One day, meditating on
this melancholy subject, I exercised myself in throwing stones at
the trunks of trees, with my usual dexterity, that is to say,
without hitting any of them. In the height of this charming
exercise, it entered my mind to make a kind of prognostic, that
might calm my inquietude; I said, "I will throw this stone at the tree
facing me; if I hit my mark, I will consider it as a sign of
salvation; if I miss, as a token of damnation." While I said this, I
threw the stone with a trembling hand and beating breast but so
happily that it struck the body of the tree, which truly was not a
difficult matter, for I had taken care to choose one that was very
large and very near me. From that moment I never doubted my salvation:
I know not on recollecting this trait, whether I ought to laugh or
shudder at myself. Ye great geniuses, who surely laugh at my folly,
congratulate yourselves on your superior wisdom, but insult not my
unhappiness, for I swear to you that I feel it most sensibly.
These troubles, these alarms, inseparable, perhaps, from devotion,
were only at intervals; in general I was tranquil, and the
impression made on my soul by the idea of approaching death, was
less that of melancholy than a peaceful languor, which even had its
pleasures. I have found among my old papers a kind of congratulation
and exhortation which I made to myself on dying at an age when I had
the courage to meet death with serenity, without having experienced
any great evils, either of body or mind.
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