The subject of this memoir, as celebrated in her own particular
department of literature as Shakspere or Moliere were in theirs, would
have been very much surprised to find herself occupying a conspicuous
place in the "Lives of Celebrated Women." She made no pretensions to
authorship, and her "Letters," which have been esteemed models of
epistolary composition, are the unpremeditated and unrevised
outpourings of a mind rich in wit and good sense, and a heart filled
with the warmest affections, and were written without the slightest
idea that they would ever be read by any other persons than those to
whom they were addressed.
Maria de Robertin-Chantal, Baroness de Chantal and Bombilly, was
born on the 5th of February, 1626. Her father was the head of a
distinguished and noble family of Burgundy. Of his rough wit and
independence his daughter has preserved a specimen. When Schomberg
was transformed, by Louis XIII., from a minister of finance to a
field-marshal, Chantal wrote to him the following letter:--
"My Lord,
"Rank--black beard--intimacy.
"CHANTAL."--
meaning that he owed his advancement, not to his military exploits,
but to his rank, his having a black beard, like his master, and to his
intimacy with that master.
When Maria was about a year and a half old, the English made a descent
upon the Island of Rhe; and her father placed himself at the head of a
party of gentlemen who volunteered to assist in repelling them, in
which honorable service he lost his life. His widow survived him five
years. She was the daughter of a secretary of state, and her family,
that of De Coulanges, belonged to the class of nobility who owed that
distinction to civil services, and who were known as "nobles of the
robe," to distinguish them from those who could trace their descent
from the heroes of the crusades and the days of chivalry.
It seems to have been expected that the paternal grandmother would
have taken charge of the education of the little orphan. But she was
too much occupied with the affairs of the other world, and with
founding religious houses,--of which eighty-seven owed their existence
to her,--and Maria was left in the hands of her maternal relations.
The pious labors of the "Blessed Mother of Chantal" were acknowledged
by the head of the church, and her name now fills a place in the
calendar, among the saints. The guardianship of the young baroness
devolved on her uncle, Christophe de Coulanges, abbe de Livry.
Most men would have shrunk from the task of personally superintending
the education of a young girl, and would, in conformity to the
customs of the times, have consigned her to a convent, where she
would have been taught to read, to write, to dance, and to
embroider; and then her education would have been deemed complete.
It is no slight evidence of the good sense of her uncle that he
retained her in his own house. The decision was a fortunate one for
posterity; for her faculties, which the formal training of the
convent would have cramped, were called into exercise and expanded
by an unusual indulgence in the range of reading, and probably by a
familiar intercourse with the men of letters who sought her uncle's
society. Under his instructions she doubtless acquired a knowledge
of the Latin and Italian languages, and something of the Spanish.
All this, however, is to some extent matter of inference, for we
have no record of her early life. She tells us in her "Letters" that
she was brought up at court, and there she formed her manners and
her tastes--fortunately without the corruption of her morals.
From the accounts given by her witty and profligate cousin Bussy-Robertin,
we can obtain a tolerably correct idea of her appearance when she entered
as an actor upon the scene of life. She was somewhat tall for a woman; had
a good shape, a pleasing voice, a fine complexion, brilliant eyes, and a
profusion of light hair; but her eyes, though brilliant, were small,
and, together with the eyelashes, were of different tints: her lips,
though well colored, were too flat, and the end of her nose too
square. De Bussy tells us that she had more shape than grace, yet
danced well; she had also a taste for singing. He makes to her the
objection that she was too playful "for a woman of quality."
Not beautiful, but highly attractive, of cordial manners, and with a
lively sensibility, at one moment dissolved in tears, and at another
almost dying with laughter,--Mademoiselle de Robertin, then eighteen
years old, was married to the Marquis de Sevigne, of an ancient family
of Brittany. Her letters written during the first years of her
marriage are full of gayety; there is no trace of misfortune or
sorrow. But her husband was fond of pleasure, extravagant in his
expenses, heedless, and gay--a character not likely to escape the
contagion of that universal depravity of manners which prevailed at
the French court. His conduct threw a cloud over their happiness.
Madame de Sevigne bore her misfortunes with dignity and patience. In
spite of his misconduct, she loved him deeply; and his death, not long
afterwards, in a duel, caused her the most profound sorrow.
Her uncle, the abbe, resumed his former office of protector and
counsellor. He withdrew her from the contemplation of her grief, and
drew her attention to her duties, the chief and dearest of which was
the education of her two children, a son and a daughter. To this
object, and to rendering the life of her uncle happy, she resolved to
devote herself. Of her obligations to her uncle she thus speaks in a
letter written many years afterwards, on the occasion of his death: "I
am plunged in sorrow: ten days ago I saw my dear uncle die; and you
know what he was to his dear niece. He has conferred on me every
benefit in the world, either by giving me property of his own, or
preserving and augmenting that of my children. He drew me from the
abyss into which M. de Sevigne's death plunged me; he gained lawsuits;
he put my affairs in good order; he paid our debts; he has made the
estate on which my son lives the prettiest and most agreeable in the
world."
Time restored to the young widow her lost gayety, and she was the
delight of the circles in which she was intimate. The Hotel de
Rambouillet, at Paris, where she resided, was the resort of all who
were celebrated for wit or talent, and her presence was always hailed
with joy. _Euphuism_ was the fashion of the day, and in this _coterie_
it had reached the highest degree of perfection. Common appellations
were discarded; water became "_l'humeur celeste_," and a chaplet "_une
chaine spirituelle_." The use of names was banished, and each was
addressed as "ma chere" or "ma precieuse." "_Les Precieuses
Ridicules_" of Moliere at length put an end to the affectation. Many
of the _coterie_ were present at its first representation, and were
obliged to swallow the vexation which the delight evinced by the
public at seeing them held up to ridicule, could not fail to excite.
The early education of her children being completed, their establishment
in life became a source of anxiety. Her son, when nineteen, joined the
expedition to Candia; concerning which Madame de Sevigne writes to
her cousin De Bussy, "I suppose you know that my son is gone to
Candia. He mentioned it to M. de Turenne, to Cardinal de Retz, and
to M. de la Rochefoucauld. These gentlemen so approved his design
that it was resolved on and made public before I knew any thing of it.
He is gone. I wept his departure bitterly, and am deeply afflicted.
I shall not have a moment's repose during the expedition. I see all
the dangers, and they destroy me; but I am not the mistress. On such
occasions mothers have no voice." She had reason for anxiety. Few of
the officers returned, but one of these was the Baron de Sevigne. A
commission was purchased for him in the army, and he served with
distinction during several campaigns; but his family had taken part
against the court during the wars of the Fronde, and were Jansenists,
so that he received no promotion, and at length left the army, and
settled into a quiet, well-behaved, country gentleman. Rejecting
many nice matches which his mother sought to make for him, he chose a
wife for himself, and his choice fortunately met her approbation.
Her daughter was presented at court, in 1663, and took part in the
brilliant _fetes_ of the following year. The mother's heart was, no
doubt, gladdened by the declaration of the Count de Treville, a sort
of oracle in the great world, "_That_ beauty will set the world on
fire." Her marriage became a subject of the deepest anxiety, and it
was long before her mother was satisfied with any of those who
pretended to the hand of "_la plus jolie fille de France_." She at
length accepted the proposals of the twice-widowed Count de Grignan,
and the event is thus announced to her cousin: "I must tell you a
piece of news which will doubtless delight you. At length the
prettiest woman in France is about to marry, not the handsomest youth,
but the most excellent man in the kingdom. You have long known M. de
Grignan. All his wives are dead, to make room for your cousin, as well
as, through wonderful luck, his father and his son; so that, being
richer than he ever was, and being, through his birth, his position,
and his good qualities, such as we desire, we conclude at once. The
public appears satisfied, and that is much, for one is silly enough to
be greatly influenced by it."
By marrying her daughter to a courtier, Madame de Sevigne hoped to
secure her daughter's permanent residence near herself at Paris. The
count, however, was deputy-governor of Provence, and received orders,
soon after his marriage, to proceed to that distant province, where he
continued to reside, with the exception of occasional visits to Paris,
during the remainder of his mother-in-law's life. The mother and
daughter contrived to pass about half the time with each other, and,
in the intervals, to keep up a conversation by means of constant
epistolary correspondence, in which the former relates all the amusing
gossip which would have been subject of discourse had they been
together. To the mother's share of these conversations we are
delighted listeners. She speaks of events which in themselves are
trifling, and of persons of whom we never before heard; yet she is
never tedious. The vivacity of her intellect and the charms of her
style give an interest to every thought and act. The task of selecting
specimens is a difficult one; all is worthy of transcription; we will
take those which throw the most light upon her character and mode of
life. The following was written at an estate of her husband's, called
"The Rocks," situated on the sea-coast of Brittany, where she
delighted to pass her time: she had a love of the country, of nature,
and of simple pleasures--a rare taste for a Frenchwoman of that age.
Nothing pleased her more than the song of the nightingale, the
cuckoo, and the thrush, during the early spring; her writings are
filled with her passion for the birds and avenues of "Les Rochers."
The letter is addressed, not to her daughter, but to her cousin, De
Coulanges.
"I write, my dear cousin, over and above the stipulated fortnight
communications, to advertise you that you will soon have the honor of
seeing Picard; and, as he is brother to the lackey of Madame de
Coulanges, I must tell you the reason why. You know that Madame the
Duchess de Chaulnes is at Vitre; she expects the duke there, in ten or
twelve days, with the states of Brittany. Well, and what then? say
you. I say that the duchess is expecting the duke with all the states,
and that meanwhile she is at Vitre all alone, dying with ennui. And
what, return you, has this to do with Picard? Why, look; she is dying
with ennui, and I am her only consolation; and so you may readily
conceive that I carry it with a high hand. A pretty roundabout way of
telling my story, I must confess; but it will bring us to the point.
Well, then, as I am her only consolation, it follows that, after I
have been to see her, she will come to see me, when, of course, I
shall wish her to find my garden in good order--those fine walks of
which you are so fond. Still you are at a loss to conceive whither
they are leading you now. Attend, then, if you please, to a little
suggestion by the way. You are aware that haymaking is going forward?
Well, I have no haymakers; I send into the neighboring fields to press
them into my service; there are none to be found; and so all my own
people are summoned to make hay instead. But do you know what
haymaking is? I will tell you. Haymaking is the prettiest thing in the
world. You play at turning the grass over in a meadow; and as soon as
you know how to do that, you know how to make hay. The whole house
went merrily to the task, all but Picard: he said he would not go;
that he was not engaged for such work; that it was none of his
business; and that he would sooner betake himself to Paris. Faith!
didn't I get angry? It was the hundredth disservice the silly fellow
had done me. I saw he had neither heart nor zeal; in short, the
measure of his offence was full. I took him at his word; was deaf as a
rock to all entreaties in his behalf; and he has set off. It is fit
that people should be treated as they deserve. If you see him, don't
welcome him; don't protect him; and don't blame me. Only look upon him
as, of all servants in the world, the one least addicted to haymaking,
and therefore the most unworthy of good treatment. This is the sum
total of the affair. As for me, I am fond of straightforward
histories, that contain not a word too much; that never go wandering
about, and beginning again from remote points; and, accordingly, I
think I may say, without vanity, that I hereby present you with a
model of an agreeable narration."
We will now go with her to Paris, and listen to a little of her gossip
with her daughter.
"PARIS, _March 13th_.
"Behold me, to the delight of my heart, all alone in my chamber,
writing to you in tranquillity. Nothing gives me comfort like
being seated thus. I dined to-day at Madame de Lavardin's, after
having been to hear Bourdaloue, where I saw the mothers of the
church; for so I call the Princesses de Conti and Longueville. All
the world was at the sermon, and the sermon was worthy of all that
heard it. I thought of you twenty times, and wished you as often
beside me. You would have been enchanted to be a listener, and I
should have been tenfold enchanted to see you listen. * * *
"We have been to the fair, to see a great fright of a woman,
bigger than Riberpre by a whole head. * * * And now, if you fancy
all the maids of honor run mad, you will not fancy amiss. Eight
days ago, Madame de Ludre, Coetlogon, and little De Rouvroi were
bitten by a puppy belonging to Theobon, and the puppy has died
mad; so Ludre, Coetlogon, and De Rouvroi set off this morning for
the coast, to be dipped three times in the sea. 'Tis a dismal
journey. Benserade is in despair about it. Theobon does not choose
to go, though she had a little bite too. The queen, however,
objects to her being in waiting till the issue of the adventure is
known. Don't you think Ludre resembles Andromeda? For my part, I
see her fastened to the rock, and Treville coming, on a winged
horse, to deliver her from the monster. * * * Ah, Bourdaloue! what
divine truths you told us to-day about death! Madame de la Fayette
heard him for the first time in her life, and was transported with
admiration. She is enchanted with your remembrances. * * * A scene
took place yesterday at Mademoiselle's, which I enjoyed extremely.
In comes Madame de Gevres, full of her airs and graces. She looked
as if she expected I should give her my poet; but, 'faith, I owed
her an affront for her behavior the other day, so I didn't budge.
Mademoiselle was in bed; Madame de Gevres was therefore obliged to
go lower down; no very pleasant thing that! Mademoiselle calls for
drink; somebody must present the napkin; Madame de Gevres begins
to draw off the glove from her skinny hand; I gave a nudge to
Madame d'Arpajou, who was above me; she understands me, draws off
her glove, and, advancing a step with a very good grace, cuts
short the duchess, and takes and presents the napkin. The duchess
was quite confounded; she had made her way up, and got off her
gloves, and all to see the napkin presented before her by Madame
d'Arpajou! My dear, I am a wicked creature; I was in a state of
delight; and indeed what could have been better done? Would any
one but Madame de Gevres have thought of depriving Madame
d'Arpajou of an honor which fell so naturally to her share,
standing as she did by the bedside? It was as good as a cordial to
Madame de Puisieux. Mademoiselle did not dare to lift up her eyes;
and, as for myself, I had the most good-for-nothing face!"
Who this Mademoiselle was, Madame de Sevigne shall herself tell. The
following, one of the most curious of her letters, is addressed to her
cousin, De Coulanges: "I am going to tell you a thing, which, of all
things in the world, is the most astonishing, the most surprising, the
most marvellous, the most miraculous, the most triumphant, the most
bewildering, the most unheard-of, the most singular, the most
extraordinary, the most incredible, the most unexpected, the most
exalting, the most humbling, the most rare, the most common, the most
public, the most private,--till this moment,--the most brilliant, the
most enviable, in short, a thing of which no example is to be found in
past times; at least, nothing quite like it;--a thing which we do not
know how to believe in Paris; how, then, are you to believe it at
Lyons? a thing which makes all the world cry out, 'Lord, have mercy on
us!' a thing which has transported Madame de Rohan and Madame
d'Hauterive; a thing which is to be done on Sunday, and yet perhaps
will not be completed till Monday. I cannot expect you to guess it at
once. I give you a trial of three times; do you give it up? Well,
then, I must tell you. M. de Lauzun is to marry, next Sunday, at the
Louvre; guess whom. I give you four times to guess it; I give you six;
I give you a hundred. 'Truly,' cries Madame de Coulanges, 'it must be
a very difficult thing to guess; 'tis Madame de la Valliere.' 'No, it
isn't, madame.' ''Tis Mademoiselle de Retz, then.' 'No, it isn't,
madame; you are terribly provincial.' 'O, we are very stupid, no
doubt,' say you; ''tis Mademoiselle Colbert.' Farther off than ever.
'Well, then, it must be Mademoiselle de Crequi?' You are not a bit
nearer. Come, I see I must tell you at last. Well, M. de Lauzun
marries, next Sunday, at the Louvre, with the king's permission,
Mademoiselle--Mademoiselle de--Mademoiselle de--guess the name!--he
marries 'MADEMOISELLE,'--the _great_ Mademoiselle; Mademoiselle, the
daughter of the late Monsieur; Mademoiselle, granddaughter of Henry
the Fourth; Mademoiselle d'Eu, Mademoiselle de Dombes, Mademoiselle
de Montpensier, Mademoiselle d'Orleans, Mademoiselle, cousin of the
king, Mademoiselle, destined to the throne, Mademoiselle, the only
woman in France fit to marry Monsieur! Here's pretty news for your
_coteries_! Exclaim about it as much as you will; let it turn your
heads; say, we 'lie,' if you please; that it's a pretty joke; that
it's 'tiresome;' that we are a 'parcel of ninnies;' we give you leave;
we have done just the same to others. Adieu! The letters that come by
the post will show whether we have been speaking truth or not."
Once more with her to Paris, and listen to the graphic description
which she gives her daughter of the French court:--
"PARIS, Wednesday, _July 24th, 1676_.
"We have a change of the scene here, which will gratify you as
much as it does all the world. I was at Versailles last Saturday
with the Villarses. You know the queen's toilet, the mass, and the
dinner? Well, there is no longer any need of suffocating ourselves
in a crowd to get a glimpse of their majesties at table. At three,
the king, the queen, monsieur, madame, mademoiselle, and every
thing else which is royal, together with De Montespan and train,
and all the courtiers, and all the ladies, all, in short, which
constitutes the court of France, is assembled in that beautiful
apartment of the king's which you remember. All is furnished
divinely; all is magnificent. Such a thing as heat is unknown; you
pass from one place to another without the slightest pressure. A
game at _reversis_ gives the company a form and a settlement. The
king and Madame de Montespan keep a bank together; different
tables are kept by monsieur, the queen, Dangeau and party, &c.;
every where you see heaps of _Louis d'ors_; they have no counters.
I saw Dangeau play, and thought what fools we were beside him. He
dreams of nothing but what concerns the game; he wins where others
lose; he neglects nothing, and profits by every thing; never has
his attention diverted; in short, his science bids defiance to
chance. Two hundred thousand francs in ten days--a pretty
memorandum to put down in his pocket-book! He was kind enough to
say that I was partner with him, so that I got an excellent seat.
I made my obeisance to the king, as you told me; and he returned
it as if I had been young and handsome. The queen talked to me
about my illness; the duke said a thousand pretty things, without
minding a word he uttered. Marechal de Lorges attacked me in the
name of the Chevalier de Grignan; in short, all the company. You
know what it is to get a word from every body you meet. Madame de
Montespan talked to me of Bourbon, and asked me how I liked Vichi,
and whether the place did me good. She said that Bourbon, instead
of curing the pain in one of her knees, did mischief to both. Her
size is reduced one half, and yet her complexion, her eyes, and
her lips, are as fine as ever. She was dressed all in French
point, her hair in a thousand ringlets, the two side ones hanging
low on her cheeks, black ribbons on her head, pearls,--the same
that belonged to Madame de l'Hopital,--the loveliest diamond
ear-rings, three or four bodkins, nothing else on the head; in
short, a triumphant beauty, worthy the admiration of all foreign
ambassadors. She was accused of preventing the whole French nation
from seeing the king; she has restored him, you see, to their
eyes; and you cannot conceive the joy it has given all the world,
and the splendor it has thrown upon the court. This charming
confusion, without confusion, of all which is the most select,
continues from three to six. If couriers arrive, the king retires
a moment to read the despatches, and returns. There is always some
music going on, to which he listens, and which has an excellent
effect. He talks with such of the ladies as are accustomed to
enjoy that honor. In short, they leave play at six; there is no
trouble of counting, for there is no sort of counters; the pools
consist of five or six Louis; the bigger one, of a thousand or
twelve hundred. Talking is incessantly going on, and there is no
end of _hearts_. 'How many hearts have you?' 'I have two;' 'I have
three;' and Dangeau is delighted with all this chatter; he sees
through the game; he draws his conclusions; he discovers which is
the person he wants: truly he is your man for holding the cards.
At six the carriages are at the door. The king is in one of them,
with Madame de Montespan, Monsieur and Madame de Thianges, and
honest D'Heudicourt, in a fool's paradise on the stool. You know
how those open carriages are made; they do not sit face to face,
but all looking the same way. The queen occupies another, with the
princess; and the rest come flocking after, as it may happen.
There are then gondolas on the canal; and music; and at ten they
come back, and then there is a play; and twelve strikes, and they
go to supper; and thus rolls round the Saturday."
And thus rolled round every day; and to support this wanton and
profligate expenditure of money, the people were ground to the dust
with taxes. Nothing can more strongly mark the general debasement of
sentiment, than that Madame de Sevigne, a woman whose character the
breath of slander had never ventured to asperse, should describe this
scene without one word of reprobation, but, on the contrary, should
conclude with a wish that this season of happiness at the court may
endure.
The following extract seems to show that she had a yearning for
something better in the midst of this idle dissipation--though the
terms in which she expresses herself are far from commendable: "I wish
I could be religious. I plague La Moresse--the abbe--about it every
day. I belong at present neither to God nor devil; and I find this
condition very uncomfortable; though, between you and me, I think it
the most natural in the world. One does not belong to the devil,
because one fears God, and has at bottom a principle of religion; but
then, on the other hand, one does not belong to God, because his laws
appear hard, and self-denial is not pleasant. Hence the great number
of the lukewarm, which does not surprise me at all; I enter perfectly
into their reasons; only God, you know, hates them, and that must not
be. But there lies the difficulty. Why must I torment you with these
rhapsodies? My dear child, _I ask your pardon_, as they say in these
parts. I rattle on in your company, and forget every thing else in the
pleasure of it. Don't make me any answer. Send me only news of your
health, with a spice of what you feel at Grignan, that I may know you
are happy; that is all. Love me. We have turned the phrase into
ridicule; but it is natural; it is good."
Perhaps she was led into these reflections by her admiration for the
beautiful Duchess de Longueville, who, from having been "the greatest
of sinners, became the greatest of saints:" a princess of the blood
royal,--a leader in all the dissolute scenes which characterized the
wars of the Fronde,--she voluntarily retired to a convent, where she
practised all those austerities, by which the pious Catholic believed
he might atone for past transgressions. Of the sincerity of her
conversion she gave repeated testimonies, and Madame de Sevigne ever
speaks of her with the greatest veneration and respect. That she had
too much good practical sense to be deceived by those who sought by
the excitement of religious rites to make up for the loss of the
excitements of pleasure, or who assumed the garb of religion in mere
compliance with the fashion which prevailed at court, under the rule
of Madame de Maintenon, is apparent from the light tone of the
following passage: "Madame de T. wears no rouge, and hides her person,
instead of displaying it. Under this disguise it is difficult to know
her again. I was sitting next her at dinner the other day, and a
servant brought her a glass of _vin de liqueur_; she turned to me, and
said, 'This man does not know that I am _devote_.' This made us all
laugh, and she spoke very naturally of her changes, and of her good
intentions. She now minds what she says of her neighbors, and stops
short in her recitals, with a scream at her bad habits. There are bets
made that Madame d'H. will not be _devote_ within a year, and that she
will resume her rouge. This rouge is the law and the prophets, and on
this rouge turns the whole of the Christian religion."
Tested by the morality of our day, Madame de Sevigne could not claim a
very exalted character: yet we are bound to mention one trait, which
honorably distinguishes her from her contemporaries. Louis XIV., for
the purpose of reducing the power of his nobles, systematically
encouraged them in the most boundless extravagance, of which he
himself set them the example. The natural consequence followed; they
became inextricably involved in debts, with so little idea of ever
paying them, that the conduct of the Cardinal de Retz, who sought to
atone for early excesses by retiring to the country, and husbanding
his resources for this purpose, excited universal wonder, and was too
extraordinary to be generally credited. Madame de Sevigne fully
appreciated the propriety of this conduct of De Retz, and bestows upon
it many commendations. When such were the sentiments of her mother, it
is not a little surprising to hear of a poor milliner, whose
necessities compelled her to undertake a journey of five hundred
miles, from Paris to Provence, to collect a debt from Madame de
Grignan, being dismissed without her money, and being told in
substance, if not in words, that she might thank her good fortune that
she did not make her exit through the window--a summary mode of
cancelling debts, often threatened, if not executed, when creditors
were importunate. Nor were Madame de Sevigne's mere professions. The
occasion arose which tried her principles. The extravagance of her
husband left her with estates encumbered with debts; the education
and maintenance of her children were expensive; her son's commission
in the army was purchased at a high price; her rents were not paid
with punctuality, and she was obliged to remit large debts to her
tenants. From all these causes, she found herself, at the age of
fifty-eight, involved in debts, which nothing but a retirement from
Paris, and the practice of a rigid economy, would enable her to pay.
She did not hesitate to withdraw herself from her beloved society in
Paris, and to retire to "The Rocks." The sacrifice was rendered more
complete by the fact that her daughter was at that time residing at
Paris. Her absence was felt bitterly by her friends, and she was at
once mortified and gratified by the offer of a loan of money to
facilitate her return. Madame de la Fayette wrote to make her the
proposition: "You must not, my dear, at any price whatever, pass the
winter in Brittany. You are old; 'The Rocks' are thickly wooded; colds
will destroy you; you will get weary; your mind will become sad, and
lose its tone: this is certain; and all the business in the world is
nothing in comparison. Do not speak of money nor of debts;" and then
follows the proposal. Madame de Sevigne declined the offer, being
unwilling to incur the obligation. Conceived with all possible
kindness, there was a sting in the letter which Madame de Sevigne
confesses to her daughter, that she felt. "You were, then, struck by
Madame de la Fayette's expression mingled with so much kindness.
Although I never allow myself to forget this truth, I confess I was
quite surprised; for as yet I feel no decay to remind me of it.
However, I often reflect and calculate, and find the conditions on
which we enjoy life very hard. It seems to me that I was dragged, in
spite of myself, to the fatal term when one must suffer old age. I see
it--am there. I should at least like to go no farther in the road of
decrepitude, pain, loss of memory, and disfigurement, which are at
hand to injure me. I hear a voice that says, 'Even against your will
you must go on; or, if you, refuse, you must die;' which is another
necessity from which nature shrinks. Such is the fate of those who go
a little too far. What is their resource? To think of the will of God,
and the universal law; and so restore reason to its place, and be
patient. Be you, then, patient, my dear child, and let not your
affection soften into such tears as reason must condemn."
As Madame de Sevigne would not return to Paris, her friends heard with
pleasure that she had resolved to go to Grignan, the residence of her
daughter in Provence. Here the greater part of her remaining life was
spent, and the correspondence with her daughter entirely ceases from
this time. Madame de Sevigne died, after a sudden and short illness,
in April, 1696, at the age of seventy.
It may gratify some to know that the letters of Madame de Sevigne were
apparently written in haste, beginning the writing on the second page
of the paper, continuing to the third and fourth, and returning to the
first: she used neither sand nor blotting-paper. Speaking to her
daughter, Madame de S. says, "The princess is always saying that she
is going to write to you; she mends her pens; for her writing is a
great affair, and her letters a sort of embroidery; not done in a
moment. _We_ should never finish, were we to make fine twists and
twirls to our _D's_ and _L's_;" in allusion to the German and Italian
fashion of the day of making ornaments with their pens, called _lacs
d'amour_. The letters were sealed on both sides, and a piece of white
floss silk fastened it entirely round.
Of the English admirers of Madame de Sevigne, the most distinguished
and the most warm in the expression of their admiration are Horace
Walpole and Sir James Mackintosh, men of totally opposite turns of
mind; the former a professed wit, and himself a letter-writer, the
latter a grave lawyer and statesman. We conclude this memoir by giving
the character of Madame de Sevigne as drawn by the latter. "The great
charm of her character seems to me a _natural_ virtue. In what she
does, as well as in what she says, she is unforced and unstudied;
nobody, I think, had so much morality without constraint, and played
so much with amiable feelings without falling into vice. Her
ingenious, lively, social disposition gave the direction to her mental
power. She has so filled my heart with affectionate interest in her as
a living friend, that I can scarcely bring myself to think of her as a
writer, or as having a style; but she has become a celebrated, perhaps
an immortal writer, without expecting it: she is the only classical
writer who never conceived the possibility of acquiring fame. Without
a great force of style, she could not have communicated those
feelings. In what does that talent consist? It seems mainly to consist
in the power of working bold metaphors, and unexpected turns of
expression, out of the most familiar part of conversational
language."