THE ROCKS, Sunday, July 12, 1671.
I have received but one letter from you, my dear child, which vexes me;
I used generally to have two. It is a bad thing to use one’s self to
such dear and tender cares as yours; there is no being happy without
them. If M. de Grignan’s brothers come to you this summer, they will
be good company for you. The coadjutor has been a little indisposed,
but is now perfectly recovered; he is incredibly lazy, and is the more
to blame, as he can write extremely well when he sets about it. He
has a great regard for you, and intends visiting you about the middle
of August--he can not before. He protests, but I believe it is false,
that he has no branch to rest upon, which hinders him from writing, and
makes his eyes ache. This is all I know about Seigneur Corbeau. How odd
it is of me to tell you all this, when I do not know myself how I stand
with him! If you should know any thing of the matter, pray inform me.
I reflect every hour of the day upon the times when I used to see you
always about me, and am perpetually regretting the loss of those happy
moments. Not that I can reproach my heart with having been insensible
of the pleasure of your company; for I solemnly protest to you, I never
looked on you with the indifference or coolness that grows upon long
acquaintance; no, I can not reproach myself with that. What I regret
is, that I did not see you so constantly as I could now wish I had,
but suffered cruel business sometimes to tear me from you. It would
be a fine thing to fill my letters with what fills my heart; alas! as
you say, we should glide over many thoughts, without seeming to regard
them. Here then I rest, and conjure you, if I am at all dear to you, to
be particularly careful of your health. Amuse yourself, do not study
too much, carry yourself safely through your pregnancy; after that,
if M. de Grignan really loves you, and is resolved not to kill you
outright, I know what he will do, or rather what he will not do.
Have you cruelty enough not to finish Tacitus? Can you leave Germanicus
in the midst of his conquests? If you really intend to serve him so
paltry a trick, let me know where you leave off, and I will finish
for you, which is all I can do to serve you at present. We have gone
through Tasso, and with a great deal of pleasure; we found beauties in
him, that are unknown to those who are only half read in the language.
We have begun our _morality_,[47] it is of much the same nature as
Pascal’s. Talking of Pascal, I have taken into my head to almost adore
those gentlemen, the postillions who are incessantly carrying our
letters backward and forward. There is not a day in the week, but they
bring one either to you or to me; there is one every day, and every
hour of the day, upon the road. Kind-hearted people, how obliging it is
of them! What a charming invention is the post, and what a happy effect
of Providence is the desire of gain! I sometimes think of writing to
them to show my gratitude; and I believe I should have done it before,
had I not remembered that chapter in Pascal, and been afraid that they
might have perhaps thought proper to thank me for writing to them,
as I thanked them for carrying my letters. Here is a fine digression
for you. But to return to our reading. It was without prejudice to
Cleopatra that I laid a wager I would read it through; you know how
I support my wagers. I often wonder how I could like such ridiculous
stuff; I can hardly comprehend it. You may perhaps remember enough of
me to know how much a bad style displeases me; that I have some taste
for a good one, and that no person is more sensible to the charms
of eloquence. I well know how wretched La Calprenedre’s style is in
many places, on account of its long-winded periods, and bad choice of
words. I wrote a letter to your brother in that style the other day,
which was pleasant enough. However, though I find such glaring faults
in Calprenedre, though I know how detestable that way of writing is,
yet I can not leave it. The beauty of the sentiments, the violence
of the passions, and the miraculous success of their redoubtable
swords, entices me away like a child; I become a party in all their
designs, and if I had not the example of M. de la Rochefoucault and
D’Hacqueville to comfort me, I should be ready to hang myself for being
guilty of such a weakness. You appear before me, and cry “Shame!” yet
still I go on. I shall have great honor in being intrusted by you with
the care of preserving you in the abbé’s friendship. He loves you
tenderly; you are often the subject of our conversation, with your
state, your grandeur, and so forth. He would not willingly die without
having first taken a trip to Provence, and rendered you some service.
I am told, that poor Madame de Montluet is on the point of losing her
senses; she has been raving hitherto without once shedding a tear,
but now she has a violent fever, and begins to cry. She says she will
be damned, since her dear husband is inevitably so. We go on with our
chapel. The weather is very hot; but the mornings and evenings are
delightful in the woods, and under the shade of the trees before the
house. My apartment is extremely cool. I am afraid you suffer from the
heat in Provence.
[47] M. Nicole’s Moral Essays.