August 29, 1880.--To-day I am conscious of improvement. I am taking
advantage of it to go back to my neglected work and my interrupted
habits; but in a week I have grown several months older--that is easy to
see. The affection of those around me makes them pretend not to see it;
but the looking-glass tells the truth. The fact does not take away from
the pleasure of convalescence; but still one hears in it the shuttle of
destiny, and death seems to be nearing rapidly, in spite of the halts
and truces which are granted one. The most beautiful existence, it seems
to me, would be that of a river which should get through all its rapids
and waterfalls not far from its rising, and should then in its widening
course form a succession of rich valleys, and in each of them a lake
equally but diversely beautiful, to end, after the plains of age were
past, in the ocean where all that is weary and heavy-laden comes to seek
for rest. How few there are of these full, fruitful, gentle lives! What
is the use of wishing for or regretting them? It is Wiser and harder to
see in one's own lot the best one could have had, and to say to one's
self that after all the cleverest tailor cannot make us a coat to fit us
more closely than our skin.
"Le vrai nom du bonheur est le contentement.
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