THE ROCKS, Sunday, January 15, 1690.
You are right, I can not reconcile myself to the date of this year;
it has, however, been already begun for some time; and you will find,
that, let us pass it as we may, we shall soon find the bottom of the
bag that contained the thousand livres.[261]
[261] Madame de Sévigné compared the twelve months of the year to
a bag with a thousand livres, which is exhausted almost as soon
as it is opened.
You really spoil me, and so do my Paris friends; the sun has scarcely
gained upon us a barley-corn before you tell me when you shall expect
me at Grignan; and my friends desire me to fix from that hour the
time of my departure, in order to hasten their joy. Such pressing
civilities flatter me highly, and particularly yours, which admit of no
comparison. I will, then, sincerely confide to my dear countess, that
between this and September, I can not entertain a thought of leaving
this country; this is the time when I send my little means to Paris,
of which only a very small part is gone. This is the time when the
Abbé Charier is treating for my fines and sales, which amount to ten
thousand livres; but more of this hereafter; let us content ourselves
with driving away every hope of taking the least step before the time
I have mentioned. I will not, however, say that you are my goal, my
perspective; you know it well, and that you are so firmly rooted in my
heart that I fear M. Nicole would find much difficulty to prune you
away; this, in short, is my disposition. You use the most affectionate
expression possible to me, in hoping you may never see the end of the
happy years you wish me. We are very far from agreeing in our wishes;
for I have informed you of a very just and very proper truth, which
God will doubtless grant, and which is to follow the natural order of
providence; this is my comfort through the thorny road of old age: mine
is a rational feeling, and yours too extraordinary and too kind a one.
As to Paulina, that devourer of books, I had rather she should swallow
bad ones, than have no love for reading; romances, plays, Voiture,
Sarrasin, have all been exhausted; has she dipped into Lucian? is
she capable of enjoying _Les Petites Lettres_? History should come
next, and if she does not find her account in this, I pity her. If
she does not like the finest works of devotion, so much the worse for
her, for we know but too well that even without devotion ourselves,
they are charming. With respect to ethics, as she would not make so
good a use of it as you, I would not have her meddle either with
Montaigne, Charron, or any others of his stamp; she is too young. The
true morality of this age, is what we learn in conversation, fables,
history, and example. If you were to bestow a little of your time upon
her in conversation, she would reap greater benefit from this than from
all the rest. I know not whether what I say is worth your reading, I am
very far from being wedded to my opinion.