THE ROCKS, Saturday, June 15, 1680.
I shall make no answer to what you say of my letters. I am extremely
happy that they please you; had you not told me so I should have
thought them unbearable. I never can muster up courage enough to read
one of them through, and I often say to myself, Good heavens! with what
nonsense do I pester my poor child! Sometimes I even repent having
written so much, lest I should lay you under a sort of obligation to
answer me in the same way; but let me entreat you, my child, to indulge
me in the pleasure of chatting to you without putting yourself to the
trouble of answering. Your last letter exceeded all the bounds of
prudence and the care you ought to take of your health.
You are too good in wishing me more society; but, in fact, I do not
want it. I am accustomed to solitude. I have my workmen to amuse
me, and the good abbé has his likewise. His taste for buildings and
alterations gets the better of his prudence. It does not cost him much,
indeed, but it would cost him still less to let it alone.
All my delight is in my wood: it is impossible to describe how
beautiful it is. I often walk there with my cane and Louison, which
is all I desire. In my closet I find such agreeable company that I
often say to myself, This is worthy my daughter; she could not here
lay her hand amiss upon a book, there is hardly room left for choice.
I have taken up _Les Conversations Chrétiennes_ (Christian Dialogues).
They are written by an honest Cartesian, who seems to have all your
_Recherche de la Vérité_ (Inquiry after Truth), by heart; which treats
of that philosophy, and of the supreme power of God over his creatures,
who, as St. Paul says, “live, move, and have their being,” in Him
alone, and by him know all things. I will let you know if this book is
within my comprehension, if not, I shall quit it with all humility,
renouncing the foolish vanity of appearing wise when I am not so. I
assure you I think like _our brothers_; and were I to express myself
in print, I should say so. I know the difference between the language
of policy and that of the heart. God is omnipotent, and does what he
pleases; that I understand. He wants our hearts, and we will not give
them to him; there lies the mystery. But do not discover that of our
sisters of Saint-Marie: they write me word that they are charmed with
the book I lent them.[202]
[202] See Letter, May 25.
You remind me of the foolish answer I made to excuse myself from
going to Madame de Bret***,[203] “that I had but one son.” This
made your bishops start. I thought that it had been merely my
_heretical air_. I mentioned it to you the other day. I think,
however, there appeared something strange in the expression.
Heaven be praised, my dear countess, we have done no harm; your
brothers could not be better provided for than at present, even
had we been _Molinists_. _Probable opinions_, and the _direction
of purposes_, would not have been more advantageous to them in the
Hôtel de Carnavalet than the libertinism of our conversations. I am
delighted at it, and have often thought how unjustly we might have
suffered on this occasion.
[203] Apparently, Madame de Bretonvilliers, whom the Memoirs
of the times represent as the over-officious friend of the
Archbishop of Paris De Harlai, who was not so timid a priest as
he was a rigid Molinist.
I can make nothing of the affair of M. de la Trousse or Madame
d’Epinoi, or of the servant who robbed them. I will endeavor to
get information on this subject, and will send you the letters.
You find that poor Madame de Lavardin is quite unhappy. Who would
have supposed that she would have been otherwise than rejoiced at
her son’s being married?[204] But I speak like a fool. It should
be our invariable maxim, that human nature can never be happy.
Young Chiverni seems to be as much so as any one: you see how he
has extricated himself from his misery. Your poor brother, indeed,
seems fated never to be happy in this world; as to the other world,
if we may judge by appearances, I see no probability of his being
in the right road. The Bishop of Chalons is certainly in heaven,
for he was a devout prelate and a virtuous man. You see all our
friends are lost to us one after another.
[204] See the preceding Letter.
I wrote the other day to Madame de Vins that I would leave her to
guess what sort of virtue I practiced most here; and informed her it
was liberality. It is certain that I have given away very considerable
sums since my arrival; eight hundred francs one morning, one thousand
another, five hundred another, one day three hundred crowns; you may
think I am jesting, but it is too true. I have farmers and millers
who owe me these sums, and have not a farthing to pay me with. What
is to be done in this case? Why I make a virtue of necessity, and
forgive them the debts. You will readily believe that I make no great
merit of this since it is forced liberality; but my head was full of
it when I wrote to Madame de Vins, and so down it went on the paper.
I endeavor to make the fines pay for it. I have not yet touched one
of the six thousand francs from Nantes; money-matters are not soon
settled. The other day I had a visit from a pretty little wife of
a farmer of Bodégat, with sparkling eyes, fine person, and smartly
dressed in a holland gown, with ruffled cuffs, and a long train. Good
heavens! thought I, when I saw her, I am ruined; for you must know, her
husband owes me eight thousand francs. M. de Grignan would certainly
have fallen in love with this woman; she is the very image of one
he admired at Paris. This morning a countryman came in with bags on
all sides, some under his arms, some in his pockets, and some in his
breeches, which he began to untie, for in this country they dress in
a strange way; the fashion of buttoning the lower part of the jacket
is not yet introduced here; they are very saving of the stuff of which
their breeches are composed, and from the gentry of Vitré down to
my clodpole, every thing is in the highest state of negligence. The
good abbé, who, you know, loves the main chance, seeing the fellow
so loaded, thought we were rich forever. “Upon my word, friend, you
are bravely loaded, how much money do you bring us?” “Please your
reverence,” answered the man, “I think there is a matter of thirty
francs.” My dear child, I believe all the _doubles_[205] in France were
collected to fill these bags. In this manner do they abuse our patience
and forbearance.
[205] Small pieces of money, of which about five are equal to an
English penny.
You give me great pleasure by what you say of Montgobert. I thought,
indeed, what I wrote to you upon her account was superfluous, and
that your excellent understanding would reconcile every thing. In
this manner, my child, you ought always to act, in spite of momentary
vexations. Montgobert has an excellent heart, though her temper is
rather too hasty and impetuous; I always honor the goodness of her
heart. We are frequently obliged to bear with the little dependencies
and circumstances of friendship, though they may sometimes be
disagreeable. I shall some day send her a bad cause to defend at
Rochecourbière; since she has a talent for these things, it ought to
be exercised. You will have M. de Coulanges with you; who will be a
capital performer. He will inform you of his views and expectations, I
know nothing of them myself; he dreads solitude so much that he will
not even write to any one who lives in it. Grignan, therefore, is a
place perfectly qualified to charm him, as he himself is to charm
others; I never met with such delightful society, it is the object of
all my wishes; I think of you all incessantly; I read your letters over
and over again, saying as at Livri: Let us see what my daughter said to
me a week or ten days ago; for, in short, it is she who converses with
me, and I thus enjoy “the ingenious art of painting language, and of
talking to the eyes.”
You know it is not the retired groves at the Rocks that make me think
of you; I thought of you as much in the midst of the bustle of Paris.
You are fixed in the center of my heart; every thing else is transient;
it passes and is forgotten. I have forgotten even my Agnes, and yet she
is very amiable; her wit has something of the simplicity of the country
in it; but that of Madame de Tarente is still in the high courtly
taste. The roads from hence to Vitré are grown so intolerably bad, that
the king and M. de Chaulnes have ordered them to be repaired. All the
peasants of that barony will be assembled there on Monday next.
Adieu, my dearest! when I tell you that my affection is of no use to
you, do you not understand in what way I mean, and to what my heart and
imagination tend? Pray tell me if you intend to place our little girl
at Aix with her aunt,[206] and to send Paulina away. The dear child is
a perfect prodigy; her understanding and wit are a sufficient portion
for her; will you then place her on a level with a common person? I
should always take her with me wherever I went, and should never think
of sending her to Aix with her sister.[207] In short, I should treat
her, as she merits, extraordinarily.
[206] Marie Adhémar de Monteil, sister of M. de Grignan, and one
of the nuns of Aubenas, a town and convent of the Lower Vivares.
See the letter of 9th of June.
[207] Marie Blanche, the eldest sister of Paulina, was in the
nunnery of St. Marie of Aix, where a short time afterward she
took the vail.