THE ROCKS, Wednesday, June 5, 1680.
At length I have the pleasure, at this immense distance from each
other, to receive your letters on the ninth day after they are written,
with the prospect of happier times before me. I often admire the great
kindness and civility of those gentlemen of whom the author of Moral
Essays speaks so humorously, and to whom we are so much indebted.
What do they not do for us? To what offices do they not submit, to be
useful to us? Some run four or five hundred miles to carry our letters;
others, at the hazard of their necks, climb to the tops of our houses,
to prevent our being incommoded by the rains; and others suffer still
more. In short, this is an arrangement of Providence; and the thought
of gain, which is in itself an evil, becomes converted into a source of
good.
I have brought a number of the best authors with me, which I have been
arranging this morning. There is no looking into them, whichever it
may be, without a desire to read it through. Some are religious tracts
that do honor to the faith they maintain; others books of history,
the best of their kind; besides ethics, poetry, novels, and memoirs.
The romances are in disgrace, and banished to a by-closet. When I
enter this little library I wonder how I am able to leave it again. In
short, my child, it is altogether worthy of your presence, and so are
my walks; but, for the company, it is very far from being so. There is
strange skimming of the pot on Sundays:[195] one good thing, however,
is, that they sup at six o’clock, and leave me to fly to my lawns and
groves for relief. Madame du Plessis, in her deep mourning, never quits
me. I could well say of her mother as of M. de Bonneuil, she has left
a very ridiculous daughter behind her: she is so impertinent too. I am
really ashamed of her regard for me, and I sometimes say to myself, Is
it possible there can be any sympathy between her and me? She talks
incessantly; but by the grace of God, I am to her, as you are to many
others, absolutely dead; I do not hear three words she says. She is
at daggers drawn with all her family about her mother’s will: this is
a new embellishment to the former beauties of her mind: she confounds
the meaning of every thing she says; and when she is complaining of
the ill-treatment she receives, she cries, They have used me _like a
barbarity, like a cruelty_. You will have me entertain you with such
trash, and now I hope you have enough for a time.
[195] On account of the number of visitors, which was always
greatest on Sundays, and to whom Madame de Sévigné thought
herself obliged to do the honors of her house, which she
humorously called _skimming her pot_.
My letters are of such an enormous length that you ought, according
to your rule, to make yours to me very short, and leave all the rest
to Montgobert. Health is at all times a real and intrinsic treasure,
that will serve us on every exigency. Madame de Coulanges has written
me a thousand trifles, that I would communicate to you, but that I
think it would be absolutely ridiculous. The favor of her _female
friend_ (Madame de Maintenon) still continues. The queen accuses her
of the cause of the distance between her and the dauphiness. The king
comforts her for this disgrace: she visits him every day, and their
conversations are of a length that surprises every body, and gives
occasion to numberless conjectures.
I consider futurity as a dark road, in which the traveler may find
light and accommodation when he least thinks of it.
M. de Lavardin is going to be married[196] in good earnest; and Madame
de Mouci[197] is said to be the person who inspires Madame de Lavardin
with the idea of doing every thing that can prove advantageous to her
son. This De Mouci must certainly have a most extraordinary soul. Young
Molac is to marry the Duchess of Fontanges’s sister; the king gives him
to the value of 400,000 francs with her.
[196] To Louise-Anne de Noailles, sister to Anne Julius Duke of
Noailles, and Marshal of France.
[197] Marie de Harlaie, sister to Achilles de Harlaie, at that
time attorney-general, and afterward first president of the
parliament of Paris.
How just is your observation upon the death of M. de la Rochefoucault
and so many other friends! “The ranks close, and he is seen no more.”
It is certain that Madame de la Fayette is overwhelmed with grief, and
can not feel, as she would have done at another time, the good fortune
of her son. The dauphiness was particular in her attentions to her: the
Princess of Savoy has spoken of her as her best friend.
I am very glad my letter pleased M. de Grignan: I spoke my mind with
great sincerity. He must divest himself of all those ruinous whims,
which take their turns with him by the quarter. They must not merely
sleep, like the nobility of Lower Brittany, but be altogether extinct.
Adieu, my beloved child; I admire and love your letters, and yet I
will have no more of them; cut short, and leave Montgobert to prattle
in your stead. I will try to take from you the desire of writing much:
by the length of my letters you shall find them beyond your strength
to answer, which is just what I wish; so shall I be a shield to you. I
am of opinion that you have a numerous correspondence upon your hands,
say what you will; for my part, I only stand upon the defensive in my
answers, I never begin the attack; but then, even these seem of such a
bulk, that, on post-days, when I retire to my chamber at night, and see
my writing-desk, I am ready to run under the bed to hide myself, like
our late _madame’s_ little dog, whenever it saw a book.