THE ROCKS. Wednesday, November 4, 1671.
Let us talk of M. Nicole, it is a long time since we have said a
word about him. There is a great deal of justice in your observation
respecting the indifference he requires us to show to the opinion of
the world; I think with you, that philosophy will hardly be found
sufficient of itself, without the assistance of grace. He lays so great
a stress on preserving peace and good fellowship with our neighbor,
and recommends so many things to us in order to attain these, that it
is next to an impossibility, after this, to be indifferent to what
the world thinks of us. Guess what I am doing; I am beginning this
treatise again--methinks I could wish to swallow it, like Ezekiel’s
roll. I am delighted with what he says on the subject of pride and
self-love, which enter into all disputes, under the feigned name of the
love of truth. In short, this treatise will apply to more than one in
the world; but I can not help thinking that he had me principally in
view when he wrote it. He says, eloquence, and a flow of words, give a
_luster_ to the thoughts. I greatly admire that expression; I thought
it beautiful and new. The word _luster_ is extremely apposite there, do
you not think so? We must read this book together at Grignan. I pass
my time in having masses said for you every day, and in a multitude
of disagreeable thoughts, which can be of no service to you, but
which, however, it is impossible to avoid. I have at present ten or
twelve workmen in the air, raising the timbers of our chapel. They run
backward and forward upon the outside of it like so many rats; they
hold by nothing, and are every instant in danger of breaking their
necks, and make my back ache with endeavoring to help them below. One
can not but admire the wonderful effects of Providence in the desire of
gain, and be thankful such people are created, who are willing to do
for a shilling what others would not do for a hundred thousand pounds.
“O, thrice happy they who plant cabbages! when they have one foot on
the ground, the other is not far off.” I have this from a very good
author.[54] We have planters too with us, who are forming new avenues.
I hold the young trees myself while they set them in the ground, unless
it rains so that there is no being abroad; but the weather almost
drives me to despair, and makes me wish for a sylph to transport me
to Paris. Madame de la Fayette says, that since you tell the story of
Auger in so serious a manner, she is persuaded nothing can be more
true, and that you are by no means jesting with me. She thought at
first that it had been a joke of Coulanges’, and it looks very like it.
If you write to him upon the subject, pray let it be in that style.
[54] Panurge, in Rabelais.