LONDON, May 23, O. S. 1751.
MY DEAR FRIEND: I have this moment received your letter of the 25th N.
S., and being rather something more attentive to my commissions than you
are to yours, return you this immediate answer to the question you ask me
about the two pictures: I will not give one livre more than what I told
you in my last; having no sort of occasion for them, and not knowing very
well where to put them if I had them.
I wait with impatience for your final orders about the mohairs; the
mercer persecuting me every day for three pieces which I thought pretty,
and which I have kept by me eventually, to secure them in case your
ladies should pitch upon them.
If I durst! what should hinder you from daring? One always dares if there
are hopes of success; and even if there are none, one is no loser by
daring. A man of fashion knows how, and when, to dare. He begins his
approaches by distant attacks, by assiduities, and by attentions. If he
is not immediately and totally repulsed, he continues to advance. After
certain steps success is infallible; and none but very silly fellows can
then either doubt, or not attempt it. Is it the respectable character of
Madame de la Valiere which prevents your daring, or are you intimidated
at the fierce virtue of Madame du Pin? Does the invincible modesty of the
handsome Madame Case discourage, more than her beauty invites you? Fie,
for shame! Be convinced that the most virtuous woman, far from being
offended at a declaration of love, is flattered by it, if it is made in a
polite and agreeable manner. It is possible that she may not be
propitious to your vows; that is to say, if she has a liking or a passion
for another person. But, at all events, she will not be displeased with
you for it; so that, as there is no danger, this cannot even be called
daring. But if she attends, if she listens, and allows you to repeat your
declaration, be persuaded that if you do not dare all the rest, she will
laugh at you. I advise you to begin rather by Madame du Pin, who has
still more than beauty enough for such a youngster as you. She has,
besides, knowledge of the world, sense, and delicacy. As she is not so
extremely young, the choice of her lovers cannot be entirely at her
option. I promise you, she will not refuse the tender of your most humble
services. Distinguish her, then, by attentions and by tender looks. Take
favorable opportunities of whispering that you wish esteem and friendship
were the only motives of your regard for her; but that it derives from
sentiments of a much more tender nature: that you made not this
declaration without pain; but that the concealing your passion was a
still greater torment.
I am sensible, that in saying this for the first time, you will look
silly, abashed, and even express yourself very ill. So much the better;
for, instead of attributing your confusion to the little usage you have
of the world, particularly in these sort of subjects, she will think that
excess of love is the occasion of it. In such a case, the lover’s best
friend is self-love. Do not then be afraid; behave gallantly. Speak well,
and you will be heard. If you are not listened to the first time, try a
second, a third, and a fourth. If the place is not already taken, depend
upon it, it may be conquered.
I am very glad you are going to Orli, and from thence to St. Cloud; go to
both, and to Versailles also, often. It is that interior domestic
familiarity with people of fashion, that alone can give you ‘l’usage du
monde, et les manieres aisees’. It is only with women one loves, or men
one respects, that the desire of pleasing exerts itself; and without the
desire of pleasing no man living can please. Let that desire be the
spring of all your words and actions. That happy talent, the art of
pleasing, which so few do, though almost all might possess, is worth all
your learning and knowledge put together. The latter can never raise you
high without the former; but the former may carry you, as it has carried
thousands, a great way without the latter.
I am glad that you dance so well, as to be reckoned by Marcel among his
best scholars; go on, and dance better still. Dancing well is pleasing
‘pro tanto’, and makes a part of that necessary whole, which is composed
of a thousand parts, many of them of ‘les infiniment petits quoi
qu’infiniment necessaires’.
I shall never have done upon this subject which is indispensably
necessary toward your making any figure or fortune in the world; both
which I have set my heart upon, and for both which you now absolutely
want no one thing but the art of pleasing; and I must not conceal from
you that you have still a good way to go before you arrive at it. You
still want a thousand of those little attentions that imply a desire of
pleasing: you want a ‘douceur’ of air and expression that engages: you
want an elegance and delicacy of expression, necessary to adorn the best
sense and most solid matter: in short, you still want a great deal of the
‘brillant’ and the ‘poli’. Get them at any rate: sacrifice hecatombs of
books to them: seek for them in company, and renounce your closet till
you have got them. I never received the letter you refer to, if ever you
wrote it. Adieu, et bon soir, Monseigneur.