"Where their
intellect is cultivated," he writes, "I prefer their society to that
of men. One finds there a gentleness one does not meet with among
ourselves; and it seems to me, beyond this, that they express themselves
with more neatness, and give a more agreeable turn to the things they
talk about."
Mme. de Sable was herself, in less exclusive fashion, the intimate
friend and adviser of Esprit, d'Andilly, and La Rochefoucauld. The
letters of these men show clearly their warm regard as well as the value
they attached to her opinions. "Indeed," wrote Voiture to her many years
before, "those who decry you on the side of tenderness must confess that
if you are not the most loving person in the world, you are at least the
most obliging. True friendship knows no more sweetness than there is in
your words." Her character, so delicately shaded and so averse to all
violent passions, seems to have been peculiarly fitted for this calm and
enduring sentiment which cast a soft radiance, as of Indian summer, over
her closing years.
At a later period, the sacred name of friendship was unfortunately used
to veil relations that had lost all the purity and delicacy of their
primitive character. This fact has sometimes been rather illogically
cited, as an argument not only against the moral influence of the salons
but against the intellectual development of women. There is neither
excuse nor palliation to be offered for the Italian manners and the
recognized system of amis intimes, which disgraced the French society
the next century. But, while it is greatly to be deplored that the moral
sense has not always kept pace with the cultivation of the intellect,
there is no reason for believing that license of manners is in any
degree the result of it. There is striking evidence to the contrary, in
the incredible ignorance and laxity that found its reaction in the early
salons; also in the dissolute lives of many distinguished women of rank
who had no pretension to wit or education. The fluctuation of morals,
which has always existed, must be traced to quite other causes. Virtue
has not invariably accompanied intelligence, but it has been still less
the companion of ignorance.
It was Mme. de Sable who set the fashion of condensing the thoughts and
experiences of life into maxims and epigrams. This was her specific
gift to literature; but her influence was felt through what she inspired
others to do rather than through what she did herself.
It was her good
fortune to be brought into contact with the genius of a Pascal and a
La Rochefoucauld,--men who reared immortal works upon the pastime of
an idle hour. One or two of her own maxims will suffice to indicate her
style as well as to show the estimate she placed upon form and measure
in the conduct of life:
A bad manner spoils everything, even justice and reason.
The HOW
constitutes the best part of things, and the air which one gives them
gilds, modifies, and softens the most disagreeable.
There is a certain command in the manner of speaking and acting, which
makes itself felt everywhere, and which gains, in advance, consideration
and respect.
We find here the spirit that underlies French manners, in which form
counts for so much.
There is another, which suggests the delicate flavor of sentiment then
in vogue:
Wherever it is, love is always the master. It seems truly that it is to
the soul of the one who loves, what the soul is to the body it animates.
Among the eminent men who lent so much brilliancy to this salon was
the great jurist Domat. He adds his contribution and falls into the
moralizing vein:
A little fine weather, a good word, a praise, a caress, draws me from
a profound sadness from which I could not draw myself by any effort
of meditation. What a machine is my soul, what an abyss of misery and
weakness!
Here is one by the Abbe d'Ailly, which foreshadows the thought of the
next century:
Too great submission to books, and to the opinions of the ancients,
as to the eternal truths revealed of God, spoils the head and makes
pedants.
The finest and most vigorous of these choice spirits was Pascal, who
frequented more or less the salon of Mme. de Sable previous to his final
retirement to the gloom and austerity of the cloister.
His delicate
platonism and refined spirituality go far towards offsetting the cold
cynicism of La Rochefoucauld. Each gives us a different phase of life
as reflected in a clear and luminous intelligence. The one led to Port
Royal, the other turned an electric light upon the selfish corruption of
courts. Many of the pensees of Pascal were preserved among the records
of this salon, and Cousin finds reason for believing that they were
first suggested and discussed here; he even thinks it possible, if
not probable, that the "Discours sur les Passions de L'amour," which
pertains to his mundane life, and presents the grave and ascetic recluse
in a new light, had a like origin.
But the presiding genius was La Rochefoucauld. He complains that the
mode of relaxation is fatiguing, and that the mania for sentences
troubles his repose. The subjects were suggested for conversation, and
the thoughts were condensed and reduced to writing at leisure. "Here are
all the maxims I have," he writes to Mme. de Sable; "but as one gives
nothing for nothing, I demand a potage aux carottes, un ragout de
mouton, etc."
"When La Rochefoucauld had composed his sentences," says Cousin, "he
talked them over before or after dinner, or he sent them at the end of
a letter. They were discussed, examined, and observations were made,
by which he profited. One could lessen their faults, but one could lend
them no beauty. There was not a delicate and rare turn, a fine and keen
touch, which did not come from him."
After availing himself of the general judgment in this way, he took a
novel method of forestalling crtiticism before committing himself
to publication. Mme. de Sable sent a collection of the maxims to her
friends, asking for a written opinion. One is tempted to make long
extracts from their replies. The men usually indorse the worldly
sentiments, the women rarely. The Princesse de Guemene, who, in the
decline of her beauty, was growing devout, and also had apartments for
penitential retreat at Port Royal, responds: "I was just going to write
to beg you to send me your carriage as soon as you had dined. I have yet
seen only the first maxims, as I had a headache yesterday; but those I
have read appear to me to be founded more upon the disposition of
the author than upon the truth, for he believes neither in generosity
without interest, nor in pity; that is, he judges every one by himself.
For the greater number of people, he is right; but surely there are
those who desire only to do good." The Countesse de Maure, who does not
believe in the absolute depravity of human nature, and is inclined to an
elevated Christian philosophy quite opposed to Jansenism, writes with
so much severity that she begs her friend not to show her letter to the
author. Mme. de Hautefort expresses her disapproval of a theory which
drives honor and goodness out of the world. After many clever and
well-turned criticisms, she says: "But the maxim which is quite new to
me, and which I admire, is that idleness, languid as it is, destroys all
the passions. It is true, and he had searched his heart well to find a
sentiment so hidden, but so just... I think one ought, at present, to
esteem idleness as the only virtue in the world, since it is that which
uproots all the vices. As I have always had much respect for it, I
am glad it has so much merit." But she adds wisely: "If I were of the
opinion of the author, I would not bring to the light those mysteries
which will forever deprive him of all the confidence one might have in
him."
There is one letter, written by the clever and beautiful Eleonore de
Rohan, Abbess de Malnoue, and addressed to the author, which deserves to
be read for its fine and just sentiments. In closing she says:
The maxim upon humility appears to me perfectly beautiful; but I have
been so surprised to find it there, that I had the greatest difficulty
in recognizing it in the midst of all that precedes and follows it. It
is assuredly to make this virtue practiced among your own sex, that you
have written maxims in which their self-love is so little flattered.
I should be very much humiliated on my own part, if I did not say to
myself what I have already said to you in this note, that you judge
better the hearts of men than those of women, and that perhaps you do
not know yourself the true motive which makes you esteem them less. If
you had always met those whose temperament had been submitted to virtue,
and in whom the senses were less strong than reason, you would think
better of a certain number who distinguish themselves always from the
multitude; and it seems to me that Mme. de La Fayette and myself deserve
that you should have a better opinion of the sex in general.
Mme. de La Fayette writes to the Marquise: "All people of good sense are
not so persuaded of the general corruption as is M. de La Rochefoucauld.
I return to you a thousand thanks for all you have done for this
gentleman."--At a later period she said: "La Rochefoucauld stimulated my
intellect, but I reformed his heart." It is to be regretted that he had
not known her sooner.
At his request Mme. de Sable wrote a review of the maxims, which she
submitted to him for approval. It seems to have been a fair presentation
of both sides, but he thought it too severe, and she kindly gave him
permission to change it to suit himself. He took her at her word,
dropped the adverse criticisms, retained the eulogies, and published
it in the "Journal des Savants" as he wished it to go to the world. The
diplomatic Marquise saved her conscience and kept her friend.
The maxims of La Rochefoucauld, which are familiar to all, have extended
into a literature. That he generalized from his own point of view, and
applied to universal humanity the motives of a class bent upon favor
and precedence, is certainly true. But whatever we may think of his
sentiments, which were those of a man of the world whose observations
were largely in the atmosphere of courts, we are compelled to admit
his unrivaled finish and perfection of form. Similar theories of human
nature run through the maxims of Esprit and Saint Evremond, without
the exquisite turn which makes each one of La Rochefoucauld's a gem in
itself. His tone was that of a disappointed courtier, with a vein of
sadness only half disguised by cold philosophy and bitter cynicism. La
Bruyere, with a broader outlook upon humanity, had much of the same fine
analysis, with less conciseness and elegance of expression. Vauvenargues
and Joubert were his legitimate successors. But how far removed in
spirit!
"The body has graces," writes Vauvenargues, "the mind has talents; has
the heart only vices? And man capable of reason, shall he be incapable
of virtue?"
With a fine and delicate touch, Joubert says: "Virtue is the health of
the soul. It gives a flavor to the smallest leaves of life."
These sentiments are in the vein of Pascal, who represents the most
spiritual element of the little coterie which has left such a legacy of
condensed thought to the world.
The crowning act of the life of Mme. de Sable was her defense of Port
Royal. She united with Mme. de Longueville in protecting the persecuted
Jansenists, Nicole and Arnauld, but she had neither the courage, the
heroism, nor the partisan spirit of her more ardent companion. With all
her devotion she was something of a sybarite and liked repose. She had
the tact, during all the troubles which scattered her little circle, to
retain her friends, of whatever religious color, though not without a
few temporary clouds. Her diplomatic moderation did not quite please the
religieuses of Port Royal, and chilled a little her pleasant relations
with d'Andilly.
Toward the close of her life, the Marquise was in the habit of secluding
herself for days together, and declining to see even her dearest
friends. The Abbe de la Victoire, piqued at not being received, spoke of
her one day as "the late Mme. la Marquise de Sable."
La Rochefoucauld writes to her, "I know no more inventions for entering
your house; I am refused at the door every day." Mme. de La Fayette
declares herself offended, and cites this as a proof of her attachment,
saying, "There are very few people who could displease me by not wishing
to see me." But the friends of the Marquise are disposed to treat her
caprices very leniently. As the years went by and the interests of
life receded, Mme. de Sable became reconciled to the thought that had
inspired her with so much dread. When she died at the advanced age of
seventy-nine, the longed-for transition was only the quiet passing from
fevered dreams to peaceful sleep.
It is a singular fact that this refined, exclusive, fastidious woman, in
whom the artistic nature was always dominant to the extent of weakness,
should have left a request to be buried, without ceremony, in the parish
cemetery with the people, remote alike from the tombs of her family and
the saints of Port Royal.
CHAPTER VI. MADAME DE SEVIGNE
_Her Genius--Her Youth--Her unworthy Husband--Her impertinent Cousin--Her
love for her Daughter--Her Letters--Hotel de Carnavalet-
-Mme. Duiplessis
Guenegaud--Mme. de Coulanges--The Curtain Falls_
Among the brilliant French women of the seventeenth century, no one is
so well-known today as Mme. de Sevigne. She has not only been sung by
poets and portrayed by historians, but she has left us a complete record
of her own life and her own character. Her letters reflect every shade
of her many-sided nature, as well as the events, even the trifling
incidents, of the world in which she lived; the lineaments, the
experiences, the virtues, and the follies of the people whom she
knew. We catch the changeful tints of her mind that readily takes the
complexion of those about her, while retaining its independence; we are
made familiar with her small joys and sorrows, we laugh with her at her
own harmless weaknesses, we feel the inspiration of her sympathy,
we hear the innermost throbbings of her heart. No one was ever less
consciously a woman of letters. No one would have been more surprised
than herself at her own fame. One is instinctively sure that she would
never have seated herself deliberately to write a book of any sort
whatever. While she was planning a form for her thoughts, they would
have flown. She was essentially a woman of the great world, for which
she was fitted by her position, her temperament, her esprit, her tastes,
and her character. She loved its variety, its movement, its gaiety;
she judged leniently even its faults and its frailties.
If they often
furnished a target for her wit, behind her sharpest epigrams one detects
an indulgent smile.
The natural outlet for her full mind and heart was in conversation.
When she was alone, they found vent in conversation of another sort. She
talks on paper. Her letters have the unstudied freedom, the rapidity,
the shades, the inflections of spoken words. She gives her thoughts
their own course, "with reins upon the neck," as she was fond of saying,
and without knowing where they will lead her. But it is the personal
element that inspires her. Let her heart be piqued, or touched by a
profound affection, and her mind is illuminated; her pen flies.
Her nature unveils itself, her emotions chase one another in quick
succession, her thoughts crystallize with wonderful brilliancy, and the
world is reflected in a thousand varying colors. The sparkling wit,
the swift judgment, the subtle insight, the lightness of touch, the
indefinable charm of style--these belong to her temperament and her
genius. But the clearness, the justness of expression, the precision,
the simplicity that was never banal--such qualities nature does
not bestow. One must find their source in careful training, in wise
criticism, in early familiarity with good models.
Living from 1626 to 1696, Mme. de Sevigne was en rapport with the best
life of the great century of French letters. She was the granddaughter
of the mystical Mme. de Chantal, who was too much occupied with her
convents and her devotions to give much attention to the little Marie,
left an orphan at the age of six years. The child did not inherit much
of her grandmother's spirit of reverence, and at a later period was wont
to indulge in many harmless pleasantries about her pious ancestress and
"our grandfather, St. Francois de Sales." Deprived so early of the
care of a mother, she was brought up by an uncle, the good Abbe de
Coulanges--the "Bien-Bon"--whose life was devoted to her interests.
Though born in the Place Royale, that long-faded center of so much that
was brilliant and fascinating two centuries ago, much of her youth was
passed in the family chateau at Livry, where she was carefully educated
in a far more solid fashion than was usual among the women of her time.
She had an early introduction to the Hotel de Rambouillet, and readily
caught its intellectual tastes, though she always retained a certain
bold freedom of speech and manners, quite opposed to its spirit.
Her instructors were Chapelain and Menage, both honored habitues of that
famous salon. The first was a dull poet, a profound scholar, somewhat of
a pedant, and notoriously careless in his dress--le vieux Chapelain,
his irreverent pupil used to call him. When he died of apoplexy, years
afterwards, she wrote to her daughter: "He confesses by pressing the
hand; he is like a statue in his chair. So God confounds the pride of
philosophers." But he taught her Latin, Spanish, and Italian, made her
familiar with the beauties of Virgil and Tasso, and gave her a critical
taste for letters.
Menage was younger, and aspired to be a man of the world as well as a
savant. Repeating one day the remark of a friend, that out of ten things
he knew he had learned nine in conversation, he added,
"I could say
about the same thing myself"--a confession that savors more of the
salon than of the library. He had a good deal of learning, but much
pretension, and Moliere has given him an undesirable immortality as
Vadius in "Les Femmes Savantes," in company with his deadly enemy, the
Abbe Cotin, who figures as "Trissotin." It appears that the susceptible
savant lost his heart to his lively pupil, and sighed not only in secret
but quite openly. He wrote her bad verses in several languages, loaded
her with eulogies, and followed her persistently. "The name of Mme.
de Sevigne," said the Bishop of Laon, "is in the works of Menage what
Bassan's dog is in his portraits. He cannot help putting it there." She
treated him in a sisterly fashion that put to flight all sentimental
illusions, but she had often to pacify his wounded vanity. One day, in
the presence of several friends, she gave him a greeting rather more
cordial than dignified. Noticing the looks of surprise, she turned away
laughing and said, "So they kissed in the primitive church." But the
wide knowledge and scholarly criticism of Menage were of great value to
the versatile woman, who speedily surpassed her master in style if not
in learning. Evidently she appreciated him, since she addressed him in
one of her letters as "friend of all friends, the best."
At eighteen the gay and unconventional Marie de Rabutin-Chantal was
married to the Marquis de Sevigne; but her period of happiness was a
short one. The husband, who was rich, handsome, and agreeable, proved
weak and faithless. He was one of the temporary caprices of the
dangerous Ninon, led a dashing, irresponsible life, spent his fortune
recklessly, and left his pretty young wife to weep alone at a convenient
distance, under the somber skies of Brittany.
Fortunately for her and
for posterity, his career was rapid and brief. For some trifling affair
of so-called honor--a quality of which, from our point of view, he
does not seem to have possessed enough to be worth the trouble of
defending--he had the kindness to get himself killed in a duel, after
seven years of marriage. His spirited wife had loved him sincerely, and
first illusions die slowly. She shed many bitter and natural tears, but
she never showed any disposition to repeat the experiment. Perhaps she
was of the opinion of another young widow who thought it
"a fine thing
to bear the name of a man who can commit no more follies." But it is
useless to speculate upon the reasons why a woman does or does not
marry. It is certain that the love of her two children filled the heart
of Mme. de Sevigne; her future life was devoted to their training, and
to repairing a fortune upon which her husband's extravagance had made
heavy inroads.
But the fascinating widow of twenty-five had a dangerous path to
tread. That she lived in a society so lax and corrupt, unprotected and
surrounded by distinguished admirers, without a shadow of suspicion
having fallen upon her fair reputation is a strong proof of her good
judgment and her discretion. She was not a great beauty, though the
flattering verses of her poet friends might lead one to think so. A
complexion fresh and fair, eyes of remarkable brilliancy, an abundance
of blond hair, a face mobile and animated, and a fine figure--these were
her visible attractions. She danced well, sang well, talked well, and
had abounding health. Mme. de La Fayette made a pen-portrait of her,
which was thought to be strikingly true. It was in the form of a letter
from an unknown man. A few extracts will serve to bring her more vividly
before us.
"Your mind so adorns and embellishes your person, that there is no one
in the world so fascinating when you are animated by a conversation from
which constraint is banished. All that you say has such a charm, and
becomes you so well, that the words attract the Smiles and the Graces
around you; the brilliancy of your intellect gives such luster to your
complexion and your eyes, that although it seems that wit should touch
only the ears, yours dazzles the sight.
"Your soul is great and elevated. You are sensitive to glory and to
ambition, and not less so to pleasures; you were born for them and they
seem to have been made for you... In a word, joy is the true state of
your soul, and grief is as contrary to it as possible.
You are naturally
tender and impassioned; there was never a heart so generous, so noble,
so faithful... You are the most courteous and amiable person that ever
lived, and the sweet, frank air which is seen in all your actions makes
the simplest compliments of politeness seem from your lips protestations
of friendship."