are afraid of being less esteemed than others, and that is sufficient to make them brave, and kill their thousands and ten thousands: let me then again beg you to make yourself easy on that score. As to his shape, it is another matter: I would advise you to put him into breeches, and then you will see better how his legs go on, and whether they are straightened as he grows. You must let him have room to stir himself, and unfold his little limbs: but you must put on him a pretty tight vest, which will confine his shape. I shall receive some further instructions, however, on this subject, which I will not fail to transmit to you. It would be a fine thing indeed to see a Grignan with a bad shape! Do you not remember how pretty he was in his swaddling-clothes? I am no less uneasy than yourself at this alteration.

Reflections.—What you say of death taking the liberty of interrupting fortune is admirable; this ought to comfort those who are not in the number of her favorites, and to diminish the bitterness of death. You ask me if I am religious: alas! my dear, I am not sufficiently so, for which I am very sorry; but yet I think I am somewhat detached from what is called the world. Age and sickness give us leisure enough for serious reflection; but what I retrench from the rest of the world I bestow upon you, so that I make but small advances in the path of detachment; and you know that the law of the game is to begin by effacing a little what is dearest to our heart.

Versailles in 1676.—I was on Saturday at Versailles with the Villars. You know the ceremony of attending on the queen at her toilet, at mass, and at dinner; but there is now no necessity of being stifled with the heat, and with the crowd, while their majesties dine: for at three, the king and queen, monsieur, madame, mademoiselle, the princes and princesses, Madame de Montespan, and her train, the courtiers, and the ladies, in short the whole court of France, retire to that fine apartment of the king’s which you know. It is furnished with the utmost magnificence; they know not there what it is to be incommoded with heat; and pass from one room to another without being crowded. A game at reversis gives a form to the assembly, and fixes every thing. The king and Madame de Montespan keep a bank together. Monsieur, the queen, and Madame de Soubise, Dangeau, and Langlé, with their companies, are at different tables. The baize is covered with a thousand louis-d’ors; they use no other counters. I saw Dangeau play, and could not help observing how awkward others appeared in comparison of him. He thinks of nothing but his game, though he scarcely seems to attend to it; he gains where others lose; takes every advantage; nothing escapes or distracts him; in short, his good conduct defies fortune. Thus, two hundred thousand francs in ten days, a hundred thousand crowns in a month, are added to his account-book under the head received. He had the complaisance to say I was a partner with him in the bank, by which means I was seated very commodiously. I bowed to the king in the way you taught me; and he returned my salutation, as if I had been young and handsome. The queen talked to me of my illness, nor did she leave you unmentioned. The duke paid me a thousand of those unmeaning compliments which he bestows so liberally. M. de Lorges attacked me in the name of the Chevalier de Grignan; and, in short, tutti quanti (all the rest). You know what it is to receive a word from every one who passes you. Madame de Montespan talked to me of Bourbon, and desired me to tell her how I liked Vichi, and whether I had found any benefit there. She said that Bourbon, instead of removing the pain from her knee, had given her the tooth-ache. Her beauty and her shape are really surprising; she is much thinner than she was; and yet neither her eyes, her lips, nor her complexion are injured. She was dressed in French point; her hair in a thousand curls, and the two from her temples very low upon her cheeks; she wore on her head black ribbons, intermixed with the pearls which once belonged to the Maréchale de l’Hôpital, diamond pendants of great value, and three or four bodkins. In a word, she appeared a triumphant beauty, calculated to raise the admiration of all the foreign embassadors. She has heard that complaints were made of her having prevented all France from seeing the king; she has restored him, as you see, and you can not imagine the delight this has occasioned, nor the splendor it has given to the court. This agreeable confusion, without confusion, of all the most select persons in the kingdom, lasts from three o’clock till six. If any couriers arrive, the king retires to read his letters, and returns to the assembly. There is always music, to which he sometimes listens, and which has an admirable effect: in the mean time, he chats with the ladies who are accustomed to have that honor. They leave off their game at the hour I mentioned, without the trouble of reckoning, because they use no marks or counters. The pools are of five, six, or seven hundred, and sometimes of a thousand or twelve hundred louis-d’ors.

At six they take the air in calashes; the king and Madame de Montespan, the prince and Madame de Thianges, and Mademoiselle d’Heudicourt, upon the little seat before, which seems to her a seat in paradise. You know how these calashes are made; they do not sit face to face in them, but all look the same way. The queen was in another with the princesses: the whole court followed in different equipages, according to their different fancies. They went afterward in gondolas upon the canal, where there was music: at ten the comedy began, and at twelve they concluded the day with the Spanish entertainment of media noche; thus we passed the Saturday.

The Telescope.—Apropos, did I mention to you an excellent telescope that amused us exceedingly in the boat? It is really a master-piece of its kind; it is a still better one than that which the abbé left with you at Grignan. This glass brings objects quite home that are at three leagues’ distance; alas! that it would bring those which are two hundred! You may easily guess the use we made of it on the banks of the Loire, but I have found a new method of using it, which is this: you know that one end brings objects nearer to you, and the other throws them to a great distance; now this end I turn toward Mademoiselle du Plessis, and in a moment I see her three leagues from me. I tried this experiment the other day on her, and the rest of my neighbors; this was amusing, but nobody knew what I meant by it; if there had been any one to whom I could have given the hint, the pleasure would have been greater. When tired with disagreeable company, it is only to send for the glass, and look through it at the end that distances the objects. Ask Montgobert, if she would not have laughed heartily. This is a pretty subject to talk nonsense upon. If you have Corbinelli with you, let me recommend the use of the glass to you.

Adieu, my dear; we are not mountains, as you say, so I hope to embrace you a little nearer than two hundred leagues: but you are going still further off; I have a great mind to set out for Brest. It is very hard, in my opinion, that the grand-duchess should not have the good Rarai as her lady of honor; the Guisardes have appointed La Sainte-Même to the office. I hear that La Trousse’s good fortune is doubled, and that he will have De Froulai’s situation.

Rules of Living.—I am never in bed more than seven hours, and I eat sparingly: I add to your precepts walking a great deal, but the worst is, that I can not prevent somber thoughts from intruding into my long gloomy avenues. Sadness is poison to us, and the source of the vapors. You are right in thinking this disorder is imaginary; you have admirably defined it; it is sorrow that gives birth to, and fear that nourishes it.

Work.—I was employed yesterday on a piece of work as tedious as the company I had: I never work but when I have company; when I am alone, I walk, I read, or write. La Plessis incommodes me no more than Maria; I am so happy as to have no inclination to listen to any thing she says, and find as little interruption from her presence, as you do from some whom you have the same kind of regard for. In other respects she has the best sentiments in the world; I admire how all her good qualities are spoiled by her impertinent and ridiculous manners. It is quite laughable to hear what she says of my patience in bearing with her; how she explains it; and the obligations she fancies it lays her under to attach herself to me; and how I serve her for an excuse for not visiting her friends at Vitré. It would make you smile, to observe her little arts to satisfy her vanity (for vanity is the growth of every soil); and her affected fears that I am growing jealous of a nun of Vitré, for whom she has a partiality. All this would make an excellent farce.

Evening Employments.—I was perfectly rejoiced to return here; I am making a new walk, which employs me wholly. I pay my workmen in corn; and find nothing so profitable as to amuse one’s self, and forget, if possible, the evils of life. Neither do my evenings, my child, about which you are so much in pain, hang more heavily on my hands: I am almost always writing, or reading, and midnight overtakes me before I know where I am. Our abbé (her uncle) takes his leave of me at ten, and the two hours that I am alone, are no more irksome to me than the rest. In the day I am either employed with the abbé, or among my dear laborers, or in my favorite work. In short, my dear, life flies away so swiftly, and we are always drawing so near our end, that I can not conceive how people can make themselves so unhappy about worldly affairs. I have here sufficient time for reflection, and it is my fault, and not that of the place, if I do not indulge it. I am quite well; all my people obey you admirably: they are ridiculously careful of me; they come to guard me home in the evening armed cap-à-pie, and it is against a squirrel they draw their swords.

An Impromptu Marriage.—M. de Chaulnes concluded a marriage the other day, which gave me pleasure, between the little Du Guesclin, and a very pretty girl with a large fortune; when he had with great difficulty settled the articles, he said, “Let us draw up the contract;” the parties consented, and he immediately resumed, saying, “What prevents their being married to-morrow?” Every one exclaimed, “There must be wedding-clothes, a toilet, and linen.”—He laughed at this. M. de Rennes gave a dispensation of two banns, and the next day being Sunday, one was published in the morning, and they were married at noon; after dinner the little bride danced like an angel; she had learned at Paris of the duchess’ master, and had caught her air; the next day she was Madame du Guesclin, and had saved 20,000 livres that would otherwise have been spent in the wedding. It is consistent with good sense to rise superior sometimes to trifles and customs.

A Bride.—Madame de Coulanges informs me that the new Madame de la Fayette was reclined upon a magnificent bed in a noble house; the room hung with beautiful tapestry belonging to the Keeper of the Seals; the bed decorated with an ancient mantle of the order, and the room hung with fine tapestry, having the arms ornamented with the staves of the Marshal of France, and the collar of the order; looking-glasses, chandeliers, glass plates, and crystals, according to the present fashion, out of number; a great many servants, and valets-de-chambre in livery; the bride in an elegant dress. In short, such taste reigns in the house of the new-married couple and in their family, that our Madame de la Fayette ought to be perfectly satisfied at her son’s having formed so great and honorable an alliance.

Bleeding.—You tell me you have found it necessary to be bled; the trembling hand of your young surgeon makes me tremble. The prince said one day to a new surgeon, “Does not the idea of bleeding me make you tremble?”—“Faith sir,” replied the man, “your highness has most reason to tremble.” He was in the right.

Company.—I have for a long time adopted your opinion, that bad company is preferable to good: how dismal it is to part with the good! and what a pleasure it is to get rid of the bad! Do you remember how we were tormented at Fouesnel, and how overjoyed we were when the company thought proper to take their leave? I think we may then establish it as a maxim, that nothing is more desirable than bad company, and nothing more to be dreaded than good. Let whoever is puzzled with this enigma call upon us for the solution of it.

Quarrels in High Life.—I think I mentioned to you the quarrel between the Duke de Ventadour and the Duke d’Aumont; the latter was returning from Bourbon with his wife, and the Duchess de Ventadour and the Chevalier de Tilladet. The Duke de Ventadour was at an estate he has in the same county, called La Motte. He had desired his wife to come to him there, and sent, at the same time, to invite the whole company, but was refused; he then came himself, but was ill received, because, following the company about from dinner-time till bed-time, his conversation was mixed continually with menaces and reproaches; in short, he was like Don Quixotte, pistol in hand, threatening and challenging the gentlemen. The chevalier treated him as a person fit only for Bedlam. At length the ladies arrived in great fear at Paris, where the king, being informed of what had happened, sent a guard to take care of Madame Ventadour, so that she is now under the protection of his majesty. What think you the monster did? he went to the king, attended by his neighbors, that is, the Princes de Condé, de Conti, Messieurs de Luxembourg, Duras, Schomberg, Bellefond; and, with incredible assurance, told the king that the Chevalier de Tilladet had not paid him the respect due to his rank; mark the expression: he places the dukedom where it was formerly. “Sire,” said he, “I want to know why I am refused the company of my wife! what has happened to my person of late? Am I uglier, or more ill made than formerly, when I was as much courted as I am now avoided? If I am ugly, sire, is it my fault? Had I been my own maker, I would have been like your majesty; but these are things that are not in our own disposal.” In short, partly owing to this natural and proper, and at the same time unexpected, flattery, and partly to the justice of his argument, the king was pleased with him, as well as the whole court, However, they are to be separated; the difficulty is, that he insists that his wife shall be shut up in a convent, which is a sad affair. M. de la Rochefoucault is employed to accommodate this business, and settle matters between the gentlemen.

Extravagance of M. de Sévigné.—I have been ready to weep to see the desolation of this estate; there were the finest trees in the world upon it, and my son, in his last journey, gave the finishing stroke to the last. He would even have sold a little copse, which was the greatest ornament of the place. Is not this lamentable? He scraped together four hundred pistoles by this plunder, of which he had not a single penny left in a month. It is impossible to think with patience how he acts, and what his Brittany journey cost him, notwithstanding he discharged his coachman and footman at Paris, and took nobody but Larmechin with him. He has found out the art of spending an immense deal of money, without making any show for it, of losing without playing, and of paying without discharging his debts. War or peace, he is forever crying out for money; in short, he is a perpetual drain, and what he does with his money I can not conceive, for he appears to have no particular passion. I really think his hand is a crucible, which melts money the instant it is put into it.

* * * * *

My son writes me word that he is going to play at reversis with his young master:[333] this makes my blood run cold within me; two, three, or four hundred pistoles are lost before we can look around us. “This is nothing for Admetus, but a great deal for him.” If people, before they play, would think that they may possibly lose a great deal, and that debts of honor must be paid immediately, they would not be so ready to engage in such parties; but the misfortune is, that every one thinks he shall win, and this leads him on to destruction. If Dangeau is one of the party, he will carry off every thing; for he is a perfect harpy at play. However, it will all turn out as it shall please God, and so it will be with the 6,000 francs which I expected to receive from Nantes, and which a demon has interfered in the shape of a point of law, that throws us as far back as ever.

Gaming.—They play extravagantly high at Versailles: the hoca[334] is forbidden at Paris under pain of death, and yet it is played at court: five or six thousand pistoles of a morning is nothing to lose. This is no better than picking of pockets. I beseech you to banish this game from among you.

* * * * *

The other day the queen missed going to mass, and lost twenty thousand crowns in one morning. The king said to her, “Let us calculate, madam, how much this is a year.” And M. de Montausier asked her the next day, if she intended staying away from mass for the hoca again; upon which she was in a great passion. I have heard these stories from persons who have come from Versailles, and who collect them for me.

* * * * *

But now about this breland,[335] what a folly is it to lose so much money at such a rascally game! It has been banished from us for a downright cut-throat. We do things in a more serious manner. You play against all chance: you lose forever: take my advice, and do not continue it: consider it is throwing money away without having any amusement for it: on the contrary, you have paid 5,000 or 6,000 francs to be the mere dupe of fortune. But I am rather too warm, my dear, and must say with Tartuffe, “’tis through excess of zeal.”

* * * * *

I will tell you, my dear child, a thought that has occurred to me on the frequent losses you and M. de Grignan sustain at cards. I would have you both be cautious. It is not pleasant to be made a dupe of; and be assured that it is not natural to be perpetually the winner or the loser. It is not long since I was led into the tricks of the Hôtel de la Vieuville. You remember, I suppose, how our pockets were picked there. You are not to imagine every body plays as fairly as you do yourself. The concern I have for your interest makes me say so much; and as it comes from a heart entirely devoted to you, I am persuaded you will not be displeased at it.

Providence.—You say you never mention Providence but when you have a disorder on your lungs, whereas that subject always exhausts mine, for I can find none that furnishes so large a field for discussion, observation and inquiry; and why may we not discourse as well on this as on natural philosophy? Why did you not still say, as you did last year, that our fears, our reasonings, our decisions, our wills, our desires, are only so many means employed by God for the execution of his purposes? Is not this an inexhaustible subject, fraught with the most entertaining variety?

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Believe me there is no experiment in natural philosophy more interesting than the investigation of the connection and diversity of our several sentiments; so that you see, It is God’s will may be paraphrased in a thousand different ways.

Free Will.—I have no other answer to make you upon what St. Augustin says, except that I hear and understand him, when he tells me, and repeats to me five hundred times in the same book, that all things depend, as the apostle says, “not on him that willeth, nor on him that runneth, but on God, that showeth mercy to whom it pleaseth him; that it is not for any merit in man, that God bestows his grace, but according to his own good pleasure; that man may not glory in his own strength, seeing he receives all things from God.” His whole book is in this strain, filled with passages from Scripture, the writings of the Apostle Paul, and the Homilies of the Church. He calls our free will, a deliverance, and an aptitude to love God, because we are no longer under the dominion of the devil, and are chosen from all eternity, according to the decrees of the Almighty before all ages. When I read in this book the following passage, “How could God call men to judgment, if they were not free agents?” I confess I am at a loss to understand it, and am disposed to think it a mystery: but as free will can not put our salvation in our own power, and as we must always be dependent on God, I have no desire to understand it better, and will endeavor, as much as possible, to remain in a state of humility and dependence.

Devices.—As to devices, my dear child, my poor brain is in a very bad condition for thinking of any, much less for inventing them; however, as there are twelve hours in the day, and above fifty in the night, my memory has furnished me with a rocket raised to a great height in the air, with these words; Che peri, pur che s’innalzi.[336] I am afraid I have seen this somewhere in the late tournaments, though I can not exactly say where or when; for I think it too pretty to be my own. I remember also having seen in some book, a rocket on the subject of a lover who had been bold enough to declare himself to his mistress, with these words, Da l’ardore l’ardire,[337] which is pretty but does not apply in this instance. I am not quite sure whether the first I have mentioned is in strict conformity to the rules of devices: for I do not perfectly understand them; all I know is, that it pleased me, and whether it was in a tournament, or on a seal, is a matter of no great importance; it is scarcely possible to invent new ones for every occasion. You have heard me a thousand times repeat that part of a line in Tasso, L’alte non temo:[338] I used to repeat this so often, that the Count de Chapelles had a seal engraved, with an eagle flying toward the sun, and L’alte non temo for the motto: a very happy device.

* * * * *

M. de Montmoron came hither post: among other things we were talking about devices: he assures me he does not remember to have seen any where the one I proposed: he knew the one with these words, Da l’ardore l’ardire, but that is not the thing: the other, he says, is much more complete, Che peri, pur che s’innalzi. And whether it is my own, or borrowed, he thinks it excellent.

* * * * *

I have seen a device which suits me exactly; it is a leafless tree, apparently dead, with this inscription round it, Fin che sol ritorni.[339] What think you of it, my child?

The Use of Reason.—I am still alone, my dear child, without being dull: my health is good; I have plenty of books, work, and fine weather; these, with a little reason, go a great way.

Pecuniary Embarrassments.—You ask, why am I not with you? Alas! I could easily answer you, if I were inclined to debase my letter with a detail of the reasons that obliged me to quit you, of the misery of this country, the sums that are owing me here, the delays in the payment of them, what I owe elsewhere, and the ruin my affairs must have sustained had I not taken this resolution in time. You well know that I put it off for two years with pleasure; but there are extremes, my dear child, in which we should destroy every thing in attempting to wrestle with necessity; the property I possess is no longer my own; I must preserve the same honor and the same probity I have all my life professed. This, this, my child is the cruel cause that tears me from you; and is this a subject to entertain you with?

An Obstinate Son.—In regard to my son, I find I have courage enough to tell him my sentiments without disguise. I wrote him a letter which I think unanswerable; but the more I enforce my reasons, the more he urges his arguments, and he appears so determined, that I now perfectly understand what is meant by an unconquerable wish. There is a degree of ardor in the desire which animates him, that no prudence can withstand. I can not accuse myself of having preferred my own interest to his. I wish for nothing but to see him walk in the path I have traced out for him. He is wrong in all his arguments, and far beside the mark; I have endeavored to set him right by incontestable arguments, corroborated by the opinion of all our friends; and ask him if he has not some doubts, seeing he is alone in an opinion which every one else disapproves? He answers me always by an obstinate perseverance; so that I am reduced to the last expedient, that of keeping him from making a rash or injurious bargain.

A Forgiving Mother.—As I was returning from my walk yesterday, I met the poor frater,[340] at the end of the mall, who immediately fell upon his knees, so conscious of having done wrong in having been three weeks under ground, singing matins, that he thought he dared not approach me otherwise. I had resolved to scold him heartily, but I was so glad to see him, that I could not find an angry word to use. You know how entertaining he is; he embraced me a thousand times, and gave me the worst reasons in the world; which, however, I received as sterling; we chat, we read, we walk, and we wear away the year; or rather, what is left of it.

Love—its symptoms.—You want to know the symptoms of this love, of which I spoke to you the other day. Imprimis, To be the first on all occasions to deny it: to affect an air of great indifference, which is a sure mark of the contrary: the opinion of those who can judge from being near: the public voice: an entire suspension of all motion in the globular machine: a neglect of ordinary concerns to attend to a single one: a continual satirizing old people who are so foolish as to be in love. “Such nonsense! they must be idiots! fools! And with a young woman too! Very pretty indeed! it would become me mighty well! I had rather break both my arms and legs.” And then we make answer internally: “Indeed what you say is very true; but, for all that you are in love: you tell us all these fine things: your reflections are doubtless very just, very true, very tormenting; but for all that you are in love; reason is on your side, but love is stronger than reason; at the same time you are sick, you weep, you are out of humor, and you are in love.”

Chess.—You tell me of chess what I have often thought before. In my opinion, there could not have been contrived a better expedient to humble pride than this game, which at once sets before our view the narrowness and insignificance of the human mind. I think it would be of real utility to any one fond of such reflections. But then, on the other hand, the foresight, the penetration, the address in defending ourselves, as in attacking our adversary, the success attending the right management of the game, is so pleasing, and affords so much inward satisfaction, that it may at the same time nourish our pride and swell our self-sufficiency. I am still far from being cured of this passion, and therefore want to be further convinced of my own weakness.

Alone.—I am delighted to be alone; I walk out, I amuse myself with reading and work, and I go to church; in short I ask pardon of the company I expect, but I own I do wondrous well without them.

A Courtier.—The other day the dauphin was shooting at a mark, and shot very wide of it: M. de Montausier rallied him upon it; and told the Marquis de Créqui, who is very skillful to fire, saying to the dauphin, “See how well he will hit the mark.” The arch youth had the complaisance to shoot a foot further from it than the dauphin, which turned the laugh on M. de Montausier: “Ah! little wretch,” said he, “you deserve to be hanged.”

The King.—The king, in reality, is well served: neither life nor fortune is considered when his pleasure is the question. If we were as well disposed toward God, we should be saints indeed.

Christian Humility.—I know very well that Jesus Christ, St. Paul, and St. Augustine, preached and exhorted, it was their business; this latter gives good reason for doing so. But a poor sinner, recovered only three days from a worse state than ours, should keep silence, penetrated with the mercy of God toward him, occupied only with his happiness, and the true gratitude he owes to his Saviour, for having selected and distinguished him from so many others, without any merit, through free grace: such should be the sentiments of his heart, and if charity should make him interest himself for his neighbor, it should display itself in lamentations before God, and in supplicating the same grace for others that has so plentifully been poured upon him. Such was that penitent and holy princess, Madame de Longueville; she did not forget her situation nor the abyss from which God had saved her; she preserved the remembrance as a foundation for her penitence and her lively acknowledgment to the Almighty. Thus is Christian humility preserved and the grace of Jesus Christ honored. This does not preclude reflection and Christian conversation with our friends; but no sermons, no scolding; these revolt, and make us recollect and refer persons to their past life, because we find they have forgotten it. I am astonished that people of good sense should fall into this injustice; but we ought to be astonished at nothing; for what do we not meet with in our journey through life?

Home Life.—We lead so regular a life that it is scarcely possible to be ill. We rise at eight, and I often walk till nine, when the bell rings for mass, to breathe the fresh air in the woods; after mass we dress, bid each other good-day, return and gather orange-flowers, dine, and work or read till five. Since my son’s absence, I read to save his little wife’s lungs; I leave her at five, and return to those delightful groves, with a servant who follows me: I take books with me, change my route, and vary my walks; from a book of devotion I turn to one of history, this creates a little change; I think of God, and his over-ruling providence possesses my soul, and reflect on futurity; at length, about eight o’clock I hear a bell. This is the summons to supper. I prefer this life infinitely to that of Rennes; is it not a fit solitude for a person who should think of her salvation, and who either is or would be a Christian? In short, my dearest child, there is nothing but you that I prefer to the tranquil repose I enjoy here; for I own with pleasure, that I would willingly pass some more time with you if it pleased God.

Liberty at Home.—What do you say my child? would you not suffer me to have two or three hours to myself, after having been at mass, to dinner, and till five o’clock working, or talking with my daughter-in-law? she would, I believe, be as much vexed at this as myself: she is a good little woman, and we agree wonderfully well together; but we have a great taste for the liberty of parting and meeting again afterward. When I am with you, my child, I own I never leave you but with regret and consideration for you; with every other person, it is from consideration for myself. Nothing can be more just or more natural: it is impossible to feel for two persons what I feel for you; leave us, therefore, a little to our sacred freedom; it agrees with me, and by the help of books the time passes in this way as quickly as it does at your brilliant castle.

Readings.—Our readings are delightful. We have Abbadie[341] and the History of the Church; this is marrying the lute to the voice. You are not fond of wagers; I know not how we could captivate you a whole winter here. You skim lightly, and are not fond of history; and we have no pleasure but when we are attached to our subject and make it a business. Sometimes, by way of change, we read Les petites Lettres of Pascal; good heavens! how delightful they are, and how well my son reads them! I constantly think of my daughter, and how worthy of her this extreme propriety of reasoning would be: but your brother says you find that it is always the same thing: ah! so much the better; can there be a more perfect style, more finely wrought, more delicate unaffected raillery, or more nearly allied to the dialogues of Plato, which are so very beautiful! And when, after the first ten letters, he addresses himself to the R. P.s, what seriousness! what solidity! what force! what eloquence! what a way of supporting it and of making it understood! All this is to be found in the last eight letters, which are very different from the former. I am persuaded you never did more than glance over them, selecting the most beautiful passages; but they should be read leisurely.

* * * * *

You ask me what books we are reading. When we have company reading is laid aside; but before the meeting of the states, we read some little books that scarcely took us up a moment:—Mohammed II., who took Constantinople from the last emperor of the East; this is a great event, so singular, brilliant, and extraordinary, that we are carried away with it; and it happened but two hundred and thirty-six years ago:—the Conspiracy of Portugal, which is very fine: the Variations of M. de Maux: a volume of the History of the Church, the second is too full of the detail of the councils, and therefore might be tedious: Les Iconoclastes and the Arianism of Maimbourg; this author is detestable, his style disagreeable; he is always desirous of being satirical, and compares Arius, a princess and a courtier, to M. Arnauld, Madame de Longueville, and Treville; but setting aside these fooleries, the historical passages are so very fine, the Council of Nice so admirable, that it is read with pleasure; and as he brings us down to Theodosius, we shall find consolation for all our evils in the elegant style of M. de Flechier.[342]

Arianism.—I am at present reading the history of Arianism; I neither like the author[343] nor his style: but the history itself is admirable; it is indeed that of the whole world: it has a share in every thing, and seems to have springs that move all the powers of the earth. The genius of Arius was astonishing; as it likewise is, to see how his heresy spread itself over the world; almost all the bishops join in the error; St. Athanasius alone stands forth to defend the divinity of Jesus. These great events are truly worthy of admiration. When I wish to feast my understanding and my soul, I retire into my closet; I listen to our fathers, and their glorious morality, which makes us so well acquainted with our own hearts.

* * * * *

I am employed in reading my Arianism: it is a strange history, in which nothing displeases me but the author and the style; but I have a pencil, and am revenged on him, by marking some passages which I think highly diverting from the earnest desire he shows of drawing parallels between the Arians and the Jansenists, and the perplexity he is under to reconcile the conduct of the Church in the first ages of Christianity with that of the Church at present. Instead of passing slightly over them, he says, that the Church for good reasons does not act now as it did then.

Adoration.—I find communion is frequent in Provence; to my shame be it spoken, I neglected the immaculate conception of the Mother, to reserve myself wholly for the nativity of the Son; for this we can not be too well prepared.

Jealousy.—You are doubtless convinced that my sentiments and yours are the same; but I want to teach you jealousy, at least in theory, and assure you, credi a me pur che l’ho provato,[344] that we often say things we do not think; and even if we did think them, would that be a sign of not loving? Quite the contrary; for if we were to analyze these speeches, so full of anger and resentment, we should find a great deal of affection and attachment at the bottom. Some hearts are remarkably delicate; when these happen to meet with a cool or indifferent disposition, a very considerable progress is made in the region of jealousy. This I have thought myself obliged in conscience to say to you; make your own reflections upon it, for I can not pretend to enter into particulars at the distance of two hundred leagues.

Folly.—A young man came to visit me the other day, who is the son of a gentleman of Anjou, with whom I was formerly intimately acquainted. At his entrance I beheld a fine, graceful, handsome figure, which struck me with pleasure; but, alas! as soon as he opened his mouth, he laughed at every word he spoke, which made me almost ready to cry. He has a smattering of Paris and the opera; he sings; is familiar and airy; and repeats with great gravity, “Quand on n’a point ce qu’on aime, qu’importe, qu’importe, à quel prix?”[345] instead of to obtain what we love, which you know are the words of the opera. I recommend this charming alteration to M. de Grignan, to set it to music.

Transcription note—A more accurate translation would be: When we love but do not possess, what price is too great?

The Lot of Mankind.—I wish to write in my prayer-book what M. de Comines says of the cross purposes of human life. It is pleasant to see that, even in his time, tribulation and misery were the lot of mankind. His style gives peculiar grace to the solidity of his argument. For my part, I am determined to be more than ever convinced of the impossibility of being happy in this world, since God keeps loyally to what he has promised.[346]

“No creature is exempt from suffering. All eat their bread in pain.”

Expenses, Retrenchments, etc.—I readily conceive that you are fearful of looking into the expense you have incurred: it is a machine that must not be touched, lest it fall and crush you with its weight. There is something of enchantment in the magnificence of your castle, and the elegance of your table. The dilapidation must be ruinous, and I can not conceive what you mean by saying that it is not considerable. It is a kind of black art, like that among courtiers, who, though they have not a penny in their pockets, undertake the most expensive journeys both by land and water, follow every fashion, are at every ball, masquerade, and ring, in every lottery, and still go the same round, though overwhelmed in debts. I forgot to mention gaming, which is another curious article. Then estates dwindle away; but no matter, they still go on. Just so it is with you.

* * * * *

I fancy that by this time you are somewhat cured of your Grignan economy, where you were to live for little or nothing; for it was nothing, it seems, nothing at all, to have four or five tables, to keep open house, and furnish entertainment for man and horse; a thing that no one in the world now thinks of doing: in short, say what you please, that famous caravansera of yours appears to me to teem with ruin; this concourse of people seems to me like the flood which carries all before it. In short, my child, I dare not think of this vortex; Paris will prove your resting-place: stay here at least till you have confronted your expenses, and can look your return in the face.

* * * * *

There are many things yet to settle, which concern you as much as myself, and I might as well not have made this journey at all, as to make it too short; so that I must resolve to drain the bitter cup to the bottom. Besides, as I observed to you in a former letter, the money I save by being here, serves to pay off a part of my debts elsewhere; without this expedient, what could I have done? You well know what I mean; it has cost me many an uneasy moment: and, indeed, what could you yourself have done, but for the assistance you received? At present, I fancy, you have made matters up tolerably well.

Baptism.—What you said the other day, as to humor and memory, was perfectly just; they are certainly things which are not sufficiently known. I also intend to convict you of heresy, my child; and, be as angry as you please, I insist, that the death of Jesus Christ is not alone sufficient, without baptism: he requires the water, the spirit, and the blood, and it is on these conditions alone that his death can be of service to us. No part of the old man can enter into heaven, but by regeneration through Jesus Christ. If you ask me my reasons, I shall reply with St. Augustine, that I can give none, any more than I can tell why, having come into the world to save all men, he saves so very few; or why he concealed himself during his life-time, and would not let any one know or follow him. I can give no reason for all these things; but of this I am certain, that since he thought fit they should be so, they must be right and proper, seeing that his will is truth and justice.

Order.—If Providence delights in order, and order is no other than the will of God, there must be many things contrary to his will. The persecutions against St. Athanasius, and other orthodox divines, and the calm prosperity of tyrants, are all contrary to order, and consequently to the will of God; therefore, with leave of Father Malebranche,[347] would it not be as well to confine ourselves to what St. Augustine says, that God permits all things that come to pass, that he may derive glory from them to himself, by ways unknown to man? St. Augustine acknowledges no rule or order but the will of God, and if we do not follow his doctrine, we shall have the mortification of finding, that, as scarcely any thing in this world is agreeable to order, every thing must pass contrary to his will who made all things; which, in my mind, is a shocking supposition.

Mary Blanche.[348]—You give me an excellent idea of your eldest daughter; I see her before me; pray embrace her for me; I rejoice that she is happy. For your son, you may love him as much as you please; he deserves it; every one speaks highly of him, and praises him in a way that would give you pleasure; we expect him this week. I have felt all the force of the phrase he made use of to gain esteem, “which must come, or tell the reason why:” it brought tears into my eyes at the moment; but esteem is come already, and will not have to say why it staid away. The reputation of this child is already commenced, and will now only increase.

The young Marquis de Grignan.[349]—Your son was last night at the Duke de Chartres’ ball; he was very handsome, and will inform you of his success. You must not, however, calculate upon his studying much; he owned to us yesterday, very sincerely, that he is at present incapable of paying proper attention; his youth hurries him away, and he does not understand what he reads. We grieve that he has not, at least, a taste for reading, and that he wants inclination more than time. His frankness prevented our scolding him; I know not what we did not say to him; I mean the chevalier, myself and Corbinelli, who was rather warm upon the occasion. But we must not fatigue or force him; this taste will come in time, my dear; for it is not possible, that, with so much spirit, good sense, and love for his profession, he should have no desire to be made acquainted with the exploits of the heroes of antiquity, and particularly Cæsar at the head of his Commentaries. Have patience, and do not fret: he would be too perfect were he fond of reading.

* * * * *

I am also of opinion, that by reading we learn to write; I know some officers of rank, whose style is vulgar; it is, however, a delightful thing to be able to communicate our thoughts; but it also often happens that these people write as they think, and as they speak; every thing is in unison.

Paulina.[350]—I am pleased with Coulanges’ praise of Paulina; it is well applied, and makes me understand what sort of charms she possesses, curbed however by persons who have not given her the best nose[351] in the world. If the count had given her his fine eyes and fine person, and left the rest to you, Paulina would have set the world on fire; she would have been irresistible; this pretty mixture is a thousand times better, and must certainly form a very pretty personage. Her sprightliness resembles yours; your wit always bore away the palm, as you say of hers; I like this panegyric. She will soon learn Italian, with the assistance of a better mistress than you had. You deserve as excellent a daughter as mine has been. I told you that you might do what you wished with yours, from her disposition to please you; she appears to me worthy of your love.

* * * * *

Paulina then is not perfect; I could never have supposed that her chief imperfection would have been ignorance of religion. You must instruct her in this, which you are very capable of doing; it is your duty, and you have good books to assist you: in return, your sister-in-law, the abbess, will teach her the world.

* * * * *

You astonish me by what you say of Paulina; pray, pray, my dear child, keep her with you; think not that a convent can repair the errors of education, whether as to religion, with which the sisterhood are very little acquainted, or as to any thing else. You will do much better at Grignan, when you have time for application. You will make her read good authors; you will converse with her, and M. de la Garde will assist you: I am convinced that this is preferable to a convent.

Faith in Christ.—So then, you read St. Paul and St. Augustine; two excellent laborers to establish the absolute will of God. They never scruple to assert, that God disposes of his creatures as the potter does of his clay; some he chooses, some he rejects. They are no loss to apologize for his justice, since there is no other justice but his will. It is justice itself, it is the rule of right; and, after all, what does he owe to man? Is he in any way dependent on him? Not at all. He, therefore, does them justice in rejecting them, on account of the stain of original sin, which is communicated to all; and he selects a few, whom he saves by his son Jesus Christ, who himself says, “I know my sheep, and am known of mine: I will lead them forth to the pasture, and not one shall be lost.” “I have chosen you,” saith he in another place to his apostles, “and you have not chosen me.” There are numberless passages of this nature; I meet with them continually, and understand them all; and when I find others that seem to contradict them, I say to myself, This is to be understood figuratively, as when we read that “God was in wrath,” that “God repented him,” and the like: and I always abide by that first and great truth, which represents God to me as he is, the sovereign master, the supreme creator and author of the universe; in a word, as a being infinitely perfect, agreeably to Descartes’ idea. Such are my humble and reverential thoughts, from which, however, I deduce no ridiculous consequences, nor do they deprive me of the hope of being of the number of the elect of God, after the mercies he has bestowed on me, which are so many foundations upon which to ground my confidence.

The Fire-eater.—Yesterday a young man came here from Vitré, whom I knew to have lived formerly as footman with M. Coulanges. M. de Grignan has seen him at Aix. He showed me a printed list of the feats he performed with fire; he has the secret of the man you have heard spoken of at Paris. Among a thousand wonderful things that he did, and which I am astonished the government permits, on account of the consequences, I was struck with one in particular, which is soon done; this was the letting fall from his hand into his mouth ten or twelve drops of flaming sealing-wax, with which he appeared to be no more affected than if it had been so much cold water; he did not make the least grimace, or sign of uneasiness, and his tongue looked as fair and unhurt after the operation as before. I have often heard of these fire-eaters; but I must confess, that to see the thing performed in my own room, and under my very eye, struck me with astonishment.

Books.—We pass our time here very quietly; this you can not doubt; but very swiftly, which will surprise you: work, walking, conversation, reading, all these are called in to our assistance. Speaking of books, you tell me wonders of M. Nicole’s last production; I have read some passages that appeared to me very fine; the author’s style enlightens, as you say, and makes us enter into ourselves, in such a way as discovers the beauty of his mind and the goodness of his heart; for he never scolds out of season, which is the worst thing in the world, and never produces the desired effect. I did not purchase the book at the time, which was in Lent: I contented myself with the good Le Tourneux.[352] We are reading a treatise of the pious man of Port-Royal upon continual prayer, which is a sequel to certain pious works that are very fine; but this, which is much larger, is so spiritual, so luminous, and so holy, that though it be a thousand degrees above our understandings, it does not fail to please and charm us. We are delighted to find that there have been, and still are, people in the world, to whom God has communicated his Holy Spirit and grace in such abundance; but, good heavens! when shall we be possessed of one little spark, of one single degree? How sad it is to find ourselves so far behind here, and so near in other things! fie, fie, let us not name this misfortune! we ought to humble ourselves at it a hundred times a day.

Liberty of Mind.—There are certain periods of life in which we attend to nothing but ourselves. You indeed have never been much occupied in that way; but when we came down this river together, we were more engaged in disputing about the Count des Chapelles than in admiring the beauties of the rural scenes that surrounded us. Now, the case is exactly the reverse: we observe a profound silence, are perfectly at our ease, reading, musing, admiring, out of the way of all sorts of news, and living upon our own reflections. The good abbé (her uncle) is always praying: I listen attentively to his pious ejaculations; but when he has got to his beads I beg to be excused, finding that I can meditate much better without them. In short, we manage to pass twelve or fourteen hours without being very unhappy; such a fine thing is liberty.

The Nuns of Saint-Marie.—My greatest satisfaction is in visiting the nuns of Saint-Marie; they are truly amiable women; they still retain the remembrance of you, of which they do not fail to make a merit with me: they are neither silly nor conceited, like some you know; they do not believe the present Pope[353] to be a heretic; they understand the religion they profess, and will never reject the Holy Scriptures because they have been translated by worthy men; they pay all due honor to the saving grace of Christ; they acknowledge the power of providence; they educate the young girls committed to their care very properly, and neither teach them to lie nor to dissemble; no chimeras, no idolatry is to be found among them. In short, I have a great regard for them. M. de Grignan would think them Jansenists; for my part, I think them Christians: there are two of them who have an infinite deal of wit. I shall go to their house to-morrow to write, and I shall dine with them on Saturday: they are all the comfort I have here.

Moral Essays.—Do you not intend to read the Moral Essays, and to give me your opinion of them? For my part, I am charmed with them; and so I am with the funeral oration on M. de Turenne; there are passages in it which must have affected all that were present. I do not doubt but it has been sent you; tell me if you do not think it very fine. Do you not intend to finish Josephus? We read a great deal of serious as well as lighter subjects; fable and history. We are so deeply engaged with these, that we have scarcely leisure for any other employments. They pity us at Paris; they think us confined to a fire-side by the inclemency of the season, and languishing under a dearth of amusement; but, my dear, I walk; I find a thousand diversions; the woods are neither wild nor inhospitable. It is not for passing my time here instead of at Paris that I am to be pitied.

History of the Bible.—I am, moreover, reading the emblems of the Holy Scriptures,[354] which begin from Adam. I have begun with the creation of the world, which you are so fond of, and shall end with the death of our Saviour, which you know is an admirable series. We find in it every circumstance, though related concisely; the style is fine; it is done by an eminent hand: the history is interspersed throughout with excellent reflections, taken from the fathers, and is very entertaining. For my own part, I go much further than the Jesuits; and when I see the reproaches of ingratitude, and the dreadful punishments with which God afflicted his people, I can not help concluding, that we, who are freed from the yoke to which they were subjected, are, in consequence, highly culpable, and justly deserve those scourges of fire and water which the Almighty employs when he thinks fit. The Jesuits do not say enough on this subject, and others give cause to murmur against the justice of the Deity, in weakening the supports of our spiritual liberty, as they do. You see what fruit I derive from my reading. I fancy my confessor will enjoin me to read the philosophy of Descartes.

Affection.—I fancy myself qualified to write a treatise on affection; there are a thousand things depending on it, a thousand things to be shunned, in order to prevent those we love from smarting for it: there are innumerable instances where we give them pain, and in which we might alleviate their feelings, were we to reflect and to turn things in all the points of view we ought, out of regard to the object of our love. In short, I could make it appear in my book, that there are a thousand different ways of proving our regard without talking of it; as well as of saying by actions that we have no real regard, even while the treacherous tongue is making protestations to the contrary. I mean no one in particular, but what I have written, I have written.

Submission.—I beg you will read the second part of the second treatise in the first volume of Moral Essays; I am sure you know it, but you may not perhaps have observed it particularly; it is on the subject of submission to the will of God. You will there see how clearly it is demonstrated that Providence governs all things; that is my creed, by that I abide: and though a contrary doctrine may be advanced elsewhere, to keep fair with all sides, I shall consider such conduct only in the light of a political stratagem, and follow the example of those who believe as I do, though they may change their note.

Philosophy.—You say that I make God the author of every thing that happens; read, read, I say, that part of the treatise I have pointed out to you, and you will find that we are to look to Him for every thing, but with reverence and humility, and consider man only as the executor of his orders, from whose agency he can draw what effects he thinks proper. It is thus we reason, when our eyes are lifted up to heaven, but, in general, we are apt to confine our views to the poor contemptible second causes that strike our bodily senses, and bear with impatience what we ought to receive with submission; and such, alas! is my present wretched situation. I join with you in believing that philosophy is good for little, except to those who do not stand in need of it. You desire me to love you more and more: indeed, you embarrass me; I know not where to find that degree of comparison; it is beyond my conception: but this I am certain of, that I never can, in thought, word, or deed, evince the thousandth part of the affection I bear you; and this is that sometimes distracts me.

Old Age.—So then you were struck with an expression of Madame de la Fayette’s (“you are old,”) blended with so much friendship. Though I say to myself that this is a truth which should not be forgotten, I confess I was all astonishment at it; for I yet feel no sort of decay that puts me in mind of it. I can not, however refrain from calculating and reflecting, and I find that the conditions of life are very hard. It seems to me that I have been dragged against my will to the fatal period, when old age must be endured; I see it, I have attained it; and I would, at least, contrive not to go beyond it, not to advance in the road of infirmities, pain, loss of memory, disfigurements which are ready to lay hold of me; and I hear a voice which says, You must go on in spite of yourself; or, if you will not, you must die, an alternative at which nature recoils. Such, however, is the fate of those who have reached a certain period.

* * * * *

I contemplate this evil, which has not yet proved itself so, with heroic courage; I prepare myself for its consequences with peace and tranquillity; and seeing there is no way of escape, and that I am not the strongest, I think of the obligation I owe to God, for conducting me so gently to the grave. I thank him for the desire he daily gives me to prepare for death, and the wish of not draining my life to the dregs. Extreme old age is frightful and humiliating: the good Corbinelli and I see a painful instance of this truth hourly, in the poor Abbé de Coulanges, whose helplessness and infirmities make us wish never to reach this period.

Sermons.—When I am as good as M. de la Garde, if ever God grants me this grace, I shall like all sermons; in the mean while I content myself with the Gospels as explained by M. le Tourneux; these are real sermons, and nothing but the vanity of man could load modern discourses with their present contents. We sometimes read the Homilies of St. John Chrysostom; these are divine, and please us so highly, that I persist in not going to Rennes till passion week, to avoid being exposed to the eloquence of the preachers who hold forth in behalf of the parliament.

* * * * *

The Marshal de Grammont was so transported the other day, at a sermon of Bourdaloüe’s, that he cried out, in the middle of a passage that struck him, “By ——, he is right.” Madame burst out a-laughing, and the sermon was interrupted so long that nobody knew what would be the consequence. If your preachers are as you represent them, I am apt to think they will be in no great danger of their being interrupted by such praises.

Josephus.—I am glad you like Josephus, Herod, and Aristobulus. I beg you to go on, and see the end of the siege of Jerusalem, and the fate of Josaphat. Take courage; every thing is beautiful in this historian, every thing is grand, every thing is magnificent, every thing is worthy of you; let not an idle fancy prevail with you to lay him aside. I am in the History of France; that of the Crusades has occasioned my looking into it, but it is not to be compared to a single leaf of Josephus. Alas! with what pleasure we weep over the misfortunes of Aristobulus and Mariamne.

Hope ever.—We should never despair of our good fortune. I thought my son’s situation quite hopeless, after so many storms and shipwrecks, without employments, and out of the way of fortune; and while I was indulging these melancholy reflections, Providence destined, or had destined, us to so advantageous a marriage, that I could not have wished for a better alliance, even at the time when my son had the greatest reason to expect it. It is thus we grope in the dark, not knowing our way, taking good for evil, and evil for good, in entire ignorance.

Twilight.—I hate twilight when I have nobody to chat with; and I had rather be alone in the woods, than alone in a room. This is like plunging up to the neck in water to save one’s self from the rain: but any thing rather than an arm-chair.

A Presentiment.—Good Heavens! my dear child, what fools your women are, both living and dead! your top-knots[355] shock me! What a profanation! it smells of paganism; foh! It would make me shudder at the thoughts of dying in Provence; I would, at least, be assured that the milliner and undertaker were not sent for at the same time. Fie, fie, indeed! but no more of this.[356]