Chapter XXXIII: Letter XXII: THE ROCKS. Wednesday, November 4, 1671

Let us talk of M. Nicole, it is a long time since we have said a word about him. There is a great deal of justice in your observation respecting the indifference he requires us to show to the opinion of the world; I think with you, that philosophy will hardly be found sufficient of itself, without the assistance of grace. He lays so great a stress on preserving peace and good fellowship with our neighbor, and recommends so many things to us in order to attain these, that it is next to an impossibility, after this, to be indifferent to what the world thinks of us. Guess what I am doing; I am beginning this treatise again--methinks I could wish to swallow it, like Ezekiel’s roll. I am delighted with what he says on the subject of pride and self-love, which enter into all disputes, under the feigned name of the love of truth. In short, this treatise will apply to more than one in the world; but I can not help thinking that he had me principally in view when he wrote it. He says, eloquence, and a flow of words, give a _luster_ to the thoughts. I greatly admire that expression; I thought it beautiful and new. The word _luster_ is extremely apposite there, do you not think so? We must read this book together at Grignan. I pass my time in having masses said for you every day, and in a multitude of disagreeable thoughts, which can be of no service to you, but which, however, it is impossible to avoid. I have at present ten or twelve workmen in the air, raising the timbers of our chapel. They run backward and forward upon the outside of it like so many rats; they hold by nothing, and are every instant in danger of breaking their necks, and make my back ache with endeavoring to help them below. One can not but admire the wonderful effects of Providence in the desire of gain, and be thankful such people are created, who are willing to do for a shilling what others would not do for a hundred thousand pounds. “O, thrice happy they who plant cabbages! when they have one foot on the ground, the other is not far off.” I have this from a very good author.[54] We have planters too with us, who are forming new avenues. I hold the young trees myself while they set them in the ground, unless it rains so that there is no being abroad; but the weather almost drives me to despair, and makes me wish for a sylph to transport me to Paris. Madame de la Fayette says, that since you tell the story of Auger in so serious a manner, she is persuaded nothing can be more true, and that you are by no means jesting with me. She thought at first that it had been a joke of Coulanges’, and it looks very like it. If you write to him upon the subject, pray let it be in that style.

[54] Panurge, in Rabelais.