t quality: with all her faults she was
true. She lived out her life frankly, boldly, without self-deception or
imposition. So in the entertaining volumes of her letters and
pen-portraits of acquaintances, she has left a valuable record. She
takes us back a century, and shows not only how people looked and what
they did, but how they thought and felt.

TO THE DUCHESSE DE CHOISEUL

PARIS, Sunday, December 28th, 1766.

Do you know, dear Grandmama [a pet name], that you are the greatest
philosopher that ever lived? Your predecessors spoke equally well,
perhaps, but they were less consistent in their conduct. All your
reasonings start from the same sentiment, and that makes the perfect
accord one always feels between what you say and what you do. I know
very well why, loving you madly, I am ill at ease with you. It is
because I know that you must pity everybody who is unlike yourself. My
desire to please you, the brief time that I am permitted with you, and
my eagerness to profit by it, all trouble, embarrass, intimidate me and
discompose me.

I exaggerate, I utter platitudes; and end by being disgusted with
myself, and eager to rectify the impression I may have made upon you.

You wish me to write to M. de Choiseul, and to make my letter pretty and
bright. Ah, indeed! I'm the ruler of my own imagination, am I! I depend
upon chance. A purpose to do or to say such or such a thing takes away
the possibility. I am not in the least like you. I do not hold in my
hands the springs of my spirit. However, I will write to M. de Choiseul.
I will seize a propitious moment. The surest means of making it come is
to feel hurried.

I am sending you an extract from an impertinent little pamphlet entitled
'Letter to the Author of the Justification of Jean Jacques.' You will
see how it treats our friend. I am not sure that it should be allowed;
whether M. de Choiseul should not talk to M. de Sartines about it. It is
for you to decide, dear Grandmama, if it is suitable, and if M. de
Choiseul ought to permit licenses so impertinent.

I am dying to see you. In spite of my fear, in spite of my dreads, I am
convinced that you love me because I love you.

TO MR. CRAWFORD

SUNDAY, March 9th, 1766.

I read your letter to Madame de Forcalquier, or rather I gave it to her
to read. I thought from her tone that she liked it, but she will not
commit herself. She is more than incomprehensible. The Trinity is not
more myst