I little imagined my thoughts would ever be called back to things so foreign to my age, and so much out of my memory.
Since yesterday, however, my mind has been much taken up with it, in order to find out something that may be useful to you.
What can I then do, but admire and pity you?
I am charmed with your proceeding; yet terrified because you thought it indispensable; and when things have gone so far, it is a difficult matter to avoid those our hearts are continually drawing us towards.
However, you must not be discouraged; nothing is impossible to such a virtuous mind; and were you ever to yield, (which God forbid!) you will at least, my lovely dear, have the consolation of having resisted with all your might; moreover, what human wisdom cannot accomplish, the divine grace operates when it pleases.
You are, perhaps, now at the eve of your deliverance; and your virtue, which has been tried in those dreadful conflicts, will arise more pure and refined.
The strength which forsakes you to-day, you must hope for to-morrow.
Do not, however, depend on it; use it only as an incentive to encourage you to employ all your own.
Leaving to Providence the care of assisting you in a danger where I can bring no prevention, I reserve to myself that of supporting and consoling you as much as in my power.
I cannot relieve your troubles, but I will share them.
On those conditions I will accept your confidence.
I know your heart wants to be disburthened; I offer you my own; age has not so far frozen it, as to leave it insensible to friendship: you will always find it open to receive you.
This is a poor relief to your distress, but you shall not, however, weep alone; and when this unhappy passion overpowers you, and obliges you to speak, it will be better it should be with me than him.
Now I speak as you do; and I believe between us both we shall not be able to name him, but we understand each other.
I do not know whether I do right in telling you he appeared amazingly affected as your sudden departure; it would, perhaps, be better not to mention it: but I am not fond of that prudence that afflicts one's friends.
I am obliged to stop short on that subject; for the weakness of my sight and a trembling hand will not indulge long letters, when I am under the necessity of writing them myself.
Adieu, my lovely dear! Adieu, my amiable child!
I adopt you freely as a daughter. You have every accomplishment to fill a mother's heart with pride and pleasure.
Oct. 3, 17—. _____
LETTER CIV.
The MARCHIONESS DE MERTEUIL to MADAME DE VOLANGES. _____
It was with some difficulty, my dear worthy friend, I could suppress an impulse of pride on reading your letter.
You honour me, then, with your full confidence; you even condescend to ask my advice.
I should be completely happy if I merited this favourable opinion; or, that it did not proceed from the prepossession of your friendship.
Whatever may be the motive, it is so flattering, that having obtained it, I shall endeavour more ardently to deserve it.
I shall then, but without presuming to advise, tell you freely my thoughts.
I own I am diffident of them, as they differ from yours; yet, when you have my reasons, you will then judge, and if they should not meet with your approbation, I declare beforehand I submit.
I shall, at least, be so prudent as not to think myself wiser than you.
However, for this once, if my opinion should have the preference, you will find the cause in the facility of maternal fondness.
With you we must look for so laudable an inclination, and readily recognize it in the measure you are inclined to embrace.
Thus if you sometimes err, it is always on the side of virtue.
When we are to decide on the lot of others, but more especially, when the question is to fix it by a sacred and indissoluble band, such as marriage, prudence, I think, ought to take place of all other considerations.
It is then an equally wise and tender mother should, as you well observe, assist her daughter with her own experience.
I ask then, how is she to attain it, but by making a distinction between what is pleasing and what convenient.
Would it not be debasing maternal authority, nay even annihilating it, to make it subservient to a frivolous inclination, whose illusive power is felt only by those that dread it, and immediately vanishes when contemptuously treated?
For my part, I must own I never believed in those irresistible, impetuous passions, which one would imagine the world has adopted, as an universal excuse for their irregularities.
I cannot conceive how a passion, that one moment creates, and the next destroys, can overpower the unalterable principles of chastity, decency and modesty; nor how a woman, that has relinquished them, can be justified by a pretended passion, no more than a robber for a thirst for money, or a murderer for a desire of revenge.
Where is the person who has not had their struggles?
I have been always persuaded, inclination was sufficient for resistance, and experience has confirmed my opinion.
Of what estimation would virtue be, without the obligations it imposes?
Its worship are our sacrifices, its reward in our hearts.
Those incontestable truths can be denied only by those whose interest it is to forget them; and who being already contaminated, hope to carry on the illusion, and justify their bad conduct by worse reasoning.
But is this to be apprehended from an innocent timid child; from a child of yours, whose pure and modest education is strengthened by a happy disposition?
Still it is to this apprehension, which I will venture to call very humiliating for your daughter, you would give up an advantageous match your prudence had provided.
I have a great friendship for Danceny; and you know for some time past I have seldom seen M. de Gercourt: but my friendship for the one, nor my indifference for the other, can prevent me from observing the immense difference between the two matches.
As to birth, I agree with you, they are on an equality: but the one is deficient in fortune, and the other's is such as, exclusive of blood, is sufficient to raise him to the highest employments.
I acknowledge, happiness may be independent of fortune; but we must also own it a very necessary ingredient.
You say, Mademoiselle de Volanges is rich enough for both; yet sixty thousand livres per annum, which she is to possess, will not be too much for one who bears the name of Danceny, to furnish and keep up a house suitable to it.
These are not Madame de Sevigne's days.
Luxury absorbs every thing; we blame, yet imitate it; and our superfluities end in depriving us of necessaries.