but I do not think she worshipped them, since she did not fully
understand them,--especially Fichte, whom she ridiculed, as well as
other obscure though profound writers, who disdained style and art in
writing, for which she was afterwards so distinguished. I believe
nine-tenths of German literature is wasted on Europeans for lack of
clearness and directness of style; although the involved obscurities
which are common to German philosophers and critics and historians alike
do not seem to derogate from their literary fame at home, and have even
found imitators in England, like Coleridge and Carlyle. Nevertheless,
obscurity and affectation are eternal blots on literary genius, since
they are irreconcilable with art, which alone gives perpetuity to
learning,--as illustrated by the classic authors of antiquity, and such
men as Pascal, Rousseau, and Macaulay in our times,--although the
pedants have always disdained those who write clearly and luminously,
and lost reverence for genius the moment it is understood; since clear
writing shows how little is truly original, and makes a disquisition on
a bug, a comma, or a date seem trivial indeed.
Hitherto, Madame de Staël had reigned in _salons_, rather than on the
throne of letters. Until her visit to Germany, she had written but two
books which had given her fame,--one, "On Literature, considered in its
Relations with Social Institutions," and a novel entitled
"Delphine,"--neither of which is much read or prized in these times.
The leading idea of her book on literature was the perfectibility of
human nature,--not new, since it had been affirmed by Ferguson in
England, by Kant in Germany, and by Turgot in France, and even by Roger
Bacon in the Middle Ages. But she claimed to be the first to apply
perfectibility to literature. If her idea simply means the
ever-expanding progress of the human mind, with the aids that Providence
has furnished, she is doubtless right. If she means that the necessary
condition of human nature, unaided, is towards perfection, she wars with
Christianity, and agrees with Rousseau. The idea was fashionable in its
day, especially by the disciples of Rousseau, who maintained that the
majority could not err. But if Madame de Staël simply meant that society
was destined to progressive advancement, as a matter of fact her view
will be generally accepted, since God rules this world, and brings good
out of evil. Some maintain we have made no advance over ancient India in
either morals or literature or science, or over Greece in art, or Rome
in jurisprudence; and yet we believe the condition of humanity to-day is
superior to what it has been, on the whole, in any previous age of our
world. But let us give the credit of this advance to God, and not
to man.
Her other book, "Delphine," published in 1802, made a great sensation,
like a modern first-class novel, but was severely criticised. Sydney
Smith reviewed it in a slashing article. It was considered by many as
immoral in its tendency, since she was supposed to attack marriage.
Sainte-Beuve, the greatest critic of the age, defends her against this
charge; but the book was doubtless very emotional, into which she poured
all the warmth of her ardent and ungoverned soul in its restless
agitation and cravings for sympathy,--a record of herself, blasted in
her marriage hopes and aspirations. It is a sort of New Héloïse, and,
though powerful, is not healthy. These two works, however, stamped her
as a woman of genius, although her highest triumphs were not yet won.
With the éclat of these two books she traversed Germany, studying laws,
literature, and manners, assisted in her studies by August v. Schlegel
(the translator of Shakspeare), who was tutor to her children, on a
salary of twelve thousand francs a year and expenses. She had great
admiration for this distinguished scholar, who combined with his
linguistic attainments an intense love of art and a profound
appreciation of genius, in whatever guise it was to be found. With such
a cicerone she could not help making great acquisitions. He was like
Jerome explaining to Paula the history of the sacred places; like Dr.
Johnson teaching ethics to Hannah More; like Michael Angelo explaining
the principles of art to Vittoria Colonna. She mastered the language of
which Frederick the Great was ashamed, and, for the first time, did
justice to the German scholars and the German character. She defended
the ideal philosophy against Locke and the French materialists; she made
a remarkable analysis of Kant; she warmly praised both Goethe and
Schiller; she admired Wieland; she had a good word for Fichte, although
she had ridiculed his obscurities of style.
The result of her travels was the most masterly dissertation on that
great country that has ever been written,--an astonishing book, when we
remember it was the first of any note which had appeared of its kind. To
me it is more like the history of Herodotus than any book of travels
which has appeared since that accomplished scholar traversed Asia and
Africa to reveal to his inquisitive countrymen the treasures of Oriental
monarchies. In this work, which is intellectually her greatest, she
towered not only over all women, but over all men who have since been
her competitors. It does not fall in with my purpose to give other than
a passing notice of this masterly production in order to show what a
marvellous woman she was, not in the realm of sentiment alone, not as a
writer of letters, but as a critic capable of grasping and explaining
all that philosophy, art, and literature have sought to accomplish in
that _terra incognita_, as Germany was then regarded. She revealed a new
country to the rest of Europe; she described with accuracy its manners
and customs; she did justice to the German intellect; she showed what
amazing scholarship already existed in the universities, far surpassing
both Paris and Oxford. She appreciated the German character, its
simplicity, its truthfulness, its sincerity, its intellectual boldness,
its patience, its reserved power, afterwards to be developed in
war,--qualities and attainments which have since raised Germany to the
foremost rank among the European nations.
This brilliant Frenchwoman, accustomed to reign in the most cultivated
social circles of Paris, shows a remarkable catholicity and breadth of
judgment, and is not shocked at phlegmatic dulness or hyperborean
awkwardness, or laughable simplicity; because she sees, what nobody else
then saw, a patience which never wearies, a quiet enthusiasm which no
difficulty or disgust destroys, and a great insight which can give
richness to literature without art, discrimination to philosophy without
conciseness, and a new meaning to old dogmas. She ventures to pluck from
the forbidden tree of metaphysics; and, reckless of the fiats of the
schools, she entered fearlessly into those inquiries which have appalled
both Greek and schoolman. Think of a woman making the best translation
and criticism of Kant which had appeared until her day! Her revelations
might have found more value in the eyes of pedants had she been more
obscure. But, as Sir James Mackintosh says, "Dullness is not accuracy,
nor is an elegant writer necessarily superficial." Divest German
metaphysics of their obscurities, and they might seem commonplace; take
away the clearness of French writers, and they might pass for profound.
Clearness and precision, however, are not what the world expects from
its teachers. It loves the fig-trees with nothing but leaves; it adores
the _stat magni nominis umbra_. The highest proof of severe culture is
the use of short and simple words on any subject whatever; and he who
cannot make his readers understand what he writes about does not
understand his subject himself.
I am happy to have these views corroborated by one of the best writers
that this country has produced,--I mean William Matthews:--
"The French, who if not the most original are certainly the acutest and
most logical thinkers in the world, are frequently considered frivolous
and shallow, simply because they excel all other nations in the
difficult art of giving literary interest to philosophy; while, on the
other hand, the ponderous Germans, who living in clouds of smoke have a
positive genius for making the obscure obscurer, are thought to be
original, because they are so chaotic and clumsy. But we have yet to
learn that lead is priceless because it is weighty, or that gold is
valueless because it glitters. The Damascus blade is none the less keen
because it is polished, nor the Corinthian shaft less strong because it
is fluted and its capital curved."
The production of such a woman, in that age, in which there is so much
learning combined with eloquence, and elevation of sentiment with acute
observation, and the graces of style with the spirit of
philosophy,--candid, yet eulogistic; discriminating, yet
enthusiastic,--made a great impression on the mind of cultivated Europe.
Napoleon however, with inexcusable but characteristic meanness, would
not allow its publication. The police seized the whole edition--ten
thousand--and destroyed every copy. They even tried to get possession of
the original copy, which required the greatest tact on the part of the
author to preserve, and which she carried with her on all her travels,
for six years, until it was finally printed in London.
Long before this great work was completed,--for she worked upon it six
years,--Madame de Staël visited, with Sismondi, that country which above
all others is dear to the poet, the artist, and the antiquarian. She
entered that classic and hallowed land amid the glories of a southern
spring, when the balmy air, the beautiful sky, the fresh verdure of the
fields, and the singing of the birds added fascination to scenes which
without them would have been enchantment. Châteaubriand, the only French
writer of her day with whom she stood in proud equality, also visited
Italy, but sang another song; she, bright and radiant, with hope and
cheerfulness, an admirer of the people and the country as they were; he,
mournful and desponding, yet not less poetic, with visions of departed
glory which the vast debris of the ancient magnificence suggested to his
pensive soul, O Italy, Italy! land of associations, whose history never
tires; whose antiquities are perpetual studies; whose works of art
provoke to hopeless imitation; whose struggles until recently were
equally chivalric and unfortunate; whose aspirations have ever been with
liberty, yet whose destiny has been successive slaveries; whose hills
and plains and vales are verdant with perennial loveliness, though
covered with broken monuments and deserted cities; where monks and
beggars are more numerous than even scholars and artists,--glory in
debasement, and debasement in glory, reminding us of the greatness and
misery of man; alike the paradise and the prison of the world; the
Minerva and the Niobe of nations,--never shall thy wonders be exhausted
or thy sorrows be forgotten!
"E'en in thy desert what is like to thee?
Thy very weeds are beautiful; thy wastes
More rich than other lands' fertility;
Thy wreck a glory, and thy ruin grand."
In this unfortunate yet illustrious land, ever fresh to travellers, ever
to be hallowed in spite of revolutions and assassinations, of popes and
priests, of semi-infidel artists and cynical savants, of beggars and
tramps, of filthy hotels and dilapidated villas, Madame de Staël
lingered more than a year, visiting every city which has a history and
every monument which has antiquity; and the result of that journey was
"Corinne,"--one of the few immortal books which the heart of the world
cherishes; which is as fresh to-day as it was nearly one hundred years
ago,--a novel, a critique, a painting, a poem, a tragedy; interesting to
the philosopher in his study and to the woman in her boudoir, since it
is the record of the cravings of a great soul, and a description of what
is most beautiful or venerated in nature or art. It is the most
wonderful book ever written of Italy,--with faults, of course, but a
transcript of profound sorrows and lofty aspirations. To some it may
seem exaggerated in its transports; but can transports be too highly
colored? Can any words be as vivid as a sensation? Enthusiasm, when
fully expressed, ceases to be a rapture; and the soul that fancies it
has reached the heights of love or beauty or truth, claims to comprehend
the immortal and the infinite.
It is the effort of genius to express the raptures and sorrows of a
lofty but unsatisfied soul, the glories of the imperishable in art and
life, which gives to "Corinne" its peculiar charm. It is the mirror of a
wide and deep experience,--a sort of "Divine Comedy," in which a Dante
finds a Beatrice, not robed in celestial loveliness, coursing from
circle to circle and star to star, explaining the mysteries of heaven,
but radiant in the beauty of earth, and glowing with the ardor of a
human love. Every page is masculine in power, every sentence is
condensed thought, every line burns with passion; yet every sentiment
betrays the woman, seeking to reveal her own boundless capacities of
admiration and friendship, to be appreciated, to be loved with that
fervor and disinterestedness which she was prepared to lavish on the
object of her adoration. No man could have made such revelations,
although it may be given to him to sing a greater song. While no woman
could have composed the "Iliad," or the "Novum Organum," or the
"Critique of Pure Reason," or "Othello," no man could have written
"Corinne" or "Adam Bede."
In painting Corinne, Madame de Staël simply describes herself, as she
did in "Delphine," with all her restless soul-agitations; yet not in too
flattering colors, since I doubt if there ever lived a more impassioned
soul, with greater desires of knowledge, or a more devouring thirst for
fame, or a profounder insight into what is lofty and eternal, than the
author of "Corinne." Like Héloïse, she could love but one; yet, unlike
Héloïse, she could not renounce, even for love, the passion for
admiration or the fascinations of society. She does not attempt to
disguise the immense sacrifices which love exacts and marriage implies,
but which such a woman as Héloïse is proud to make for him whom she
deems worthy of her own exalted sentiments; and she shows in the person
of Corinne how much weakness may coexist with strength, and how timid
and dependent is a woman even in the blaze of triumph and in the
enjoyment of a haughty freedom. She paints the most shrinking delicacy
with the greatest imprudence and boldness, contempt for the opinions and
usages of society with the severest self-respect; giving occasion for
scandal, yet escaping from its shafts; triumphant in the greatness of
her own dignity and in the purity of her unsullied soul. "Corinne" is a
disguised sarcasm on the usages of society among the upper classes in
Madame de Staël's day, when a man like Lord Neville is represented as
capable of the most exalted passion, and almost ready to die for its
object, and at the same time is unwilling to follow its promptings to an
honorable issue,--ready even, at last, to marry a woman for whom he
feels no strong attachment, or even admiration, in compliance with
expediency, pride, and family interests.
But "Corinne" is not so much a romance as it is a description of Italy
itself, its pictures, its statues, its palaces, its churches, its
antiquities, its literature, its manners, and its aspirations; and it is
astonishing how much is condensed in that little book. The author has
forestalled all poets and travellers, and even guidebooks; all
successive works are repetitions or amplifications of what she has
suggested. She is as exhaustive and condensed as Thucydides; and, true
to her philosophy, she is all sunshine and hope, with unbounded faith in
the future of Italy,--an exultant prophet as well as a critical observer.
This work was published in Paris in 1807, when Napoleon was on the apex
of his power and glory; and no work by a woman was ever hailed with
greater enthusiasm, not in Paris merely, but throughout Europe. Yet
nothing could melt the iron heart of Napoleon, and he continued his
implacable persecution of its author, so that she was obliged to
continue her travels, though travelling like a princess. Again she
visited Germany, and again she retired to her place near Geneva, where
she held a sort of court, the star of which, next to herself, was Madame
Récamier, whose transcendent beauty and equally transcendent loveliness
of character won her admiration and friendship.
In 1810 Madame de Staël married Rocca, of Italian or Spanish origin, who
was a sickly and dilapidated officer in the French army, little more
than half her age,--he being twenty-five and she forty-five,--a strange
marriage, almost incredible, if such marriages were not frequent. He,
though feeble, was an accomplished man, and was taken captive by the
brilliancy of her talk and the elevation of her soul. It is harder to
tell what captured her, for who can explain the mysteries of love? The
marriage proved happy, however, although both parties dreaded ridicule,
and kept it secret. The romance of the thing--if romance there was--has
been equalled in our day by the marriages of George Eliot and Miss
Burdett Coutts. Only very strong characters can afford to run such
risks. The caprices of the great are among the unsolved mysteries of
life. A poor, wounded, unknown young man would never have aspired to
such an audacity had he not been sure of his ground; and the probability
is that she, not he, is to be blamed for that folly,--if a woman is to
be blamed for an attachment which the world calls an absurdity.
The wrath of Napoleon waxing stronger and stronger, Madame de Staël felt
obliged to flee even from Switzerland. She sought a rest in England; but
England was hard to be reached, as all the Continent save Russia was in
bondage and fear. She succeeded in reaching Vienna, then Russia, and
finally Sweden, where she lingered, as it was the fashion, to receive
attentions and admiration from all who were great in position or eminent
for attainments in the northern capitals of Europe. She liked even
Russia; she saw good everywhere, something to praise and enjoy wherever
she went. Moscow and St. Petersburg were equally interesting,--the old
and the new, the Oriental magnificence of the one, the stupendous
palaces and churches of the other. Romanzoff, Orloff, the Empress
Elizabeth, and the Emperor Alexander himself gave her distinguished
honors and hospitalities, and she saw and recorded their greatness, and
abandoned herself to pleasures which were new.
After a delightful winter in Stockholm, she sailed for England, where
she arrived in safety, 1813, twenty years after her first visit, and in
the ninth of her exile. Her reception in the highest circles was
enthusiastic. She was recognized as the greatest literary woman who had
lived. The Prince Regent sought her acquaintance; the greatest nobles
feted her in their princely palaces. At the house of the Marquis of
Lansdowne, at Lord Jersey's, at Rogers's literary dinners, at the
reunions of Holland House, everywhere, she was admired and honored. Sir
James Mackintosh, the idol and oracle of English society at that time,
pronounced her the most intellectual woman who had adorned the
world,--not as a novelist and poet merely, but as philosopher and
critic, grappling with the highest questions that ever tasked the
intellect of man. Byron alone stood aloof; he did not like strong-minded
women, any more than Goethe did, especially if they were not beautiful.
But he was constrained to admire her at last. Nobody could resist the
fascination and brilliancy of her conversation. It is to be regretted
that she did not write a book on England, which on the whole she
admired, although it was a little too conventional for her. But she was
now nearly worn out by the excitements and the sorrows of her life. She
was no longer young. Her literary work was done. And she had to resort
to opium to rally from the exhaustion of her nervous energies.
On the fall of Napoleon, Madame de Staël returned to Paris,--the city
she loved so well; the city so dear to all Frenchmen and to all
foreigners, to all gay people, to all intellectual people, to all
fashionable people, to all worldly people, to all pious people,--to them
the centre of modern civilization. Exile from this city has ever been
regarded as a great calamity,--as great as exile was to Romans, even to
Cicero. See with what eagerness Thiers himself returned to this charmed
capital when permitted by the last Napoleon! In this city, after her ten
years' exile, Madame de Staël reigned in prouder state than at any
previous period of her life. She was now at home, on her own throne as
queen of letters, and also queen of society. All the great men who were
then assembled in Paris burned their incense before her,--Châteaubriand,
Lafayette, Talleyrand, Guizot, Constant, Cuvier, Laplace. Distinguished
foreigners swelled the circle of her admirers,--Blücher, Humboldt,
Schlegel, Canova, Wellington, even the Emperor of Russia. The
Restoration hailed her with transport; Louis XVIII. sought the glory of
her talk; the press implored her assistance; the salons caught
inspiration from her presence. Never was woman seated on a prouder
throne. But she did not live long to enjoy her unparalleled social
honors. She was stifled, like Voltaire, by the incense of idolaters; the
body could no longer stand the strain of the soul, and she sunk, at the
age of fifty-one, in the year 1817, a few months before her husband
Rocca, whom, it appears, she ever tenderly loved.
Madame de Staël died prematurely, as precocious people generally
do,--like Raphael, Pascal, Schiller, I may add Macaulay and Mill; but
she accomplished much, and might have done more had her life been
spared, for no one doubts her genius,--perhaps the most remarkable
female writer who has lived, on the whole. George Sand is the only
Frenchwoman who has approached her in genius and fame. Madame de Staël
was novelist, critic, essayist, and philosopher, grasping the
profoundest subjects, and gaining admiration in everything she
attempted. I do not regard her as pre-eminently a happy woman, since her
marriages were either unfortunate or unnatural. In the intoxicating
blaze of triumph and admiration she panted for domestic beatitudes, and
found the earnest cravings of her soul unsatisfied. She sought relief
from herself in society, which was a necessity to her, as much as
friendship or love; but she was restless, and perpetually travelling.
Moreover, she was a persecuted woman during the best ten years of her
life. She had but little repose of mind or character, and was worldly,
vain, and ambitious. But she was a great woman and a good woman, in
spite of her faults and errors; and greater in her womanly qualities
than she was in her writings, remarkable as these were. She had a great
individuality, like Dr. Johnson and Thomas Carlyle. And she lives in the
hearts of her countrymen, like Madame Récamier; for it was not the
beauty and grace of this queen of society which made her beloved, but
her good-nature, amiability, power of friendship, freedom from envy, and
generous soul.