THE ROCKS, January 8, 1690.
What a melancholy date, my amiable cousin, compared with yours! It
suits a recluse like me, and that of Rome suits one whose fate is to
wander uncontrolled, and “who stalks his idleness from one end of the
world to the other.” What a happy life! and how mildly has Fortune
treated you, as you say, notwithstanding her quarrel with you! Always
beloved, always esteemed, always carrying joy and pleasure along
with you, always the favorite of, and fascinated with, some friend
of consequence--a duke, a prince, or a pope (for I will add the holy
father by way of novelty); always in good health, never at the charge
of any one, no business, no ambition; but, above all, the advantage of
not growing old! This is the height of felicity. You doubt, sometimes,
whether you are not advancing, by certain calculations of time and
years; but old age is still at a distance. You do not approach it
with horror, as some persons I could name. This is reserved for your
neighbor, and you have not even the fears that are usually felt at
seeing a fire in your neighborhood. In short, after mature reflection,
I pronounce you the happiest man in the world. This last journey to
Rome is, in my opinion, the most delightful adventure that could have
happened to you, with an adorable embassador (the Duke de Chaulnes), on
a noble and grand occasion, and a visit to the beautiful mistress of
the world, whom, having once seen, we are always longing to see again.
I very much like the verses you have made on her. She can not be too
highly celebrated. I am sure my daughter will approve them. They are
well written and poetical; we sing them. I am delighted with what you
tell me of Paulina, whom you saw at Grignan in your way. I have judged
most favorably of her from your praises, and the unaffected letter you
wrote to Madame de Chaulnes, which she has sent to me. Oh, how much I
should like to take a journey to Rome, as you propose! but then it must
be with the face and air I had many years ago, and not with those I
now have. A woman, particularly, should not move her old bones except
to be embassadress. I believe that Madame de Coulanges, though still
young, is of the same opinion; but in my youth I should have been in
raptures with such an adventure. It is not the same with you. Every
thing becomes you. Enjoy, then, your privilege, and the jealousy you
excite to know who shall be favored with you. I will not waste my time
in arguing with you on the present state of affairs. All the duke’s
prosperities have given me real joy. You fear precisely what all his
friends apprehend, that, being the only one who can fill the place he
holds with equal success and reputation, he will be kept in it too
long. This apartment in your new palace creates new alarms; but let
us do better. Let us not anticipate evils; rather let us hope that
every thing will happen as we wish, and that we shall all meet again
at Paris. I was delighted with your remembrance, your letter, and your
songs. Write to me whenever it is agreeable and convenient. I take the
liberty of sending this by the embassadress; and I do more, my dear
cousin, for under her protection I take the liberty of embracing my
dear governor of Brittany, and his excellency the embassador, with real
affection, and without offense to respect. These high dignities do not
intimidate me. I am sure he still loves me. God bless him and bring
him back again. These are my wishes for the new year. Adieu, my dear
cousin; I embrace you. Continue to love me. I wish it--it is my whim,
and to love you more than you love me. But you are very amiable, and I
must not place myself on a par with you.