THE ROCKS, Sunday, June 28, 1671.
You have amply made up to me my late losses; I have received two
letters from you which have filled me with transports of joy. The
pleasure I take in reading them is beyond all imagination. If I have
in any way contributed to the improvement of your style, I did it in
the thought I was laboring for the pleasure of others, not for my own.
But Providence, who has seen fit to separate us so often, and to place
us at such immense distances from each other, has repaid me a little
for the privations in the charms of your correspondence, and still
more in the satisfaction you express in your situation, and the beauty
of your castle; you represent it to me with an air of grandeur and
magnificence that enchants me. I once saw a similar account of it by
the first Madame de Grignan; but I little thought, at that time, that
all these beauties were one day to be at your command. I am very much
obliged to you for having given me so particular an account of it. If
I could be tired in reading your letters, it would not only betray a
very bad taste in me, but would likewise show that I could have very
little love or friendship for you. Divest yourself of the dislike you
have taken to circumstantial details. I have often told you, and you
ought yourself to feel the truth of this remark, that they are as dear
to us from those we love, as they are tedious and disagreeable from
others. If they are displeasing to us, it is only from the indifference
we feel for those who write them. Admitting this observation to be
true, I leave you to judge what pleasure yours afford me. It is a fine
thing, truly, to play the great lady, as you do at present. I perfectly
comprehend Monsieur de Grignan’s feelings in seeing you so much admire
his castle; had you appeared insensible, or even indifferent, on the
occasion, it would have given him a chagrin that I can conceive better
perhaps than any other; and I share in the pleasure he has in seeing
you pleased. There are some hearts which sympathize for each other
so truly, that they judge by themselves what others feel. You do not
mention Vardes[40] often enough to me, nor poor Corbinelli. Was it not
very agreeable to you to be able to speak their language? How goes
on Vardes’ love for the fair T----? Tell me whether he is much hurt
by the infinite length of his banishment, or whether his philosophy,
and a little dash of misanthropy, can support his heart against these
vicissitudes of love and fortune. The books you read are well chosen.
Petrarch must certainly give you a good deal of pleasure, especially
with the notes you have. Those of Mademoiselle de Scuderi on some of
his sonnets, rendered them very agreeable. As for Tacitus, you know
how much I was charmed with it, when we read it together here; and how
often I used to interrupt you, to make you observe the periods, where
I thought the harmony particularly striking. But if you stop half way
I shall scold you; it will be doing great injustice to the dignity of
the subject, and I shall say to you, as a certain prelate did to the
queen mother, “This is history; you know what stories are already.” A
reluctance, in this respect, is only pardonable in romances, which I
know you do not like. We read Tasso with pleasure, and I am a pretty
good proficient in the language, from the excellent masters I have had.
My son makes La Mousse read Cleopatra,[41] and I listen to him, whether
I will or not, and am amused. My son is going to Lorraine; we shall be
very dull in his absence. You know how it vexes me to see the breaking
up of an agreeable party, and how transported I am when I see a train
of carriages driving off that have wearied me to death for a whole day;
upon which we made this just observation, that bad company is more
desirable than good. I recollect all the odd things we used to say when
you were here, and all you said yourself, and all you did; your idea
never leaves me; and then again, on a sudden, I think where you are; my
imagination represents to me an immense space, and a great distance;
on a sudden your castle bounds the prospect, and I am displeased at
the walls that inclose your mall. Ours is surprisingly beautiful, and
the young nursery is delightful. I take pleasure in rearing their
little heads to the clouds, and frequently, without considering
consequences or my own interest, cut down large trees, because their
shade incommodes my young ones. My son views all these proceedings,
but I do not allow him to interfere. Pilois[42] continues to be a very
great favorite with me, and I prefer his conversation to that of many
who have the title of chevalier in the parliament of Rennes. I am grown
rather more negligent than you; for the other day I let a coachful
of the Fouesnelle family go home through a tremendous rain, for want
of pressing them with a good grace to stay; but I could not get the
compliment to pass my lips. It was not the two young women, but the
mother, and an old woman from Rennes, and the two sons. Mademoiselle
du Plessis is exactly as you represent her, only if possible, more
impertinent. What she says and does every day to keep me from being
jealous, is perfectly original, and I am quite provoked, sometimes,
that I have nobody to laugh at it with me. Her sister-in-law is very
pretty, without being ridiculous, and speaks Gascon in the midst of
Brittany. I think you are very happy in having Madame de Simiane[43]
with you; she has a fund of knowledge that will relieve you from all
kinds of restraint; this is a great deal. You will have, too, a very
agreeable companion in her.
[40] The Marquis de Vardes was banished to Provence in 1665, for
having been concerned in some court intrigues, and remained in
exile till the year 1682. He was a man of amiable manners.
[41] A famous romance of La Calprenede’s.
[42] The gardener.
[43] Magdelen Hai-du-Châtelet, wife to Charles Louis, Marquis of
Simiane; she was afterward mother-in-law to Paulina de Grignan.
I now return to you, that is, to the divine fountain of Vaucluse!
How beautiful! Well might Petrarch make such frequent mention of
it! But, remember, I shall some day see all these wonders with my
own eyes; I, who have such a veneration for antiquities. I shall
certainly be transported with them, and the magnificence of Grignan.
The abbé will find employment enough there. After the Doric orders and
splendid titles of your house, nothing is wanting but the order you
are going to establish there; for, let me tell you, without something
substantial at the bottom, all is bitterness and anxiety. I have great
pity for those who ruin themselves; it is the only affliction in life
that is felt alike by all, and which is increased, instead of being
diminished, by time. I have frequent conversations on this subject
with a certain friend of ours. If he has a mind to benefit by them,
he has had opportunity enough to lay in a good stock, and of such a
nature he need not forget them. I am glad that you are to have two of
your brothers-in-law with you this autumn. I think you have planned
your journey well. We can travel a great way without being fatigued,
provided we have something to amuse us by the way, and do not lose our
courage. The return of fine weather has brought all my workmen back
again, which is a great amusement to me. When I have company, I work at
that fine altar-piece you saw me drawing when you were at Paris; when
I am alone, I read, I write, or am with the abbé in his closet upon
business. I wish him with you sometimes, but it is for two or three
days only.
I consent to the commerce of wit which you propose. The other day I
made a maxim off-hand, without once thinking of it, and I liked it so
well that I fancied I had taken it out of M. de la Rochefoucault’s.
Pray tell me whether it is so or not, for in that case my memory is
more to be praised than my judgment. I said, with all the ease in the
world, that “ingratitude begets reproach, as acknowledgment begets new
favors.” Pray where did this come from? Have I read it? did I dream
it? is it my own idea? Nothing can be truer than the thing itself,
nor than that I am totally ignorant how I came by it. I found it
properly arranged in my brain, and at the end of my tongue. As for that
sentence, “_bella cosa far niente_,” you will not think it so dull when
I tell you it is intended for your brother: remember last winter’s
disaster. Adieu, my dearest child; take care of yourself, continue
handsome, dress well, amuse yourself, and take proper exercise. I
have just been writing to Vivonne,[44] about a captain of a troop of
Bohemians, whose confinement I have begged him to render as easy as
possible, without detriment to the king’s service. You must know that
there was among the troop of Bohemians[45] that I was mentioning to
you the other day, a young girl who danced extremely well, and put me
very much in mind of your manner. I was pleased with her. She begged
me to write to Provence in favor of her grandfather. “Where is he?”
said I. “He is at Marseilles,” said she, with as much composure and
unconcern as if she had said, “He is at Vincennes.” He was a man of
singular merit, it seems, in his way;[46] in short, I promised her
to write about him; I immediately thought of Vivonne. I send you my
letter; if you are not sufficiently upon terms with him to allow of
my jesting with him, you may burn it; if it is an ill-written letter
you may burn it; but if you are friendly with his corpulency, and my
letter will save you the trouble of writing one, seal it and send it
to him. I could not refuse this request to the poor girl, and to the
best-danced minuet that I have seen since the days of Mademoiselle de
Sévigné. She had just your air, was about your height, has good teeth,
and fine eyes. Here is a letter of so enormous a length that I can
easily forgive your not reading it through. Monsieur de Grignan can
not conceive how one can possibly read such long letters; but, in good
earnest, can you read them in a day?
[44] General of the galleys.
[45] Gipseys.
[46] And had been condemned to the galleys for having
distinguished himself rather too much in his Bohemian faculty.