PARIS, Wednesday, March 16, 1672.
You talk to me of my departure: alas! my dear, I languish in the
pleasing hope of it; nothing now stops me, but my poor aunt,[57] who
is dying with violent pain and dropsy: it breaks my heart to see her
sufferings, and to hear the tender and affecting manner in which she
talks to me: her courage, patience, and resignation, are all together
admirable. M. d’Hacqueville and I observe her distemper from day to
day; he sees my inmost heart, and knows what grief it is to me not to
be at liberty at present: I am entirely guided by him, and we shall
see, between this and Easter, whether her disorder increases as much
as it has done since I came hither; if it does, she will die in our
arms; but if she receives any relief, and is likely to languish for any
length of time, I shall then set out as soon as M. de Coulanges comes
back. Our poor abbé is as vexed at this as myself; but we shall be able
to judge how it will turn out by next month. I can think of nothing
else: you can not wish to see me so much as I do to embrace you; so put
some bounds to your ambition, and do not hope ever to equal me in that
respect.
[57] Henrietta de Coulanges, Marchioness de la Trousse.
My son tells me, they lead a wretched life in Germany, and are working
all in the dark. He was greatly concerned at the death of the poor
chevalier. You ask me if I am as fond of life as ever: I must own
to you that I experience mortifications, and severe ones too; but I
am still unhappy at the thoughts of death: I consider it so great a
misfortune to see the termination of all my pursuits, that I should
desire nothing better, if it were practicable, than to begin life
again. I find myself engaged in a scene of confusion and trouble: I
was embarked in life without my own consent, and know I must leave it
again: that distracts me; for how shall I leave it? in what manner? by
what door? at what time? in what disposition? Am I to suffer a thousand
pains and torments that will make me die in a state of despair? Shall I
lose my senses? Am I to die by some sudden accident? How shall I stand
with God? What shall I have to offer to him? Will fear and necessity
make my peace with him? Shall I have no other sentiment, but that of
fear? What have I to hope? Am I worthy of heaven? or have I deserved
the torments of hell? Dreadful alternative! Alarming uncertainty!
Can there be greater madness than to place our eternal salvation in
uncertainty? Yet what is more natural, or can be more easily accounted
for, than the foolish manner in which I have spent my life? I am
frequently buried in thoughts of this nature, and then death appears
so dreadful to me that I hate life more for leading me to it, than I
do for all the thorns that are strewed in its way. You will ask me
then, if I would wish to live forever? Far from it; but if I had been
consulted, I would very gladly have died in my nurse’s arms; it would
have spared me many vexations, and would have insured heaven to me at a
very easy rate: but let us talk of something else.
I am quite provoked that you have received Bajazet from any hand but
mine; that fellow Barbin[58] has served me this trick, out of spite,
because I do not write Princesses of Clèves and Montpensier.[59] You
form a very just and true judgment of Bajazet, and you will find that
I am of your opinion: I wish I could send you Champmêlée to enliven
it a little. The character of Bajazet wants life, and the manners of
the Turks are ill preserved: their marriages have less ceremony; the
plot is badly managed; and we are at a loss to account for so much
slaughter: the piece has doubtless its beauties; but there is nothing
superlative; nothing perfect; none of those fine strokes, that, like
Corneille’s, make one tremble. Let us be cautious how we compare Racine
with him; the difference between them is great: the pieces of the
latter are in many places cold and feeble; nor will he ever be able to
surpass his Alexander and Andromache. Many persons consider Bajazet as
inferior to both these, and it is my opinion also, if I may be allowed
to give it. Racine’s plays are written for Champmêlée, and not for
posterity;[60] whenever he grows old and ceases to be in love, it will
be seen whether I am mistaken or not. Long live then our old friend
Corneille; let us forgive the bad lines we occasionally meet with for
the sake of those divine sallies that so often transport us, those
masterly strokes that bid defiance to imitation. Despréaux has said as
much before me; and it is in general the opinion of every one of good
taste; let us therefore maintain it.
[58] A famous bookseller of that name.
[59] Two romances written by Madame de la Fayette, by which
Barbin got a great deal of money.
[60] The event has proved, by Mithridates, Phædra, and Athaliah,
that Madame de Sévigné’s judgment partook of the prejudice of the
times in which she wrote.
I send you a witticism of Madame de Cornuel’s, which has highly
diverted the crowd. Young M. Tombonneau has quitted the long robe,
and taken to the jacket and trowsers: in short, he is resolved to go
to sea; I do not know in what way the land has offended him; however,
somebody told Madame de Cornuel that he was going to sea. “Lord bless
the man!” said she, “has he been bitten by a mad dog?” As this was said
off hand, it raised a great laugh.