XLV

What Favors Men Consider Faults

To explain in two words to your satisfaction, Marquis. This is what I

think of the letter I sent you yesterday: For a woman to profit by the

advice of Monsieur de Saint-Evremond it is requisite that she should

be affected with only a mediocre fancy, and have excited the passion

of love. However, we shall talk about that more at large whenever it

may please you, now, I will take up what concerns you.

The sacrifice the Countess has exacted of you is well worth the price

you put upon it. To renounce for her sake, a woman whose exterior

proclaimed her readiness to accord you whatever favor you might be

willing to ask; to renounce her publicly, in the presence of her

rival, and with so little regard for her vanity, is an effort which

naturally will not pass without a proportionate recompense. The

Countess could not have found a happier pretext for giving you her

portrait.

But to take a solemn day when the Marquise received at her home for

the first time since her illness; to select a moment when the moneyed

woman was taking up arms to make an assault of beauty upon a woman of

rank; to speak to her merely in passing, to pretend to surrender

yourself entirely to the pleasure of seeing her rival; to entertain

the latter and become one of her party, is an outrage for which you

will never be pardoned. Revenge will come quickly, and be as cruel as

possible, you will see. It is I who guarantee it. Now for the second

paragraph of your letter:

You ask me whether the last favor, or rather the last fault we can

commit, is a certain proof that a woman loves you. Yes and no.

Yes, if you love the woman for whom you had your first passion, and

she is refined and virtuous. But even in such a case, this proof will

not be any more certain, or more flattering for you, than all the

others she may have given you of her inclination. Whatever a woman may

do when she loves, even things of the slightest essential nature in

appearance are as much certain marks of her passion, as those greater

things of which men are so proud. I will even add, that if this

virtuous woman is of a certain disposition, the last favor will prove

less than a thousand other small sacrifices you count for nothing, for

then, on her own behalf less than on yours, she is too much interested

in listening to you, for you to claim the glory of having persuaded

her, although every one else would have been accorded the same favor.

I know a woman who permitted herself to be vanquished two or three

times by men she did not love, and the man she really loved never

obtained a single favor. It may happen, then, that the last favor

proves nothing to him to whom it is granted. Whereas, on the contrary,

it may happen that he owes the granting of it to the little regard

had for him. Women never respect themselves more than with those they

esteem, and you may be quite sure that it requires a very imperious

inclination to cause a reasonable woman to forget herself in the

presence of one whose disdain she dreads. Your pretended triumph,

therefore, may originate in causes which, so far from being glorious

for you, would humiliate you if you were aware of them.

We see, for example, a lover who may be repelled; the woman who loves

him fears he will escape her to pay his addresses to another woman

more accommodating; she does not wish to lose him, for it is always

humiliating to be abandoned; she yields, because she is not aware of

any other means of holding him. They say there is nothing to reproach

in this. If he leaves her after that, at least he will be put in the

wrong, for, since a woman becomes attached more by the favors she

grants, she imagines the man will be forced into gratitude. What

folly!

Women are actuated by different motives in yielding. Curiosity impels

some, they desire to know what love is. Another woman, with few

advantages of person or figure, would hold her lover by the

attractions of pleasure. One woman is determined to make a conquest

flattering to her vanity. Still another one surrenders to pity,

opportunity, importunities, to the pleasure of taking revenge on a

rival, or an unfaithful lover. How can I enumerate them all? The heart

is so very strange in its vagaries, and the reasons and causes which

actuate it are so curious and varied, that it is impossible to

discover all the hidden springs that set it in motion. But if we

delude ourselves as to the means of holding you, how often do men

deceive themselves as to the proofs of our love? If they possessed any

delicacy of discernment, they would find a thousand signs that prove

more than the most signal favor granted.

Tell me, Marquis, what have I done to Monsieur de Coulanges? It is a

month since he has set foot in my house. But I will not reproach him,

I shall be very pleasant with him when he does come. He is one of the

most amiable men I am acquainted with. I shall be very angry with you

if you fail to bring him to me on my return from Versailles. I want

him to sing me the last couplets he has composed, I am told they are

charming.

XLVI

Why Inconstancy Is Not Injustice

It was too kind of you, Marquis, to have noticed my absence. If I did

not write you during my sojourn in the country, it was because I knew

you were happy, and that tranquilized me. I felt too, that it was

necessary for love to be accorded some rights, as its reign is usually

very short, and besides that, friendship not having any quarrel with

love, I waited patiently an interval in your pleasure which would

enable you to read my letters.

Do you know what I was doing while away? I amused myself by piecing

out all the events liable to happen in the condition your society is

now in. I foresaw the bickerings between the Countess and her rival,

and I predicted they would end in an open rupture; I also guessed that

the Marquise would not espouse the cause of the Countess, but would

take up the other's quarrel. The moneyed woman is not quite so

handsome as her rival, a decisive reason for declaring for her and

backing her up without danger.

What will be the upshot of all this quarreling among these women? How

many revolutions, Good Heavens! in so short a time! Your happiness

seems to be the only thing that has escaped. You discover new reasons

every day for loving and esteeming this amiable Countess. You believe

that a woman of so much real merit, and with so interesting a figure,

will become known more and more. Let nothing weaken the esteem you

have always had for her. You have, it is true, obtained an avowal of

her love for you, but is she less estimable for that? On the contrary,

ought not her heart to augment in price in your eyes, in proportion to

the certainty you have acquired that you are its sole possessor? Even

if you shall have obtained proofs of her inclination we spoke about

recently, do you think that gives you any right to underrate her?

I can not avoid saying it; men like you arouse my indignation every

time they imagine they claim the right to lack in courtesy for my sex,

and punish us for our weaknesses. Is it not the height of injustice

and the depth of depravity to continue to insult the grief which is

the cause of their changes? Can not women be inconstant without being

unjust? Is their distaste always to be followed by some injurious act?

If we are guilty, is it the right of him who has profited by our

faults, who is the cause of them, to punish us?

Always maintain for the Countess the sentiments you have expressed in

her regard. Do not permit a false opinion to interfere with the

progress which they can still make in your heart. It is not our defeat

alone which should render us despicable in your eyes. The manner in

which we have been defended, delivered, and guarded, ought to be the

only measure of your disdain.

So Madame de La Fayette is of the opinion that my last letter is based

upon rather a liberal foundation? You see where your indiscretions

lead me. But she does not consider that I am no more guilty than a

demonstrator of anatomy. I analyse the metaphysical man as he dissects

the physical one. Do you believe that out of regard to scruples he

should omit in his operations those portions of his subject which

might offer corrupted minds occasions to draw sallies out of an ill

regulated imagination? It is not the essence of things that causes

indecency; it is not the words, or even the ideas, it is the intent of

him who utters them, and the depravity of him who listens. Madame de

La Fayette was certainly the last woman in the world whom I would have

suspected of reproaching me in that manner, and to-morrow, at the

Countess', I will make her confess her injustice.

XLVII

Cause of Quarrels Among Rivals

What, I, Marquis, astonished at the new bickerings of your moneyed

woman? Do not doubt for an instant that she employs all the

refinements of coquetry to take you away from the Countess. She may

have a liking for you, but moderate your amour propre so far as that

is concerned, for the most powerful motive of her conduct, is, without

contradiction, the desire for revenge. Her vanity is interested in

punishing her rival for having obtained the preference.

Women never pardon such a thing as that, and if he who becomes the

subject of the quarrel is not the first object of their anger, it is

because they need him to display their resentment. You have

encountered in the rival of the Countess precisely what you exacted

from her to strengthen your attachment. You are offered in advance the

price of the attentions you devote to her, and from which you will

soon be dispensed, and I think you will have so little delicacy as to

accept them. It is written across the heart of every man: "To the

easiest."

You should blush to deserve the least reproach from the Countess. What

sort of a woman is it you seem to prefer to her? A woman without

delicacy and without love; a woman who is guided only by the

attractions of pleasure; more vain than sensible; more voluptuous than

tender; more passionate than affectionate, she seeks, she cherishes in

you nothing but your youth and all the advantages that accompany it.

You know what her rival is worth; you know all your wrong doing with

her; you agree that you are a monster of ingratitude, yet, you are

unwilling to take it upon yourself to merit her pardon. Truly,

Marquis, I do not understand you. I am beginning to believe that

Madame de Sévigné was right when she said that her son knew his duty

very well, and could reason like a philosopher on the subject, but

that he was carried away by his passions, so that "he is not a head

fool, but a heart fool" (ce n'est pas par la tête qu'il est fou, mais

par le coeur).

You recall in vain what I said to you long ago about making love in a

free and easy manner. You will remember that I was then enjoying

myself with some jocular reflections which were not intended to be

formal advice. Do not forget, either, that the question then was about

a mere passing fancy, and not of an ordinary mistress. But the case

to-day is very different, you can not find among all the women of

Paris, a single one who can be compared with her you are so cruelly

abandoning. And for what reason? Because her resistance wounds your

vanity. What resource is left us to hold you?

I agree with you, nevertheless, that when a passion is extinguished it

can not be relighted without difficulty. No one is more the master of

loving than he is of not loving. I feel the truth of all these maxims;

I do homage to them with regret, as soon as, with a knowledge of the

cause, I consider that you reject what is excellent and accept the

worse; you renounce a solid happiness, durable pleasures, and yield to

depraved tastes and pure caprices; but I can see that all my

reflections will not reform you. I am beginning to fear that I am

wearying you with morals, and to tell you the truth, it is very

ridiculous in me to preach constancy when it is certain that you do

not love, and that you are a heart fool.

I therefore abandon you to your destiny, without, however, giving up

my desire to follow you into new follies. Why: should I be afflicted?

Would it be of any moment to assume with you the tone of a pedagogue?

Assuredly not, both of us would lose too much thereby. I should become

weary and you would not be reformed.

XLVIII

Friendship Must Be Firm

I do not conceal it, Marquis, your conduct in regard to the Countess

had put me out of patience with you, and I was tempted to break off

all my relations with so wicked a man as you. My good nature in

yielding to your entreaties inclines me to the belief that my

friendship for you borders on a weakness. You are right, though. To be

your friend only so long as you follow my advice would not be true

friendship. The more you are to be censured the stronger ought to be

my hold on you, but you will understand that one is not master of his

first thoughts. Whatever effort I may make to find you less guilty,

the sympathy I have for the misfortune of my friend is of still

greater importance to me. There were moments when I could not believe

in your innocence, and they were when so charming a woman complained

of you. Now that her situation is improving every day, I consider my

harshness in my last letter almost as a crime.

I shall, hereafter, content myself with pitying her without

importuning you any longer about her. So let us resume our ordinary

gait, if it please you. You need no longer fear my reproaches, I see

they would be useless as well as out of place.

XLIX

Constancy Is a Virtue Among the Narrow Minded

You did not then know, Marquis, that it is often more difficult to get

rid of a mistress than to acquire one? You are learning by experience.

Your disgust for the moneyed woman does not surprise me except that it

did not happen sooner.

What! knowing her character so well, you could imagine that the

despair she pretended at the sight of your indifference increasing

every day, could be the effect of a veritable passion? You could also

be the dupe of her management! I admire, and I pity your blindness.

But was it not also vanity which aided a trifle in fortifying your

illusion? In truth it would be a strange sort of vanity, that of being

loved by such a woman; but men are so vain, that they are flattered by

the love of the most confirmed courtesan. In any case undeceive

yourself. A woman who is deserted, when she is a woman like your

beauty, has nothing in view in her sorrow but her own interest. She

endeavors by her tears and her despair, to persuade you that your

person and your merit are all she regrets; that the loss of your heart

is the summit of misfortune; that she knows nobody who can indemnify

her for the loss of it. All these sentiments are false. It is not an

afflicted lover who speaks; it is a vain woman, desperate at being

anticipated, exasperated at the lack of power in her charms, worrying

over a plan to replace you promptly, anxious to give herself an

appearance of sensibility, and to appear worthy of a better fate. She

justifies this thought of Monsieur de la Rochefoucauld: "Women do not

shed tears over the lovers they have had, so much because they loved

them, as to appear more worthy of being loved." It is for D---- to

enjoy the sentiment.

She must indeed, have a very singular idea of you to hope that she can

impose upon you. Do you wish to know what she is? The Chevalier is

actually without an affair of the heart on hand, engage him to take

your place. I have not received two letters from you that do not speak

of the facility with which she will be consoled for having lost you. A

woman of her age begins to fear that she will not recover what she has

lost, and so she is obliged to degrade her charms by taking the first

new comer. Perhaps her sorrow is true, but she deceives you as to the

motives she gives for it. Break these chains without scruple. In

priding yourself on your constancy and delicacy for such an object,

you appear to me to be as ridiculous as you were when you lacked the

same qualities on another occasion.

Do you remember, Marquis, what Monsieur de Coulanges said to us one

day? "Constancy is the virtue of people of limited merit. Have they

profited by the caprice of an amiable woman to establish themselves in

her heart? the sentiment of medicrioty fixes them there, it

intimidates them, they dare not make an effort to please others. Too

happy at having surprised her heart, they are afraid of abandoning a

good which they may not find elsewhere, and, as an instant's attention

to their little worth might undeceive this woman, what do they then

do? They elevate constancy up among the virtues; they transform love

into a superstition; they know how to interest reason in the

preservation of a heart which they owe only to caprice, occasion, or

surprise." Be on your guard against imitating these shallow

personages. Hearts are the money of gallantry; amiable people are the

assets of society, whose destiny is to circulate in it and make many

happy. A constant man is therefore as guilty as a miser who impedes

the circulation in commerce. He possesses a treasure which he does not

utilize, and of which there are so many who would make good use of it.

What sort of a mistress is that who is retained by force of reason?

What languor reigns in her society, what violence must one not employ

to say there is love when it has ceased to exist? It is seldom that

passion ceases in both parties at the same time, and then constancy is

a veritable tyrant; I compare it to the tyrant of antiquity who put

people to death by tying them to dead bodies. Constancy condemns us to

the same punishment. Discard such a baleful precedent to the liberty

of association.

Believe me, follow your tastes, for the court lady you mentioned; she

may weary you at times, it is true, but at least she will not degrade

you. If, as you say, she is as little intelligent as she is beautiful,

her reign will soon be over. Your place in her heart will soon be

vacant, and I do not doubt that another or even several other

gallantries will follow yours. Perhaps you will not wait for the end,

for I see by your letter that you are becoming a man of fashion. The

new system you have adopted makes it certain, nothing can be better

arranged. Never finish one affair without having commenced another;

never withdraw from the first except in proportion as the second one

progresses. Nothing can be better, but in spite of such wise

precautions, you may find yourself destitute of any, as, for example,

some event beyond the reach of human foresight may interfere with

these arrangements, may have for principle always to finish with all

the mistresses at once, before enabling you to find any one to keep

you busy during the interregnum. I feel free to confess, Marquis, that

such an arrangement is as prudent as can be imagined, and I do not

doubt that you will be well pleased with a plan so wisely conceived.

Adieu.

I do not know where I obtain the courage to write you such long and

foolish letters. I find a secret charm in entertaining you, which I

should suspect if I did not know my heart so well. I have been

reflecting that it is now without any affair, and I must henceforth be

on my guard against you, for you have very often thought proper to say

very tender things to me, and I might think proper to believe in their

sincerity.

L

Some Women Are Very Cunning

You may derive as much amusement out of it as you wish, Marquis, but I

shall continue to tell you that you are not fascinated by Madame la

Presidente. Believe me when I say that I see more clearly into your

affairs than you do yourself. I have known a hundred good men who,

like you, pretended with the best faith in the world that they were

amorous, but who, in truth were not in any manner whatsoever.

There are maladies of the heart as well as maladies of the body; some

are real and some are imaginary. Not everything that attracts you

toward a woman is love. The habit of being together, the convenience

of seeing each other, to get away from one's self, the necessity for a

little gallantry, the desire to please, in a word, a thousand other

reasons which do not resemble a passion in the least; these are what

you generally take to be love, and the women are the first to fortify

this error. Always flattered by the homage rendered them, provided

their vanity profits by it, they rarely inquire into the motives to

which they owe it. But, after all, are they not right? They would

nearly always lose by it.

To all the motives of which I have just spoken, you can add still

another, quite as capable of creating an illusion in the nature of

your sentiments. Madame la Presidente is, without contradiction, the

most beautiful woman of our time; she is newly married; she refused

the homage of the most amiable man of our acquaintance. Perhaps

nothing could be more flattering to your vanity than to make a

conquest which would not fail to give you the kind of celebrity to

which you aspire. That, my dear Marquis, is what you call love, and it

will be difficult for you to disabuse yourself of the impression, for

by force of persuading yourself that it is love, you will, in a short

time firmly believe that the inclination is real. It will be a very

singular thing some day, to see with what dignity you will speak of

your pretended sentiments; with what good faith you will believe that

they deserve recognition, and, what will be still more agreeable, will

be the deference you will believe should be their due. But

unfortunately, the result will undeceive you, and you will then be the

first to laugh at the importance with which you treated so silly an

affair.

Shall I tell you how far injustice reaches? I am fully persuaded that

you will not become more amorous. Henceforth, you will have nothing

but a passing taste, frivolous relations, engagements, caprices; all

the arrows of love will glance from you. It is true you will not

experience its pangs, but will you enjoy, in the least, its sweetness?

Can you hope ever to recover from the fantasies to which you surrender

yourself, those moments of delight which were formerly your supreme

felicity? I have no desire to flatter you, but I believe it my duty to

do you this much justice: Your heart is intended for refined

pleasures. It is not I who hold you responsible for the dissipation in

which you are plunged, it is the young fools around you. They call

enjoyment the abuse they make of pleasure; their example carries you

away. But this intoxication will be dissipated sooner or later, and

you will soon, see, at least I hope so, that you have been deceived in

two ways in the state of your heart. You thought it was fascinated by

Madame la Presidente, you will recognize your mistake; you thought she

had ceased to have an inclination for--but I hold to the words I have

uttered. Perhaps there will come a time when I shall be at liberty to

express my thoughts more freely. Now, I reply to the remainder of your

letter.

Confess it, Marquis, that you had little else to do this morning when

you re-read my letters. I add that you must have been in a bad humor

to undertake their criticism. Some brilliant engagement, some

flattering rendezvous was wanting. But I do not care to elude the

difficulty. So I seem to contradict myself sometimes? If I were to

admit that it might very well be; if I were to give you the same

answer that Monsieur de la Bruyère gave his critics the other day: "It

is not I who contradict myself, it is the heart upon which I reason,"

could you reasonably conclude from it that everything I have said to

you is false? I do not believe it.

But how do I know, in effect, if, led away by the various situations

in which you were placed, I may not have appeared to destroy what I

had advanced on different occasions? How do I know, if, seeing you

ready to yield to a whim, I may not have carried too far, truths,

which, feebly uttered, would not, perhaps, have brought you back? How

do I know, in a word, if, being interested in the happiness of a

friend, the desire to serve her may not have sometimes diminished my

sincerity? I think I am very good natured to reply seriously to the

worries you have caused me. Ought I not first to take cognizance of

the fact that there is more malice in your letter than criticism? This

will be the last time you will have an opportunity to abuse my

simplicity. I am going to console myself for your perfidy with some

one who is assuredly not so wicked as you.

What a pity it is that you are not a woman! It would give me so much

pleasure to discuss the new coiffures with you! I never saw anything

so extravagant as their height. At least, Marquis, remember that if

Madame la Presidente does not wear one of them incessantly, you can no

longer remain attached to her with decency.

LI

The Parts Men and Women Play

So the affair has been decided! Whatever I may say of it, you are the

master of Madame la Presidente; a beloved rival has been sacrificed

for you and you triumph.

How prompt your vanity is to make profit out of everything. I would

laugh heartily if your pretended triumph should end by your receiving

notice to quit some fine morning. For it may well be that this

sacrifice of which you boast so much is nothing but a stratagem.

Ever since you have been associated with women, have you not

established as a principle that you must be on your guard against the

sentiments they affect? If your beauty had accepted you merely for the

purpose of re-awakening a languishing love in the heart of her

Celadon; if you were only the instrument of jealousy on the part of

one and artifice on the other, would that be a miracle?

You say that Madame la Presidente is not very shrewd, and consequently

incapable of such a ruse. My dear Marquis, love is a great tutor, and

the most stupid women (in other respects) have often an acute

discernment, more accurate and more certain than any other, when it

comes to an affair of the heart. But let us leave this particular

thesis, and examine men in general who are in the same situation as

you.

They all believe as you do, that the sacrifice of a rival supposes

some superiority over him. But how often does it happen that this same

sacrifice is only a by play? If it is sincere, the woman either loved

the rival or she did not. If she loved him, then as soon as she leaves

him, it is a sure proof that she loves him no longer, in which case

what glory is there for you in such a preference? If she did not love

him, what can you infer to your advantage from a pretended victory

over a man who was indifferent to her?

There is also another case where you may be preferred, without that

preference being any more flattering. It is when the vanity of the

woman you attack is stronger than her inclination for the disgraced

lover. Your rank, your figure, your reputation, your fortune, may

determine her in your favor. It is very rare (I say it to the shame of

women, and men are no less ridiculous in that respect), it is rare, I

repeat, that a lover, who has nothing but noble sentiments to offer,

can long hold his own against a man distinguished for his rank, or his

position, who has servants, a livery, an equipage, etc. When the most

tender lover makes a woman blush for his appearance, when she dare not

acknowledge him as her conqueror, when she does not even consider him

as an object she can sacrifice with eclat, I predict that his reign

will be short. Her reasons for getting rid of him will be to her an

embarrassment of choice. Thus the defunct of la Presidente was a

counsellor of state, without doubt as dull and as stiff as his wig.

What a figure to set up against a courtier, against a warrior like

you?

Well, will you believe in my predictions another time? What did I tell

you? Did the Chevalier find it difficult to persuade your Penelope?

This desolate woman, ready to break her heart, gave you a successor in

less than fifteen days, loves him, proves it, and is flouted. Is this

losing too much time? What is your opinion?

LII

Love Is a Traitor With Sharp Claws

Yes, indeed, Marquis, it is due to my friendship, it is due to my

counsel that the Countess owes the tranquillity she begins to enjoy,

and I can not conceive the chagrin which causes the indifference she

manifests for you. I am very far, however, from desiring to complain

of you; your grief springs from a wounded vanity.

Men are very unjust, they expect a woman always to consider them as

objects interesting to them, while they, in abandoning a woman, do not

ordinarily omit anything that will express their disdain. Of what

importance to you is the hatred or love of a person whom you do not

love? Tell me that. Your jealousy of the little Duke is so

unreasonable that I burst out laughing when I learned it. Is it not

quite simple, altogether natural that a woman should console herself

for your loss, by listening to a man who knows the value of her heart

better than you? By what right, if you please, do you venture to take

exceptions to it? You must admit that Madame de Sévigné was right: You

have a foolish heart, my poor Marquis.

In spite of all that, the part you wish me to play in the matter

appears to me to be exceedingly agreeable. I can understand how nice

it would be to aid you in your plan of vengeance against an

unfaithful woman. Though it should be only through rancor or the

oddity of the thing, we must love each other. But all such comedies

turn out badly generally. Love is a traitor who scratches us when we

play with him.

So, Marquis, keep your heart, I am very scrupulous about interfering

with so precious an association. Moreover, I am so disgusted with the

staleness of men, that henceforth I desire them only as friends. There

is always a bone to pick with a lover. I am beginning to understand

the value of rest, and I wish to enjoy it. I will return to this,

however. It would be very strange if you take the notion that you need

consolation, and that my situation exacts the same succor because the

Marquis de ---- has departed on his embassy. Undeceive yourself, my

friends suffice me, and, if you wish to remain among their number, at

least do not think of saying any more gallant things to me,

otherwise--Adieu, Marquis.

LIII

Old Age Not a Preventive Against Attack

Oh, I shall certainly abandon your interests if you persist in talking

to me in such fashion. What demon inspired you with the idea of taking

the place of the absent? Could any one tease another as you did me

last evening? I do not know how you began it, but however much I

desired to be angry with you, it was impossible for me to do so. I do

not know how this will end. What is certain, however, is; it will be

useless for you to go on, for I have decided not to love you, and what

is worse, I shall never love you; yes, sir, never.

Eh? truly, but this is a strange thing; to attempt to persuade a woman

that she is afflicted, that she needs consolation, when she assures

you that it is not the fact, and that she wants for nothing. This is

driving things with a tight hand. I entreat you, reflect a little on

the folly that has seized upon you. Would it be decent, tell me that,

if I were to take the place of my friend? That a woman who has served

you as a Mentor, who has played the role of mother to you, should

aspire to that of lover? Unprincipled wretch that you are! If you so

promptly abandon a young and lovely woman, what would you do with an

old girl like me? Perhaps you wish to attempt my conquest to see

whether love is for me the same in practice as in theory. Do not go to

the trouble of attempting such a seduction, I will satisfy your

curiosity on that point immediately.

You know that whatever we are, women seldom follow any given

principles. Well, that is what you would discover in any gallant

association you aspire to form with me. All I have said about women

and love, has not given you any information as to my line of conduct

on such an occasion. There is a vast difference between feeling and

thinking; between talking for one's own account and pleading the cause

of another. You would, therefore, find in me many singularities that

might strike you unfavorably. I do not feel as other women. You might

know them all without knowing Ninon, and believe me, the novelties you

would discover would not compensate you for the trouble you might take

to please me.

It is useless to exaggerate the value you put upon my conquest, that I

tell you plainly; you are expending too much on hope, I am not able to

respond. Remain where you are in a brilliant career. The court offers

you a thousand beautiful women, with whom you do not risk, as you

would with me, becoming weary of philosophy, of too much intelligence.

I do not disguise the fact, however, that I would have been glad to

see you to-day. My head was split all the afternoon over a dispute on

the ancients and moderns. I am still out of humor on the subject, and

feel tempted to agree with you that I am not so far along on the

decline of life as to confine myself to science, and especially to the

gentlemen of antiquity.

If you could only restrain yourself and pay me fewer compliments it is

not to be doubted that I would prefer to have you come and enliven my

serious occupations rather than any one else. But you are such an

unmanageable man, so wicked, that I am afraid to invite you to come

and sup with me to-morrow. I am mistaken, for it is now two hours

after midnight, and I recollect that my letter will not be handed you

before noon. So it is to-day I shall expect you. Have you any fault to

find? It is a formal rendezvous, to be sure, but let the fearlessness

in appointing it be a proof that I am not very much afraid of you, and

that I shall believe in as much of your soft talk as I deem proper.

You understand that it will not be I who can be imposed upon by that.

I know men so well----

LIV

A Shrewd But Not an Unusual Scheme

This is not the time, Marquis, to hide from you the true sentiments of

the Countess in your regard. However much I have been able to keep her

secret without betraying her friendship, and I have always done so, if

I conceal from you what I am going to communicate, you may one day

justly reproach me.

Whatever infidelities you may have been guilty of, whatever care I

have been able to take to persuade her that you have been entirely

forgotten, she has never ceased to love you tenderly. Although she has

sought to punish you by an assumed indifference, she has never thought

of depriving herself of the pleasure of seeing you, and it has been

through the complaisance of the Countess that I have sometimes worried

you; it was to goad you into visiting me more frequently. But all

these schemes have not been able to satisfy a heart so deeply wounded,

and she is on the point of executing a design I have all along been

opposed to. You will learn all about it by reading the letter she

wrote me yesterday, and which I inclose in this.

FROM THE COUNTESS TO MADEMOISELLE DE L'ENCLOS.

"If you wish to remain my friend, my dear Ninon, cease to combat my

resolution; you know it is not the inspiration of the moment. It is

not the fruit of a momentary mortification, an imprudent vexation, nor

despair. I have never concealed it from you. The possession of the

heart of the Marquis de Sévigné might have been my supreme felicity if

I could have flattered myself with having it forever. I was certain of

losing it if I had granted him the favors he exacted of me. His

inconstancy has taught me that a different conduct would not be a sure

means of retaining a lover. I must renounce love forever, since men

are incapable of having a liaison with a woman, as tender, but as pure

as that of simple friendship.

"You, yourself, well know that I am not sufficiently cured to see the

Marquis without always suffering. Flight is the only remedy for my

malady, and that is what I am about to take. I do not fear, moreover,

what the world may say about my withdrawal to the country. I have

cautioned those who might be surprised. It is known that I have won in

a considerable action against the heirs of my late husband. I have

given out that I am going to take possession of the estate awarded me.

I will thus deprive the public of the satisfaction of misinterpreting

my taste for solitude, and the Marquis of all suspicion that he is in

any manner to blame for it. I inclose his letters and his portrait.

"Good Heaven! How weak I am! Why should it cost my heart so much to

get rid of an evil so fatal to my repose? But it is done, and my

determination can not be shaken. Pity me, however, and remember, my

dear friend, the promise you gave me to make him understand that I

have for him the most profound indifference. Whoever breaks off

relations with a lover in too public a manner, suggests resentment and

regret at being forced to do so; it is an honest way of saying that

one would ask nothing better than to be appeased. As I have no desire

to resume my relations with the Marquis, return him what I send, but

in the manner agreed upon, and pray him to make a similar restitution.

You may tell him that the management of my property obliges me to

leave Paris for a time, but do not speak of me first.

"I should be inconsolable at leaving you, my dear Ninon, if I did not

hope that you would visit me in my solitude. You write willingly to

your friends, if you judge them by the tenderness and esteem they have

for you. In that case, you have none more worthy of that title than I.

I rely, therefore, upon your letters until you come to share my

retreat. You know my sentiments for you."

I have no advice to give you, Marquis, on what you have just read, the

sole favor I expect from you is never to compromise me for the

indiscretion I commit, and that the Countess shall never have any

reason for not forgiving me. All I can say to justify myself in my own

eyes is, that you have loved the Countess too much for her resolution

to be a matter of absolute indifference to you. Had I been just, I

would have betrayed both by leaving you in ignorance of her design.

LV

A Happy Ending

I am delighted with everything you have done, and you are charming. Do

not doubt it, your behavior, my entreaties, and better than all, love

will overcome the resistance of the Countess. Everything should

conspire to determine her to accept the offer you have made of your

hand. I could even, from this time on, assure you that pride alone

will resist our efforts and her own inclination.

This morning I pressed her earnestly to decide in your favor. Her last

entrenchment was the fear of new infidelities on your part.

"Reassure yourself," said I, "in proof that the Marquis will be

faithful to you, is the fact that he has been undeceived about the

other women, by comparing them with her he was leaving. Honest people

permit themselves only a certain number of caprices, and the Marquis

has had those which his age and position in society seemed to justify.

He yielded to them at a time when they were pardonable. He paid

tribute to the fashion by tasting of all the ridiculous things going.

Henceforth, he can be reasonable with impunity. A man can not be

expected to be amorous of his wife, but should he be, it will be

pardoned him as soon as people see you. You risk nothing, therefore,

Countess; you yourself have put on the airs of a society woman, but

you were too sensible not to abandon such a role; you renounced it;

the Marquis imitates you. Wherefore forget his mistakes. Could you

bear the reproach of having caused the death of so amiable a man? It

would be an act that would cry out for vengeance."

In a word, I besought and pressed her, but she is still irresolute.

Still, I do not doubt that you will finish by overcoming a resistance

which she, herself, already deems very embarrassing.

Well, Marquis, if the anxiety all this has caused you, gives you the

time to review what I have been saying to you for several days past,

might you not be tempted to believe that I have contradicted myself?

At first I advised you to treat love lightly and to take only so much

of it as might amuse you. You were to be nothing but a gallant, and

have no relations with women except those in which you could easily

break the ties. I then spoke to you in a general way, and relative to

ordinary women. Could I imagine that you would be so fortunate as to

meet a woman like the Countess, who would unite the charms of her sex

to the qualities of honest men? What must be your felicity? You are

going to possess in one and the same person, the most estimable friend

and a most charming mistress. Deign to admit me to share a third

portion of your friendship and my happiness will equal your own. Can

one be happier than in sharing the happiness of friends?

CORRESPONDENCE

BETWEEN

LORD SAINT-EVREMOND

AND

NINON DE L'ENCLOS

WHEN OVER EIGHTY YEARS

OF AGE

INTRODUCTION

Charles de Saint Denis, Lord of Saint-Evremond, Marshal of France, was

one of the few distinguished Frenchmen, exiled by Louis XIV, whose

distinguished abilities as a warrior and philosopher awarded him a

last resting place in Westminster Abbey. His tomb, surmounted by a

marble bust, is situated in the nave near the cloister, located among

those of Barrow, Chaucer, Spenser, Cowley and other renowned

Englishmen.

His epitaph, written by the hand of a Briton, is singularly replete

with the most eminent qualities, which the great men of his period

recognized in him, though his life was extraordinarily long and

stormy. He was moreover, a profound admirer of Ninon de l'Enclos

during his long career, and he did much toward shaping her philosophy,

and enabling her to understand the human heart in all its

eccentricities, and how to regulate properly the passion of love.

During his long exile in England, the two corresponded at times, and

the letters here given are the fragments of a voluminous

correspondence, the greater part of which has been lost. They are to

be found in the untranslated collated works of Saint-Evremond, and are

very curious, inasmuch as they were written when Ninon and

Saint-Evremond were in their "eighties."

Saint-Evremond always claimed, that his extremely long and vigorous

life was due to the same causes which Ninon de l'Enclos attributed to

her great age, that is, to an unflagging zeal in observing the

doctrines of the Epicurean philosophy. These ideas appear in his

letter to Mademoiselle de l'Enclos, written to her under the sobriquet

of "Leontium," and which is translated and appended to this

correspondence.

As an evidence of Saint-Evremond's unimpaired faculties at a great

age, the charms of his person attracted the attention of the Duchess

of Sandwich, one of the beauties of the English Court, and she became

so enamored of him, that a liaison was the result, which lasted until

the time of Saint-Evremond's death. They were like two young lovers

just beginning their career, instead of a youth over eighty years of

age, and a maiden who had passed forty. Such attachments were not

uncommon among persons who lived calm, philosophical lives, their very

manner of living inspiring tender regard, as was the case of the great

affection of the Marquis de Sévigné, who although quite young, and his

rank an attraction to the great beauties of the Court, nevertheless

aspired to capture the heart of Mademoiselle de l'Enclos, who was over

sixty years of age. What Ninon thought about the matter, appears in

her letters on the preceding pages.

Correspondence Between Lord Saint-Evremond

and Ninon de L'Enclos

When Over Eighty Years

of Age

I

Saint-Evremond to Ninon de l'Enclos

Lovers and Gamblers have Something in Common

I have been trying for more than a year to obtain news of you from

everybody, but nobody can give me any. M. de la Bastille tells me that

you are in good health, but adds, that if you have no more lovers, you

are satisfied to have a greater number of friends.

The falsity of the latter piece of news casts a doubt upon the verity

of the former, because you are born to love as long as you live.

Lovers and gamblers have something in common: Who has loved will love.

If I had been told that you had become devout, I might have believed

it, for that would be to pass from a human passion to the love of God,

and give occupation to the soul. But not to love, is a species of

void, which can not be consistent with your heart.

Ce repos languissant ne fut jamais un bien;

C'est trouver sans mouvoir l'êtat où l'on n'est rien.

('Twas never a good this languishing rest;

'Tis to find without search a state far from blest.)

I want to know about your health, your occupations, your inclinations,

and let it be in a long enough letter, with moralizing and plenty of

affection for your old friend.

The news here is that the Count de Grammont is dead, and it fills me

with acute sorrow.

If you know Barbin, ask him why he prints so many things that are not

mine, over my name? I have been guilty of enough folly without

assuming the burden of others. They have made me the author of a

diatribe against Père Bouhours, which I never even imagined. There is

no writer whom I hold in higher esteem. Our language owes more to him

than to any other author.

God grant that the rumor of Count de Grammont's death be false, and

that of your health true. The Gazette de Hollande says the Count de

Lauzun is to be married. If this were true he would have been summoned

to Paris, besides, de Lauzun is a Duke, and the name "Count" does not

fit him.

Adieu. I am the truest of your servants, who would gain much if you

had no more lovers, for I would be the first of your friends despite

an absence which may be called eternal.

II

Ninon de L'Enclos to Saint-Evremond

It is sweet to remember those we have loved

I was alone in my chamber, weary of reading, when some one exclaimed:

"Here is a messenger from Saint-Evremond!" You can imagine how quickly

my ennui disappeared--it left me in a moment.

I have been speaking of you quite recently, and have learned many

things which do not appear in your letters--about your perfect health

and your occupation. The joy in my mind indicates its strength, and

your letter assures me that England promises you forty years more of

life, for I believe that it is only in England that they speak of men

who have passed the fixed period of human life. I had hoped to pass

the rest of my days with you, and if you had possessed the same

desire, you would still be in France.

It is, however, pleasant to remember those we have loved, and it is,

perhaps, for the embellishment of my epitaph, that this bodily

separation has occurred.

I could have wished that the young ecclesiastic had found me in the

midst of the glories of Nike, which could not change me, although you

seem to think that I am more tenderly enchanted with him than

philosophy permits.

Madame the Duchess de Bouillon is like an eighteen-year old: the

source of her charms is in the Mazarin blood.

Now that our kings are so friendly, ought you not to pay us a visit?

In my opinion it would be the greatest success derived from the peace.

III

Ninon de l'Enclos to Saint-Evremond

Wrinkles are a Mark of Wisdom

I defy Dulcinea to feel with greater joy the remembrance of her

Chevalier. Your letter was accorded the reception it deserved, and the

sorrowful figure in it did not diminish the merit of its sentiments. I

am very much affected by their strength and perseverance. Nurse them

to the shame of those who presume to judge them. I am of your opinion,

that wrinkles are a mark of wisdom. I am delighted that your surface

virtues do not sadden you, I try to use them in the same way. You have

a friend, a provincial Governor, who owes his fortune to his

amiability. He is the only aged man who is not ridiculed at Court. M.

de Turenne wished to live only to see him grow old, and desired to see

him father of a family, rich and happy. He has told more jokes about

his new dignity than others think.

M. d'Ebène who gave you the name of "Curictator," has just died at the

hospital. How trivial are the judgments of men! If M. d'Olonne were

alive and could have read your letters to me, he would have continued

to be of your quality with his philosophy. M. de Lauzun is my

neighbor, and will accept your compliments. I send you very tenderly,

those of M. de Charleval, and ask you to remember M. de Ruvigny, his

friend of the Rue des Tournelles.

IV

Ninon de l'Enclos to Saint-Evremond

Near Hopes are Worth as much as Those Far Off

I sent a reply to your last letter to the correspondent of the Abbé

Dubois, but as he was at Versailles, I fear it has not reached him.

I should have been anxious about your health without the visit of

Madame de Bouillon's little librarian, who filled my heart with joy by

showing me a letter from one who thinks of me on your account.

Whatever reason I may have had during my illness to praise the world

and my friends, I never felt so lively a joy as at this mark of

kindness. You may act upon this as you feel inclined since it was you

who drew it upon me.

I pray you to let me know, yourself, whether you have grasped that

happiness one enjoys so much at certain times? The source will never

run dry so long as you shall possess the friendship of the amiable

friend who invigorates your life. (Lady Sandwich.) How I envy those

who go to England, and how I long to dine with you once again! What a

gross desire, that of dinner!

The spirit has great advantages over the body, though the body

supplies many little repeated pleasures, which solace the soul in its

sorrowful moods. You have often laughed at my mournful reflections,

but I have banished them all. It is useless to harbor them in the

latter days of one's life, and one must be satisfied with the life of

every day as it comes. Near hopes, whatever you, may say against them,

are worth as much as those far off, they are more certain. This is

excellent moralizing. Take good care of your health, it is to that

everything should tend.

V

Ninon de L'Enclos to Saint-Evremond

On the Death of de Charleval

Now, M. de Charleval is dead, and I am so much affected that I am

trying to console myself by thinking of the share you will take in my

affliction. Up to the time of his death, I saw him every day. His

spirit possessed all the charms of youth, and his heart all the

goodness and tenderness so desirable among true friends. We often

spoke of you and of all the old friends of our time. His life and the

one I am leading now, had much in common, indeed, a similar loss is

like dying one's self.

Tell me the news about yourself. I am as much interested in your life

in London as if you were here, and old friends possess charms which

are not so well appreciated as when they are separated.

VI

Ninon de l'Enclos to Saint-Evremond

The Weariness of Monotony

M. de Clerambault gave me pleasure by telling me that I am in your

thoughts constantly. I am worthy of it on account of the affection I

maintain for you. We shall certainly deserve the encomiums of

posterity by the duration of our lives, and by that of your

friendship. I believe I shall live as long as you, although I am

sometimes weary of always doing the same things, and I envy the Swiss

who casts himself into the river for that reason. My friends often

reprehend me for such a sentiment, and assure me that life is worth

living as long as one lives in peace and tranquillity with a healthy

mind. However, the forces of the body lead to other thoughts, and

those forces are preferred to strength of mind, but everything is

useless when a change is impossible. It is equally as worth while to

drive away sad reflections as to indulge in useless ones.

Madame Sandwich has given me a thousand pleasures in making me so

happy as to please her. I did not dream, in my declining years to be

agreeable to a woman of her age. She has more spirit than all the

women of France, and more true merit. She is on the point of leaving

us, which is regretted by every one who knows her, by myself,

particularly. Had you been here we should have prepared a banquet

worthy of old times. Love me always.

Madame de Coulanges accepted the commission to present your kind

compliments to M. le Comte de Grammont, through Madame de Grammont. He

is so young that I believe him fickle enough in time to dislike the

infirm, and that he will love them as soon as they return to good

health.

Every one who returns from England speaks of the beauty of Madame la

Duchesse de Mazarin, as they allude to the beauty of Mademoiselle de

Bellefond, whose sun is rising. You have attached me to Madame de

Mazarin, and I hear nothing but the good that is said of her.

Adieu, my friend, why is it not "Good day?" We must not die without

again seeing each other.

VII

Ninon de l'Enclos to Saint-Evremond

After the Death of La Duchesse de Mazarin

What a loss for you, my friend! If it were not for the fact that we,

ourselves, will be considered a loss, we could not find consolation. I

sympathize with you with all my heart. You have just lost an amiable

companion who has been your mainstay in a foreign land. What can be

done to make good such a misfortune? Those who live long are subject

to see their friends die, after that, your philosophy, your mind, will

serve to sustain you.

I feel this death as much as if I had been acquainted with the

Duchess. She thought of me in her last moments, and her goodness

affected me more than I can express; what she was to you drew me to

her. There is no longer a remedy, and there is none for whatever may

happen our poor bodies, so preserve yours. Your friends love to see

you so well and so wise, for I hold those to be wise who know how to

be happy.

I give you a thousand thanks for the tea you sent me, but the lively

tone of your letter pleased me as much as your present.

You will again see Madame Sandwich, whom we saw depart with regret. I

could wish that her condition in life might serve to be of some

consolation to you. I am ignorant of English customs, but she was

quite French while here.

A thousand adieux, my friend. If one could think as did Madame de

Chevreuse, who believed when dying that she was going to converse with

all her friends in the other world! It would be a sweet thought.

VIII

Saint-Evremond to Ninon de l'Enclos

Love Banishes Old Age

Your life, my well beloved, has been too illustrious not to be lived

in the same manner until the end. Do not permit M. de la

Rochefoucauld's "hell" to frighten you; it was a devised hell he

desired to construct into a maxim. Pronounce the word "love" boldly,

and that of "old age" will never pass your lips.

There is so much spirit in your letters, that you do not leave me even

to imagine a decline of life in you. What ingratitude to be ashamed to

mention love, to which we owe all our merit, all our pleasures! For,

my lovely keeper of the casket, the reputation of your probity is

established particularly upon the fact that you have resisted lovers,

who would willingly have made free with the money of their friends.

Confess all your passions to make your virtues of greater worth;

however, you do not expose but the one-half of your character; there

is nothing better than what regards your friends, nothing more

unsatisfactory than what you have bestowed upon your lovers.

In a few verses, I will draw your entire character. Here they are,

giving you the qualities you now have and those you have had:

Dans vos amours on vous trouvait legère,

En amitié toujours sûre et sincère;

Pour vos amants, les humeurs de Vénus,

Pour vos amis les solides vertus:

Quand les premiers vous nommaient infidèle,

Et qu'asservis encore à votre loi,

Ils reprochaient une flamme nouvelle,

Les autres se louaient de votre bonne foi.

Tantôt c'était le naturel d'Hélène,

Ses appétits comme tous ses appas;

Tantôt c'était la probité romaine?

C'était d'honneur la règle et le compas.

Dans un couvent en soeur dépositaire,

Vous auriez bien ménagé quelque affaire,

Et dans le monde à garder les dépôts,

On vous eût justement préférée aux dévots.

(In your love affairs you were never severe,

But your friendship was always sure and sincere;

The humors of Venus for those who desired,

For your friends, in your heart, solid virtues conspired;

When the first, infidelity laid at your door,

Though not yet exempt from the law of your will,

And every new flame never failed to deplore,

The others rejoiced that you trusted them still.

Ingenuous Helen was sometimes your role,

With her appetites, charms, and all else beside;

Sometimes Roman probity wielded your soul,

In honor becoming your rule and your guide.

And though in a convent as guardian nun,

You might have well managed some sprightly fun,

In the world, as a keeper of treasures untold,

Preferred you would be to a lamb of the fold.)

Here is a little variety, which I trust will not surprise you:

L'indulgente et sage Nature

A formé l'âme de Ninon

De la volupté d'Epicure

Et de la vertu de Caton.

IX

Ninon de l'Enclos to Saint-Evremond

Stomachs Demand More Attention than Minds

The Abbé Dubois has just handed me your letter, and personally told me

as much good news about your stomach as about your mind. There are

times when we give more attention to our stomachs than to our minds,

and I confess, to my sorrow, that I find you happier in the enjoyment

of the one than of the other. I have always believed that your mind

would last as long as yourself, but we are not so sure of the health

of the body, without which nothing is left but sorrowful reflections.

I insensibly begin making them on all occasions.

Here is another chapter. It relates to a handsome youth, whose desire

to see honest people in the different countries of the world, induced

him to surreptitiously abandon an opulent home. Perhaps you will

censure his curiosity, but the thing is done. He knows many things,

but he is ignorant of others, which one of his age should ignore. I

deemed him worthy of paying you a visit, to make him begin to feel

that he has not lost his time by journeying to England. Treat him well

for love of me.

I begged his elder brother, who is my particular friend, to obtain

news of Madame la Duchesse Mazarin and of Madame Harvey, both of whom

wished to remember me.

X

Saint-Evremond to Ninon de l'Enclos

Why does Love Diminish After Marriage?

Translator's Note.--Two of Ninon's friends whom she idolized, were

very much surprised to discover after their marriage, that the great

passion they felt for each other before marriage, became feebler every

day, and that even their affection was growing colder. It troubled

them, and in their anxiety, they consulted Mademoiselle de l'Enclos,

begging her to find some reason in her philosophy, why the possession

of the object loved should weaken the strength of ante-nuptial

passion, and even destroy the most ardent affection.

The question was discussed by Ninon and her "Birds" for several days

without reaching an opinion that was in any manner satisfactory. It

was therefore resolved to consult Saint-Evremond, who was living in

exile in England. After writing him all the particulars, and the

discussions that had been held with opinions pro and con, he sent the

following letter in reply, which is unanswerable upon the subject.

Moreover, it contains lessons that should be carefully studied and

well learned by all loving hearts, who desire to maintain their early

affection for each other during life.

The letter is a masterpiece of the philosophy of love, and it is

remarkable, in that it develops traits in human nature upon the

subject of love and marriage, which are overlooked in questions

applicable to the relations between the sexes, and that are so often

strained to the breaking point. Indeed, it gives clues to a remedy

which can not fail to effect a cure.

* * * * *

My opinion is exactly in line with yours, Mademoiselle; it is not

always, as some think, hymen or the possession of the loved object

which of itself destroys love; the true source of the dissatisfaction

that follows exists in the unintelligent manner of economizing the

sentiments, a too complete, too easy, and too prolonged possession.

When we have yielded to the transports of a passion without reserve,

the tremendous shock to the soul can not fail quickly to leave it in a

profound solitude. The heart finds itself in a void which alarms and

chills it. We vainly seek outside of ourselves, the cause of the calm

which follows our fits of passion; we do not perceive that an equal

and more enduring happiness would have been the fruit of moderation.

Make an exact analysis of what takes place within you when you desire

anything. You will find that your desires are nothing but curiosity,

and this curiosity, which is one of the forces of the heart,

satisfied, our desires vanish. Whoever, therefore, would hold a spouse

or a lover should leave him something to be desired; something new

should be expected every day for the morrow. Diversify his pleasures,

procure for him the charm of variety in the same object, and I will

vouch for his perseverance in fidelity.

I confess, however, that hymen, or what you call your "defeat," is, in

an ordinary woman, the grave of love. But then it is less upon the

lover that the blame falls, than upon her who complains of the cooling

of the passion; she casts upon the depravity of the heart what is due

to her own unskillfulness, and her lack of economy. She has expended

in a single day everything that might keep alive the inclination she

had excited. She has nothing more to offer to the curiosity of her

lover, she becomes always the same statue; no variety to be hoped for,

and her lover knows it well.

But in the woman I have in mind, it is the aurora of a lovelier day;

it is the beginning of the most satisfying pleasures. I, understand by

effusions of the heart, those mutual confidences; those ingenuities,

those unexpected avowals, and those transports which excite in us the

certainty of creating an absolute happiness, and meriting all the

esteem of the person we love. That day is, in a word, the epoch when

a man of refinement discovers inexhaustible treasures which have

always been hidden from him; the freedom a woman acquires brings into

play all the sentiments which constraint has held in reserve; her

heart takes a lofty flight, but one well under control. Time, far from

leading to loathing, will furnish new reasons for a greater love.

But, to repeat; I assume sufficient intelligence in her to be able to

control her inclination. For to hold a lover, it is not enough

(perhaps it is too much) to love passionately, she must love with

prudence, with restraint, and modesty is, for that reason, the most

ingenious virtue refined persons have ever imagined. To yield to the

impetuosity of an inclination; to be annihilated, so to speak, in the

object loved, is the method of a woman without discernment. That is

not love, it is a liking for a moment, it is to transform a lover into

a spoiled child. I would have a woman behave with more reserve and

economy. An excess of ardor is not justifiable in my opinion, the

heart being always an impetuous charger which must be steadily curbed.

If you do not use your strength with economy, your vivacity will be

nothing but a passing transport. The same indifference you perceive in

a lover, after those convulsive emotions, you, yourself, will

experience, and soon, both of you will feel the necessity of

separating.

To sum up: There is more intelligence required to love than is

generally supposed, and to be happy in loving. Up to the moment of the

fatal "yes" or if you prefer, up to the time of her defeat, a woman

does not need artifice to hold her lover. Curiosity excites him,

desire sustains him, hope encourages him. But once he reaches the

summit of his desires, it is for the woman to take as much care to

retain him, as he exhibited to overcome her; the desire to keep him

should render her fertile in expedients; the heart is similar to a

high position, easier to obtain than to keep. Charms are sufficient

to make a man amorous; to render him constant, something more is

necessary; skill is required, a little management, a great deal of

intelligence, and even a touch of ill humor and inequality.

Unfortunately, however, as soon as women have yielded they become too

tender, too complaisant. It would be better for the common good if

they were to resist less in the beginning and more afterward. I

maintain that they never can forestall loathing without leaving the

heart something to wish for, and the time to consider.

I hear them continually complaining that our indifference is always

the fruit of their complaisance for us. They are ever recalling the

time when, goaded by love and sentiment, we spent whole days by their

side. How blind they are! They do not perceive that it is still in

their power to bring us back to an allegiance, the memory of which is

so dear. If they forget what they have already done for us, they will

not be tempted to do more; but if they make us forget, then we shall

become more exacting. Let them awaken our hearts by opposing new

difficulties, arouse our anxieties, in fine, force us to desire new

proofs of an inclination, the certainty of which diminishes the value

in our estimation. They will then find less cause of complaint in us,

and will be better satisfied with themselves.

Shall I frankly avow it? Things would indeed change if women would

remember at the right time, that their role is always that of the

party to be entreated, ours that of him who begs for new favors;

that, created to grant, they should never offer. Reserved, even in an

excess of passion, they should guard against surrendering at

discretion; the lover should always have something to ask, and

consequently, he would be always submissive so as to obtain it. Favors

without limit degrade the most seductive charms, and are, in the end,

revolting even to him who exacts them. Society puts all women on the

same level; the handsome and the ugly, after their defeat are

indistinguishable except from their art to maintain their authority;

but what commonly happens? A woman imagines she has nothing more to do

than to be affectionate, caressing, sweet, of even temper, and

faithful. She is right in one sense, for these qualities should be the

foundation of her character; they will not fail to draw esteem; but

these qualities, however estimable they may be, if they are not offset

by a shade of contrariety, will not fail to extinguish love, and bring

on languor and weariness, mortal poisons for the best constituted

heart.

Do you know why lovers become nauseated so easily when enjoying

prosperity? Why they are so little pleased after having had so much

pleasure? It is because both parties interested have an identically

erroneous opinion. One imagines there is nothing more to obtain, the

other fancies she has nothing more to give. It follows as a necessary

consequence that one slackens in his pursuit, and the other neglects

to be worthy of further advances, or thinks she becomes so by the

practice of solid qualities. Reason is substituted for love, and

hence-forward no more spicy seasoning in their relations, no more of

those trifling quarrels so necessary to prevent dissatisfaction by

forestalling it.

But when I exact that evenness of temper should be animated by

occasional storms, do not be under the impression that I pretend

lovers should always be quarreling to preserve their happiness. I only

desire to impress it upon you, that all their misunderstandings should

emanate from love itself; that the woman should not forget (by a

species of pusillanimous kindness) the respect and attentions due her;

that by an excessive sensitiveness she does not convert her love into

a source of anxiety capable of poisoning every moment of her

existence; that by a scrupulous fidelity she may not render her lover

too sure that he has nothing to fear on that score.

Neither should a woman by a sweetness, an unalterable evenness of

temper, be weak enough to pardon everything lacking in her lover.

Experience demonstrates that women too often sacrifice the hearts of

their spouses or their lovers, by too many indulgences and facilities.

What recklessness! They martyrize themselves by sacrificing

everything; they spoil them and convert them into ungrateful lovers.

So much generosity finally turns against themselves, and they soon

become accustomed to demand as a right what is granted them as a

favor.

You see women every day (even among those we despise with so much

reason) who reign with a scepter of iron, treat as slaves men who are

attached to them, debase them by force of controlling them. Well,

these are the women who are loved longer than the others. I am

persuaded that a woman of refinement, well brought up, would never

think of following such an example. That military manner is repugnant

to gentleness and morals, and lacks that decency which constitutes the

charm in things even remote from virtue. But let the reasonable woman

soften the clouds a trifle, there will always remain precisely what is

necessary to hold a lover.

We are slaves, whom too much kindness often renders insolent; we often

demand to be treated like those of the new world. But we have in the

bottom of our hearts a comprehension of justice, which tells us that

the governing hand bears down upon us sometimes for very good reasons,

and we take kindly to it.

Now, for my last word. In everything relating to the force and energy

of love, women should be the sovereigns; it is from them we hope for

happiness, and they will never fail to grant us that as soon as they

can govern our hearts with intelligence, moderate their own

inclinations, and maintain their own authority, without compromising

it and without abusing it.

XI

Ninon de l'Enclos to Saint-Evremond

Few People Resist Age

A sprightly mind is dangerous to friendship. Your letter would have

spoiled any one but me. I know your lively and astonishing

imagination, and I have even wanted to remember that Lucian wrote in

praise of the fly, to accustom myself to your style. Would to Heaven

you could think of me what you write, I should dispense with the rest

of the world; so it is with you that glory dwells.

Your last letter is a masterpiece. It has been the subject of all the

talks we have had in my chamber for the past month. You are

rejuvenating; you do well to love. Philosophy agrees well with

spiritual charms. It is not enough to be wise, one must please, and I

perceive that you will always please as long as you think as you do.

Few people resist age, but I believe I am not yet overcome by it. I

could wish with you, that Madame Mazarin had looked upon life from her

own viewpoint, without thinking of her beauty, which would always have

been agreeable when common sense held the place of less brilliancy.

Madame Sandwich will preserve her mental force after losing her

youth, at least I think so.

Adieu, my friend. When you see Madame Sandwich, remember me to her, I

should be very sorry to have her forget me.

XII

Saint-Evremond to Ninon de l'Enclos

Age Has Some Consolations

It gives me a lively pleasure to see young people, handsome and

expanding like flowers; fit to please, and able to sincerely affect an

old heart like mine. As there has always been a strong similarity

between your tastes, your inclinations, your sentiments, and mine, I

think you will be pleased to receive a young Chevalier who is

attractive to all our ladies. He is the Duke of Saint Albans, whom I

have begged to pay you a visit, as much in his own interests as in

yours.

Is there any one of your friends like de Tallard, imbued with the

spirit of our age, to whom I can be of any service? If so, command me.

Give me some news of our old friend de Gourville. I presume he is

prosperous in his affairs; if his health is poor I shall be very

sorry.

Doctor Morelli, my particular friend, accompanies the Countess of

Sandwich, who goes to France for her health. The late Count Rochester,

father of Madame Sandwich, had more spirit than any man in England,

but Madame Sandwich has more than her father. She is generous and

spirituelle, and as amiable as she is generous and spirituelle. These

are a portion of her qualities. But, I have more to say about the

physician than about the invalid.

Seven cities, as you know, dispute among themselves, the birth place

of Homer; seven great nations are quarrelling over Morelli: India,

Egypt, Arabia, Persia, Turkey, Italy, and Spain. The cold countries,

even the temperate ones, France, England and Germany, make no

pretensions. He is acquainted with every language and speaks the most

of them. His style, elevated, grand and figurative, leads me to

believe that he is of Oriental origin, and that he has absorbed what

he found good among the Europeans. He is passionately fond of music,

wild over poetry, inquisitive about paintings, a connoisseur in

everything--I cannot remember all. He has friends who know

architecture, and though skilled in his own profession, he is an adept

in others.

I pray you to give him opportunities to become acquainted with all

your illustrious friends. If you make him yours, I shall consider him

fortunate, for you will never be able to make him acquainted with

anybody possessing more merit than yourself.

It seems to me that Epicurus included in his sovereign good the

remembrance of past things. There is no sovereign good for a

centenarian like me, but there are many consolations, that of thinking

of you, and of all I have heard you say, is one of the greatest.

I write of many things of no importance to you, because I never think

that I may weary you. It is enough if they please me, it is

impossible at my age, to hope they will please others. My merit

consists in being contented, too happy in being able to write you.

Remember to save some of M. de Gourville's wine for me. I am lodged

with one of the relatives of M. de L'Hermitage, a very honest man, and

an exile to England on account of his religion. I am very sorry that

the Catholic conscience of France could not suffer him to live in

Paris, and that the delicacy of his own compelled him to abandon his

country. He certainly deserves the approbation of his cousin.

III

Ninon de l'Enclos to Saint-Evremond

Some Good Taste Still Exists in France

My dear friend, is it possible for you to believe that the sight of a

young man gives me pleasure? Your senses deceive you when it comes to

others. I have forgotten all but my friends. If the name "doctor" had

not reassured me, I should have replied by the Abbé de Hautefeuille,

and your English would never have heard of me. They would have been

told at my door that I was not at home, and I would have received your

letter, which gave me more pleasure than anything else.

What a fancy to want good wine, and how unfortunate that I can not say

I was successful in getting it! M. de L'Hermitage will tell you as

well as I, that de Gourville never leaves his room, is indifferent to

taste of any kind, is always a good friend, but his friends do not

trespass upon his friendship for fear of worrying him. After that, if,

by any insinuation I can make, and which I do not now foresee, I can

use my knowledge of wine to procure you some, do not doubt that I will

avail myself of it.

M. de Tallard was one of my former friends, but state affairs place

great men above trifles. I am told that the Abbé Dubois will go to

England with him. He is a slim little man who, I am sure, will please

you.

I have twenty letters of yours, and they are read with admiration by

our little circle, which is proof that good taste still exists in

France. I am charmed with a country where you do not fear ennui, and

you will be wise if you think of nobody but yourself, not that the

principle is false with you: that you can no longer please others.

I have written to M. Morelli, and if I find in him the skill you say,

I shall consider him a true physician.

XIV

Saint-Evremond to Ninon de l'Enclos

Superiority of the Pleasures of the Stomach

I have never read a letter which contained so much common sense as

your last one. You eulogize the stomach so highly, that it would be

shameful to possess an intelligent mind without also having a good

stomach. I am indebted to the Abbé Dubois for having sounded my

praises to you in this respect.

At eighty-eight years of age, I can eat oysters every morning for

breakfast. I dine well and sup fairly well. The world makes heroes of

men with less merit than mine.

Qu'on ait plus de bien, de crédit,

Plus de vertu, plus de conduite,

Je n'en aurai point de dépit,

Qu'un autre me passe en mérite

Sur le goût et sur l'appétit,

C'est l'avantage qui m'irrite.

L'estomac est le plus grand bien,

Sans lui les autres ne sont rien.

Un grand coeur veut tout entreprendre,

Un grand esprit veut tout comprendre;

Les droits de l'estomac sont de bien digérer;

Et dans les sentiments que me donne mon âge,

La beauté de l'esprit, la grandeur du courage,

N'ont rien qu'à se vertu l'on puisse comparer.

(Let others more riches and fame,

More virtue and morals possess,

'Twill kindle no envious flame;

But to make my merit seem less

In taste, appetite, is, I claim,

An outrageous thing to profess.

The stomach's the greatest of things,

All else to us nothing brings.

A great heart would all undertake,

A great soul investigate,

But the law of the stomach is good things to digest,

And the glories which are at my age the delight,

True beauty of mind, of courage the height,

Are nothing unless by its virtue they're blest.)

When I was young I admired intellect more than anything else, and was

less considerate of the interests of the body than I should have been;

to-day, I am remedying the error I then held, as much as possible,

either by the use I am making of it, or by the esteem and friendship I

have for it.

You were of the same opinion. The body was something in your youth,

now you are wholly concerned with the pleasures of the mind. I do not

know whether you are right in placing so high an estimate upon it. We

read little that is worth remembering, and we hear little advice that

is worth following. However degenerate may be the senses of the age at

which I am living, the impressions which agreeable objects make upon

them appear to me to be so much more acute, that we are wrong to

mortify them. Perhaps it is a jealousy of the mind which deems the

part played by the senses better than its own.

M. Bernier, the handsomest philosopher I have ever known (handsome

philosopher is seldom used, but his figure, shape, manner,

conversation and other traits have made him worthy of the epithet), M.

Bernier, I say, in speaking of the senses, said to me one day:

"I am going to impart a confidence that I would not give Madame de la

Sablière, even to Mademoiselle de l'Enclos, whom I regard as a

superior being. I tell you in confidence, that abstinence from

pleasures appears to me to be a great sin."

I was surprised at the novelty of the idea, and it did not fail to

make an impression upon my mind. Had he extended his idea, he might

have made me a convert to his doctrine.

Continue your friendship which has never faltered, and which is

something rare in relations that have existed as long as ours.

XV

Ninon de l'Enclos to Saint-Evremond

Let the Heart Speak Its Own Language

I learn with pleasure that my soul is dearer to you than my body and

that your common sense is always leading you upward to better things.

The body, in fact, is little worthy of regard, and the soul has always

some light which sustains it, and renders it sensible of the memory of

a friend whose absence has not effaced his image.

I often tell the old stories in which d'Elbène, de Charleval, and the

Chevalier de Riviere cheer up the "moderns." You are brought in at the

most interesting points, but as you are also a modern, I am on my

guard against praising you too highly in the presence of the

Academicians, who have declared in favor of the "ancients."

I have been told of a musical prologue, which I would very much like

to hear at the Paris theater. The "Beauty" who is its subject would

strike with envy every woman who should hear it. All our Helens have

no right to find a Homer, and always be goddesses of beauty. Here I am

at the top, how am I to descend?

My very dear friend, would it not be well to permit the heart to

speak its own language? I assure you, I love you always. Do not change

your ideas on that point, they have always been in my favor, and may

this mental communication, which some philosophers believe to be

supernatural, last forever.

I have testified to M. Turretin, the joy I should feel to be of some

service to him. He found me among my friends, many of whom deemed him

worthy of the praise you have given him. If he desires to profit by

what is left of our honest Abbés in the absence of the court, he will

be treated like a man you esteem. I read him your letter with

spectacles, of course, but they did me no harm, for I preserved my

gravity all the time. If he is amorous of that merit which is called

here "distinguished," perhaps your wish will be accomplished, for

every day, I meet with this fine phrase as a consolation for my

losses.

I know that you would like to see La Fontaine in England, he is so

little regarded in Paris, his head is so feeble. 'Tis the destiny of

poets, of which Tasso and Lucretius are evidence. I doubt whether

there is any love philter that could affect La Fontaine, he has never

been a lover of women unless they were able to foot the bills.

XVI

Saint-Evremond to Ninon de l'Enclos

The Memory of Youth

I was handed in December, the letter you wrote me October 14. It is

rather old, but good things are always acceptable, however late they

may be in reaching us. You are serious, therefore, you please. You add

a charm to Seneca, who does not usually possess any. You call yourself

old when you possess all the graces, inclinations, and spirit of

youth.

I am troubled with a curiosity which you can satisfy: When you

remember your past, does not the memory of your youth suggest certain

ideas as far removed from languor and sloth as from the excitement of

passion? Do you not feel in your soul a secret opposition to the

tranquillity which you fancy your spirit has acquired?

Mais aimer et vous voir aimée

Est une douce liaison,

Que dans notre coeur s'est formée

De concert avec la raison.

D'une amoureuse sympathie,

Il faut pour arrêter le cours

Arrêter celui de nos jours;

Sa fin est celle de la vie.

Puissent les destins complaisants,

Vous donner encore trente ans

D'amour et de philosophie.

(To love and be loved

Is a concert sweet,

Which in your heart is formed

Cemented with reason meet.

Of a loving concord,

To stop the course,

Our days must end perforce,

And death be the last record.

May the kind fates give

You thirty years to live,

With wisdom and love in accord.)

I wish you a happy New Year, a day on which those who have nothing

else to give, make up the deficiency in wishes.

XVII

Ninon de l'Enclos to Saint-Evremond

"I Should Have Hanged Myself"

Your letter filled with useless yearnings of which I thought myself

incapable. "The days are passing," as said the good man of Yveteaux,

"in ignorance and sloth; these days destroy us and take from us the

things to which we are attached." You are cruelly made to prove this.

You told me long ago that I should die of reflections. I try not to

make any more, and to forget on the morrow the things I live through

today. Everybody tells me that I have less to complain of at one time

than at another. Be that as it may, had I been proposed such a life I

should have hanged myself. We hold on to an ugly body, however, as

something agreeable; we love to feel comfort and ease. Appetite is

something I still enjoy. Would to Heaven I could try my stomach with

yours, and talk of the old friends we have known, the memory of whom

gives me more pleasure than the presence of many people I now meet.

There is something good in all that, but to tell you the truth, there

is no comparison.

M. de Clerambault often asks me if he resembles his father in mental

attainments. "No," I always answer him, but I hope from his

presumption that he believes this "no" to be of advantage to him, and

perhaps there are some who would have so considered it. What a

comparison between the present epoch and that through which we have

passed!

You are going to write Madame Sandwich, but I believe she has gone to

the country. She knows all about your sentiment for her. She will tell

you more news about this country than I, having gauged and

comprehended everything. She knows all my haunts and has found means

of making herself perfectly at home.

XVIII

Saint-Evremond to Ninon de l'Enclos

Life Is Joyous When It Is Without Sorrow

The very last letter I receive from Mademoiselle de l'Enclos always

seems to me to be better than the preceding ones. It is not because

the sentiment of present pleasure dims the memory of the past, but the

true reason is, your mind is becoming stronger and more fortified

every day.

If it were the same with the body as with the mind, I should badly

sustain this stomach combat of which you speak. I wanted to make a

trial of mine against that of Madame Sandwich, at a banquet given by

Lord Jersey. I was not the vanquished.

Everybody knows the spirit of Madame Sandwich; I see her good taste in

the extraordinary esteem she has for you. I was not overcome by the

praises she showered upon you, any more than I was by my appetite. You

belong to every nation, esteemed alike in London as in Paris. You

belong to every age of the world, and when I say that you are an honor

to mine, youth will immediately name you to give luster to theirs.

There you are, mistress of the present and of the past. May you have

your share of the right to be so considered in the future! I have not

reputation in view, for that is assured to all time, the one thing I

regard as the most essential is life, of which eight days are worth

more than centuries of post mortem glory.

If any one had formerly proposed to you to live as you are now living,

you would have hanged yourself! (The expression pleases me.) However,

you are satisfied with ease and comfort after having enjoyed the

liveliest emotions.

L'esprit vous satisfait, ou du moins vous console:

Mais on préférerait de vivre jeune et folle,

Et laisser aux vieillards exempts de passions

La triste gravité de leurs reflexions.

(Mental joys satisfy you, at least they console,

But a young jolly life we prefer on the whole,

And to old chaps, exempt from passion's sharp stings,

Leave the sad recollections of former good things.)

Nobody can make more of youth than I, and as I am holding to it by

memory, I am following your example, and fit in with the present as

well as I know how.

Would to Heaven, Madame Mazarin had been of your opinion! She would

still be living, but she desired to die the beauty of the world.

Madame Sandwich is leaving for the country, and departs admired in

London as she is in Paris.

Live, Ninon, life is joyous when it is without sorrow.

I pray you to forward this note to M. l'Abbé de Hautefeuille, who is

with Madame la Duchesse de Bouillon. I sometimes meet the friends of

M. l'Abbé Dubois, who complain that they are forgotten. Assure him of

my humble regards.

Translator's Note--The above was the last letter Saint-Evremond ever

wrote Mademoiselle de l'Enclos, and with the exception of one more

letter to his friend, Count Magalotti, Councillor of State to His

Royal Highness the Grand Duke of Tuscany, he never wrote any other,

dying shortly afterward at the age of about ninety. His last letter

ends with this peculiar Epicurean thought in poetry:

Je vis éloigné de la France,

Sans besoins et sans abondance,

Content d'un vulgaire destin;

J'aime la vertu sans rudesse,

J'aime le plaisir sans mollesse,

J'aime la vie, et n'en crains pas la fin.

(I am living far away from France,

No wants, indeed, no abundance,

Content to dwell in humble sphere;

Virtue I love without roughness,

Pleasures I love without softness,

Life, too, whose end I do not fear.)

DOCTRINE OF EPICURUS

EXPLAINED BY

MARSHAL DE SAINT-EVREMOND

IN A LETTER TO

THE MODERN LEONTIUM

(NINON DE L'ENCLOS)

TO THE MODERN LEONTIUM

(NINON DE L'ENCLOS)

Being the moral doctrine of the philosopher Epicurus as applicable to

modern times, it is an elucidation of the principles advocated by that

philosopher, by Charles de Saint-Evremond, Maréchal of France, a great

philosopher, scholar, poet, warrior, and profound admirer of

Mademoiselle de l'Enclos. He died in exile in England, and his tomb

may be found in Westminster Abbey, in a conspicuous part of the nave,

where his remains were deposited by Englishmen, who regarded him as

illustrious for his virtues, learning and philosophy.

He gave the name "Leontium" to Mademoiselle de L'Enclos, and the

letter was written to her under that sobriquet. The reasoning in it

will enable the reader to understand the life and character of Ninon,

inasmuch as it was the foundation of her education, and formed her

character during an extraordinarily long career. It was intended to

bring down to its date, the true philosophical principles of Epicurus,

who appears to have been grossly misunderstood and his doctrines

foully misinterpreted.

Leontium was an Athenian woman who became celebrated for her taste for

philosophy, particularly for that of Epicurus, and for her close

intimacy with the great men of Athens. She lived during the third

century before the Christian era, and her mode of life was similar to

that of Mademoiselle de l'Enclos. She added to great personal beauty,

intellectual brilliancy of the highest degree, and dared to write, a

learned treatise against the eloquent Theophrastus, thereby incurring

the dislike of Cicero, the distinguished orator, and Pliny, the

philosopher, the latter intimating that it might be well for her "to

select a tree upon which to hang herself." Pliny and other

philosophers heaped abuse upon her for daring, as a woman, to do such

an unheard of thing as to write a treatise on philosophy, and

particularly for having the assurance to contradict Theophrastus.

The Letter.

You wish to know whether I have fully considered the doctrines of

Epicurus which are attributed to me?

I can claim the honor of having done so, but I do not care to claim a

merit I do not possess, and which you will say, ingenuously, does not

belong to me. I labor under a great disadvantage on account of the

numerous spurious treatises which are printed in my name, as though I

were the author of them. Some, though well written, I do not claim,

because they are not of my writing, moreover, among the things I have

written, there are many stupidities. I do not care to take the trouble

of repudiating such things, for the reason that at my age, one hour of

well regulated life, is of more interest and benefit to me than a

mediocre reputation. How difficult it is, you see, to rid one's self

of amour propre! I quit it as an author, and reassume it as a

philosopher, feeling a secret pleasure in manipulating what others are

anxious about.

The word "pleasure" recalls to mind the name of Epicurus, and I

confess, that of all the opinions of the philosophers concerning the

supreme good, there are none which appear to me to be so reasonable as

his.

It would be useless to urge reasons, a hundred times repeated by the

Epicureans, that the love of pleasure and the extinction of pain, are

the first and most natural inclinations remarked in all men; that

riches, power, honor, and virtue, contribute to our happiness, but

that the enjoyment of pleasure, let us say, voluptuousness, to include

everything in a word, is the veritable aim and end whither tend all

human acts. This is very clear to me, in fact, self-evident, and I am

fully persuaded of its truth.

However, I do not know very well in what the pleasure, or

voluptuousness of Epicurus consisted, for I never saw so many

different opinions of any one as those of the morals of this

philosopher. Philosophers, and even his own disciples, have condemned

him as sensual and indolent; magistrates have regarded his doctrines

as pernicious to the public; Cicero, so just and so wise in his

opinions, Plutarch, so much esteemed for his fair judgments, were not

favorable to him, and so far as Christianity is concerned, the Fathers

have represented him to be the greatest and the most dangerous of all

impious men. So much for his enemies; now for his partisans:

Metrodorus, Hermachus, Meneceus, and numerous others, who

philosophize according to his school, have as much veneration as

friendship for him personally. Diogenes Laertes could not have written

his life to better advantage for his reputation. Lucretius adored him.

Seneca, as much of an enemy of the sect as he was, spoke of him in the

highest terms. If some cities held him in horror, others erected

statues in his honor, and if, among the Christians, the Fathers have

condemned him, Gassendi and Bernier approve his principles.

In view of all these contrary authorities, how can the question be

decided? Shall I say that Epicurus was a corruptor of good morals, on

the faith of a jealous philosopher, of a disgruntled disciple, who

would have been delighted, in his resentment, to go to the length of

inflicting a personal injury? Moreover, had Epicurus intended to

destroy the idea of Providence and the immortality of the soul, is it

not reasonable to suppose that the world would have revolted against

so scandalous a doctrine, and that the life of the philosopher would

have been attacked to discredit his opinions more easily?

If, therefore, I find it difficult to believe what his enemies and the

envious have published against him, I should also easily credit what

his partisans have urged in his defence.

I do not believe that Epicurus desired to broach a voluptuousness

harsher than the virtue of the Stoics. Such a jealousy of austerity

would appear to me extraordinary in a voluptuary philosopher, from

whatever point of view that word may be considered. A fine secret

that, to declaim against a virtue which destroys sentiment in a sage,

and establishes one that admits of no operation.

The sage, according to the Stoics, is a man of insensible virtue; that

of the Epicureans, an immovable voluptuary. The former suffers pain

without having any pain; the latter enjoys voluptuousness without

being voluptuous--a pleasure without pleasure. With what object in

view, could a philosopher who denied the immortality of the soul,

mortify the senses? Why divorce the two parties composed of the same

elements, whose sole advantage is in a concert of union for their

mutual pleasure? I pardon our religious devotees, who diet on herbs,

in the hope that they will obtain an eternal felicity, but that a

philosopher, who knows no other good than that to be found in this

world, that a doctor of voluptuousness should diet on bread and water,

to reach sovereign happiness in this life, is something my

intelligence refuses to contemplate.

I am surprised that the voluptuousness of such an Epicurean is not

founded upon the idea of death, for, considering the miseries of life,

his sovereign good must be at the end of it. Believe me, if Horace and

Petronius had viewed it as painted, they would never have accepted

Epicurus as their master in the science of pleasure. The piety for the

gods attributed to him, is no less ridiculous than the mortification

of the senses. These slothful gods, of whom there was nothing to be

hoped or feared; these impotent gods who did not deserve the labor and

fatigue attendant upon their worship!

Let no one say that worshipers went to the temple through fear of

displeasing the magistrates, and of scandalizing the people, for they

would have scandalized them less by refusing to assist in their

worship, than shocked them by writings which destroyed the established

gods, or at least ruined the confidence of the people in their

protection.

But you ask me: What is your opinion of Epicurus? You believe neither

his friends nor his enemies, neither his adversaries nor his

partisans. What is the judgment you have formed?

I believe Epicurus was a very wise philosopher, who at times and on

certain occasions loved the pleasure of repose or the pleasure of

movement. From this difference in the grade of voluptuousness has

sprung all the reputation accorded him. Timocrates and his other

opponents, attacked him on account of his sensual pleasures; those who

defended him, did not go beyond his spiritual voluptuousness. When the

former denounced him for the expense he was at in his repasts, I am

persuaded that the accusation was well founded. When the latter

expatiated upon the small quantity of cheese he required to have

better cheer than usual, I believe they did not lack reason. When they

say he philosophized with Leontium, they say well; when they say that

Epicurus diverted himself with her, they do not lie. According to

Solomon, there is a time to laugh and a time to weep; according to

Epicurus, there is a time to be sober and a time to be sensual. To go

still further than that, is a man uniformly voluptuous all his life?

Religiously speaking, the greatest libertine is sometimes the most

devout; in the study of wisdom, the most indulgent in pleasures

sometimes become the most austere. For my own part, I view Epicurus

from a different standpoint in youth and health, than when old and

infirm.

Ease and tranquillity, these comforts of the infirm and slothful, can

not be better expressed than in his writings. Sensual voluptuousness

is not less well explained by Cicero. I know that nothing is omitted

either to destroy or elude it, but can conjecture be compared with the

testimony of Cicero, who was intimately acquainted with the Greek

philosophers and their philosophy? It would be better to reject the

inequality of mind as an inconstancy of human nature.

Where exists the man so uniform of temperament, that he does not

manifest contrarieties in his conversation and actions? Solomon merits

the name of sage, as much as Epicure for less, and he belied himself

equally in his sentiments and conduct. Montaigne, when still young,

believed it necessary to always think of death in order to be always

ready for it. Approaching old age, however, he recanted, so he says,

being willing to permit nature to gently guide him, and teach him how

to die.

M. Bernier, the great partisan of Epicurus, avows to-day, that "After

philosophizing for fifty years, I doubt things of which I was once

most assured."

All objects have different phases, and the mind which is in perpetual

motion, views them from different aspects as they revolve before it.

Hence, it may be said, that we see the same thing under different

aspects, thinking at the same time that we have discovered something

new. Moreover, age brings great changes in our inclinations, and with

a change of inclination often comes a change of opinion. Add, that the

pleasures of the senses sometimes give rise to contempt for mental

gratifications as too dry and unproductive and that the delicate and

refined pleasures of the mind, in their turn, scorn the voluptuousness

of the senses as gross. So, no one should be surprised that in so

great a diversity of aspects and movements, Epicurus, who wrote more

than any other philosopher, should have treated the same subjects in a

different manner according as he had perceived them from different

points of view.

What avails this general reasoning to show that he might have been

sensible to all kinds of pleasure? Let him be considered according to

his relations with the other sex, and nobody will believe that he

spent so much time with Leontium and with Themista for the sole

purpose of philosophizing. But if he loved the enjoyment of

voluptuousness, he conducted himself like a wise man. Indulgent to the

movements of nature, opposed to its struggles, never mistaking

chastity for a virtue, always considering luxury as a vice, he

insisted upon sobriety as an economy of the appetite, and that the

repasts in which one indulged should never injure him who partook. His

motto was: "Sic praesentibus voluptatibus utaris ut futuris non

noceas."

He disentangled pleasures from the anxieties which precede, and the

disgust which follows them. When he became infirm and suffered pain,

he placed the sovereign good in ease and rest, and wisely, to my

notion, from the condition he was in, for the cessation of pain is the

felicity of those who suffer it.

As to tranquillity of mind, which constitutes another part of

happiness, it is nothing but a simple exemption from anxiety or worry.

But, whoso can not enjoy agreeable movements is happy in being

guaranteed from the sensations of pain.

After saying this much, I am of the opinion that ease and tranquillity

constituted the sovereign good for Epicurus when he was infirm and

feeble. For a man who is in a condition to enjoy pleasures, I believe

that health makes itself felt by something more active than ease, or

indolence, as a good disposition of the soul demands something more

animated than will permit a state of tranquillity. We are all living

in the midst of an infinity of good and evil things, with senses

capable of being agreeably affected by the former and injured by the

latter. Without so much philosophy, a little reason will enable us to

enjoy the good as deliciously as possible and accommodate ourselves to

the evil as patiently as we can.