Chapter LXIV: Letter LIII: THE ROCKS, Sunday January 12, 1676

You may fill your letters with whatever you please, and still be assured that I read them with great pleasure and equal approbation; no one can write better than you do, and it is not my friendship only that leads me to form this opinion.

You delight me by saying you like the Moral Essays; did I not tell you they would suit your taste? As soon as I began to read them, I could think of nothing but of sending them to you; you know I am communicative, and do not like to enjoy a pleasure alone. If this book had been written on purpose for you, it could not have been more calculated to please you. What language! what energy in the arrangement of the words! I think I never read French but in this book. The resemblance of charity to self-love, and of the heroic modesty of M. de Turenne and the prince to Christian humility--but I forbear. This work deserves to be praised from beginning to end, but I should write a strange letter if I were to do so. I am very glad, however, you like it, and I have a better opinion of my own judgment in consequence. You do not admire the life of Josephus; but it is sufficient if you approve his actions and his history. Did you not think him very happy in the cave, where they drew lots who should stab himself the last?

We laughed till we cried at the story of the girl who sung the indecent song, for which she confessed aloud in the church. Nothing can be more novel and amusing. I think she was in the right; the confessor certainly wished to hear the song, for he was not satisfied with the girl’s accusation of herself. I fancy I see him bursting with laughter the first at this adventure. We often send you ridiculous stories, but we can not surpass this. I always talk of Brittany, and it is to encourage you to talk of Provence; it is a country in which I am more interested than in any other. My journey thither takes away all possibility of being tired with what you tell me, because I am acquainted with every body, and understand every thing perfectly. I have not forgotten the beauty of your winters. Our season is very fine here; I walk every day, and have almost made a new park round the waste land at the end of the mall. I am planting four rows of trees there; it will be a great improvement, for all this part is now uniform and cultivated.

But I shall take my departure, in spite of all these charms, in February. The abbé’s affairs are still more urgent than yours, which has prevented me from offering our house to Mademoiselle de Méri; she has complained of this to several persons, I understand, but I know not what reason she has to do so. The _worthy_ is in raptures with your letters; I often show him passages that I know will please him. He thanks you for what you say of the Moral Essays; he was delighted with them himself. The little girl is still with us; she has an active little mind which has never been exercised, and we take pleasure in improving it. She is in perfect ignorance; it is an amusement to us to give her some general knowledge: a few words of this great universe, of empires, countries, kings, religions, and wars, of astronomy and geography. It is pleasant to see the unfolding of all these things in a little head which has never beheld a town or a river, and who thought the whole world extended no further than our park; she amuses us highly. I informed her to-day of the capture of Wismar; she knows we are sorry for it, because the king of Sweden is our ally. Such are our amusements. The princess is delighted that her daughter has taken Wismar; she is a true Dane. She has asked monsieur and madame to exempt her entirely from the soldiery, so that we shall all be safe.

Madame de la Fayette is very grateful for your letter; she thinks you very polite and obliging. But does it not appear strange to you that her brother-in-law is not dead, and that such mistakes should arise at the short distance of Toulon and Aix? Upon the questions you put to the _frater_ I decide boldly, that he who is angry, and shows his anger, is preferable to the deceiver, who conceals his malignity under fair and specious appearances. There is a stanza in Ariosto descriptive of guile.[136] I would transcribe it, but I have not time to look for it. The good D’Hacqueville stills talks to me of the journey of St. Geran, and to prove how short her stay will be, he says she can only receive one of my letters at Palisse. This is how he treats an acquaintance of a week; he is just the same with respect to others, but this is excellent. I forgot to say that I had thought like you of the different ways of painting the human heart, some white and others blacker than black. You know what color mine is of for you.

[136] We shall probably gratify the reader by inserting this
stanza:

Havea piaceval viso, abito onesto,
Un umil valger d’occhi, un andar grave,
Un parlar si benigno, e si modesto
Che parea Gabriel, che dicesse: Ave,
Era brutta e deforme in tutto il resto
Ma nasconde queste fattezze prave
Con lungo abito, e largo, e sotto quello
Attosicato avea sempre il coltello.

Orlando Furioso. Canto xiv.

Her garb was decent, lovely was her face,
Her eyes were bashful, sober was her pace;
With speech whose charms might every heart assail,
Like his who gave the blest salute of--Hail!
But all deformed and brutal was the rest,
Which close she covered with her ample vest,
Beneath whose folds, prepared for bloody strife,
Her hand for ever grasped a poisoned knife.

Hoole’s Translation. Book xiv.