one will, — to love. Wliat does it matter? We may not
have the same language, but there is a sort of instinct that
supplies all ; nothing, however, can fill the chasm of a thou-
sand leagues of distance !
I was so troubled the last time I wrote that I did not tell you Diderot was in Holland; he likes it so well, he has already so many friends whom he never saw before, that it is quite possible that he may not return to Paris, and even forget that he was on his way to Eussia. He is an extraor- dinary man, not in his place in society : he ought to be the leader of a sect, a Greek philosopher, teaching, instructing youth. He pleases me very much, but nothing about him reaches my soul ; his sensibilities are only skin-deep ; he never goes farther than emotion. I like nothing that is half and half, nothing that is undecided and not thorough. I cannot understand the ways of people in society ; they amuse themselves and yawn, they have friends and they love no one. All that seems to me deplorable. Yes, I prefer the torture that consumes my life to the pleasure that numbs theirs; with that fashion of being we may not be lovable, but we love, and that is a thousand times better than pleasing.
How I should like to know if you are going to Russia. I hope not, because, as you say, I desire it. Letters seem to me to come more slowly from Russia than from any other part of the world. I have re-read, twice, thrice, your letter ; first because it was difficult to read, next, because I was diffi- cult to please. Ah ! if you knew what faults of omission I found in it ! But why should you not make them ?
M. d'Alembert is awaiting a letter from you with great impatience. M. de Crillon forestalled you. Your friend, M. d'Aguesseau seemed to me, at least on the day he brought me your letter, very extraordinary ; he had the air of a person in
