_Her Character--Her Heroic Part in the Fronde--Her Exile--Literary
Diversions of her Salon--A Romantic Episode_
There are certain women preeminently distinguished by diversity of
gifts, who fail to leave behind them a fame at all commensurate with
their promise. It may be from a lack of unity, resulting from a series
of fragmentary efforts, no one of which is of surpassing excellence;
it may be that the impression of power they give is quite beyond any
practical manifestation of it; or it may be that talents in themselves
remarkable are cast into the shade by some exceptional brilliancy of
position. The success of life is measured by the harmony between its
ideals and its attainments. It is the symmetry of the temple that gives
the final word, not the breadth of its foundations nor the wealth of its
material.
It was this lack of harmony and fine proportion which marred the
career of a woman who played a very conspicuous part in the social and
political life of her time, and who belongs to my subject only through
a single phase of a stormy and eventful history. No study of the salons
would be complete without that of the Grande Mademoiselle, but it
was not as the leader of a coterie that she held her special claim to
recognition. By the accident of birth she stood apart, subject to many
limitations that modified the character of her salon and narrowed its
scope, though they emphasized its influence. It was only an incident
of her life, but through the quality of its habitues and their unique
diversions it became the source of an important literature.
Anne Marie Louise d'Orleans, Duchesse de Montpensier, has left a very
distinct record of herself in letters, romances, memoirs and portraits,
written out of an abounding fullness of nature, but with infinite detail
and royal contempt for precision and orthography. She talks naively
of her happy childhood, of her small caprices, of the love of her
grandmother, Marie de Medicis, of her innocent impressions of the people
about her. She dwells with special pleasure upon a grand fete at the
Palais Royal, in which she posed as an incipient queen. She was then
nineteen. "They were three entire days in arranging my costume," she
writes. "My robe was covered with diamonds, and trimmed with rose,
black, and white tufts. I wore all the jewels of the crown and of the
Queen of England, who still had some left. No one could be better or
more magnificently attired than I was that day, and many people said
that my beautiful figure, my imposing mien, my fair complexion, and the
splendor of my blonde hair did not adorn me less than all the riches
which were upon my person." She sat resplendent upon a raised dais, with
the proud consciousness of her right and power to grace a throne. Louis
XIV, than a child, and the Prince of Wales, afterwards Charles II, were
at her feet. The latter was a devoted suitor. "My heart as well as my
eyes regarded the prince de haut en bas," she says. "I had the spirit to
wed an emperor."
There were negotiations for her marriage with the Emperor of Austria,
and she thought it wise to adapt herself in advance to his tastes. She
had heard that he was religious, and immediately began to play the part
of a devote so seriously, that she was seized with a violent desire to
become a veritable religieuse and enter the convent of the Carmelites.
She could neither eat nor sleep, and it was feared that she would fall
dangerously ill. "I can only say that, during those eight days, the
empire was nothing to me," she writes. But she confesses to a certain
feeling of vanity at her own spirit of self-sacrifice, and the
sensibility which made her weep at the thought of leaving those she
loved. This access of piety was of short duration, however, as her
father quickly put to flight all her exalted visions of a cloister. Her
dreams of an emperor for whom she lost a prospective king were alike
futile.
"She had beauty, talent, wealth, virtue, and a royal birth," says Mme.
de Motteville. "Her face was not without defects, and her intellect was
not one which always pleases. Her vivacity deprived all her actions of
the gravity necessary to people of her rank, and her mind was too much
carried away by her feelings. As she was fair, had fine eyes, a pleasing
mouth, was of good height, and blonde, she had quite the air of a great
beauty." But it was beauty of a commanding sort, without delicacy, and
dependent largely upon the freshness of youth. The same veracious
writer says that "she spoiled all she went about by the eagerness and
impatience of her temper. She was always too hasty and pushed things too
far." What she may have lacked in grace and charm, she made up by the
splendors of rank and position.
A princess by birth, closely related to three kings, and glowing with
all the fiery instincts of her race, the Grand Mademoiselle curiously
blended the courage of an Amazon with the weakness of a passionate and
capricious woman. As she was born in 1627, the most brilliant days of
her youth were passed amid the excitements of the Fronde. She casts a
romantic light upon these trivial wars, which were ended at last by her
prompt decision and masculine force. We see her at twenty-five, riding
victoriously into the city of Orleans at the head of her troops and,
later, ordering the cannon at the Bastile turned against the royal
forces, and opening the gates of Paris to the exhausted army of Conde.
This adventure gives us the key-note to her haughty and imperious
character. She would have posed well for the heroine of a great drama;
indeed, she posed all her life in real dramas.
At this time she had hopes of marrying the Prince de Conde, whom she
regarded as a hero worthy of her. His wife, an amiable woman who was
sent to a convent after her marriage to learn to read and write, was
dangerously ill, and her illustrious husband did not scruple to make
tacit arrangements to supply her place. Unfortunately for these plans,
and fortunately perhaps for a certain interesting phase of literature,
she recovered. Soon afterwards, Mademoiselle found the reward of her
heroic adventures in a sudden exile to her estates at Saint Fargeau. The
country life, so foreign to her tastes, pressed upon her very heavily
at first, the more so as she was deserted by most of her friends.
"I received more compliments than visits," she writes. "I had made
everybody ill. All those who did not dare send me word that they feared
to embroil themselves with the court pretended that some malady or
accident had befallen them." By degrees, however, she adapted herself to
her situation, and in her loneliness and disappointment betook herself
to pursuits which offered a strong contrast to the dazzling succession
of magnificent fetes and military episodes which had given variety and
excitement to her life at the Tuileries. When she grew tired of her
parrots, her dogs, her horses, her comedians and her violin, she found
solace in literature, beginning the "Memoirs," which were finished
thirty years later, and writing romances, after the manner of Mlle. de
Scudery. The drift of the first one, "Les Nouvelles Francaises et les
Divertissements de la Princesse Aurelie," is suggested by its title. It
was woven from the little stories or adventures which were told to
amuse their solitude by the small coterie of women who had followed the
clouded fortunes of Mademoiselle. A romance of more pretension was the
"Princesse de Paphlagonie," in which the writer pictures her own little
court, and introduces many of its members under fictitious names.
These romances have small interest for the world today, but the exalted
position of their author and their personal character made them much
talked of in their time.
It was in quite another fashion, however, that the Grande Mademoiselle
made her most important contribution to literature. One day in 1657,
while still in the country, she proposed to her friends to make pen
portraits of themselves, and set the fashion by writing her own, with a
detailed description of her physical, mental, and moral qualities. This
was followed by carefully drawn pictures of others, among whom were
Louis XIV, Monsieur, and the Grand Conde. All were bound in honor to
give the lights and shadows with the same fidelity, though it would be
hardly wise to call them to too strict an account on this point. As may
be readily imagined, the result was something piquant and original. That
the amusement was a popular one goes without saying. People like to talk
of themselves, not only because the subject is interesting, but because
it gives them an opportunity of setting in relief their virtues and
tempering their foibles. They like also to know what others think of
them--at least, what others say of them. It is too much to expect of
human nature, least of all, of French human nature, that an agreeable
modicum of subtle flattery should not be added under such conditions.
When Mademoiselle opened her salon in the Luxembourg, on her return from
exile, these portraits formed one of its most marked features. The salon
was limited mainly to the nobility, with the addition of a few men
of letters. Among those who frequented it on intimate terms were the
Marquise de Sable, the Comtesse de Maure, the beautiful and pure-hearted
Mme. de Hautefort, the dame d'honneur of Anne of Austria, so hopelessly
adored by Louis XIII, and Mme. de Choisy, the witty wife of the
chancellor of the Duc d'Orleans. Its most brilliant lights were Mme. de
Sevigne, Mme. de La Fayette, and La Rochefoucauld. It was here that Mme.
de La Fayette made the vivid portrait of her friend Mme. de Sevigne. "It
flatters me," said the latter long afterwards, "but those who loved me
sixteen years ago may have thought it true." The beautiful Comtesse
de Bregy, who was called one of the muses of the time, portrayed the
Princess Henrietta and the irrepressible Queen Christine of Sweden.
Mme. de Chatillon, known later as the Duchesse de Mecklenbourg, who was
mingled with all the intrigues of this period, traces a very agreeable
sketch of herself, which may serve as a specimen of this interesting
diversion. After minutely describing her person, which she evidently
regards with much complacence, she continues:
"I have a temper naturally cheerful and a little given to raillery; but
I correct this inclination, for fear of displeasing. I have much esprit,
and enter agreeably into conversation. I have a pleasant voice and a
modest air. I am very sincere and do not fail my friends. I have not
a trifling mind, nor do I cherish a thousand small malices against my
neighbor. I love glory and fine actions. I have heart and ambition. I
am very sensitive to good and ill, but I never avenge myself for the
ill that has been done me, although I might have the inclination; I am
restrained by self-love. I have a sweet disposition, take pleasure in
serving my friends, and fear nothing so much as the petty drawing-room
quarrels which usually grow out of little nothings. I find my person
and my temper constructed something after this fashion; and I am so
satisfied with both, that I envy no one. I leave to my friends or to my
enemies the care of seeking my faults."
It was under this stimulating influence that La Rochefoucauld made the
well-known pen-portrait of himself. "I will lack neither boldness
to speak as freely as I can of my good qualities," he writes, "nor
sincerity to avow frankly that I have faults." After describing his
person, temper, abilities, passions, and tastes, he adds with curious
candor: "I am but little given to pity, and do not wish to be so at all.
Nevertheless there is nothing I would not do for an afflicted person;
and I sincerely believe one should do all one can to show sympathy for
misfortune, as miserable people are so foolish that this does them the
greatest good in the world; but I also hold that we should be content
with expressing sympathy, and carefully avoid having any. It is a
passion that is wholly worthless in a well-regulated mind, that only
serves to weaken the heart, and should be left to people, who, never
doing anything from reason, have need of passion to stimulate their
actions. I love my friends; and I love them to such an extent that I
would not for a moment weigh my interest against theirs. I condescend
to them, I patiently endure their bad temper. But I do not make much of
their caresses, and I do not feel great uneasiness at their absence."
It would be interesting to quote in full this sample of the close and
not always flattering self-analysis so much in fashion, but its length
forbids. Its revelation of the hidden springs of character is at least
unique.
The poet Segrais, who was attached to Mademoiselle's household,
collected these graphic pictures for private circulation, but they were
so much in demand that they were soon printed for the public under
the title of "Divers Portraits." They served the double purpose of
furnishing to the world faithful delineations of many more or less
distinguished people and of setting a literary fashion. The taste for
pen-portraits, which originated in the romances of Mlle. de Scudery,
and received a fresh impulse from this novel and personal application,
spread rapidly among all classes. It was taken up by men of letters
and men of the world, the nobility, and the bourgeoisie. There were
portraits of every grade of excellence and every variety of people,
until they culminated, some years later in "Les Caracteres" of La
Bruyere, who dropped personalities and gave them the form of permanent
types. It is a literature peculiarly adapted to the flexibility and fine
perception of the French mind, and one in which it has been preeminent,
from the analytic but diffuse Mlle. de Scudery, and the clear, terse,
spirited Cardinal de Retz, to the fine, penetrating, and exquisitely
finished Sainte-Beuve, the prince of modern critics and literary
artists. It was this skill in vivid delineation that gave such point
and piquancy to the memoirs of the period, which are little more than
a series of brilliant and vigorous sketches of people outlined upon a
shifting background of events. In this rapid characterization the French
have no rivals. It is the charm of their fiction as well as of their
memoirs. Balzac, Victor Hugo, and Daudet, are the natural successors of
La Bruyere and Saint-Simon.
The marriage of Louis XIV shattered one of the most brilliant illusions
of the Grande Mademoiselle, and it was about this time that she wrote
a characteristic letter to Mme. de Motteville, picturing an Arcadia in
some beautiful forest, where people are free to do as they like. The
most ardent apostle of socialism could hardly dream of an existence more
democratic or more Utopian. These favored men and women lead a simple,
pastoral life. They take care of the house and the garden, milk the
cows, make cheese and cakes, and tend sheep on pleasant days. But this
rustic community must have its civilized amusements. They visit, drive,
ride on horseback, paint, design, play on the lute or clavecin, and have
all the new books sent to them. After reading the lives of heroes and
philosophers, the princess is convinced that no one is perfectly happy,
and that Christianity is desirable, as it gives hope for the future.
Her platonic and Christian republic is composed of "amiable and perfect
people," but it is quite free from the entanglements of love and the
"vulgar institution of marriage." Mme. de Motteville replies very
gracefully, accepting many of these ideas, but as it is difficult to
repress love altogether, she thinks "one will be obliged to permit that
error which an old custom has rendered legitimate, and which is called
marriage." This curious correspondence takes its color from the Spanish
pastorals which tinged the romantic literature of the time as well as
its social life. The long letters, carefully written on large and heavy
sheets yellow with age, have a peculiarly old-time flavor, and throw
a vivid light upon the woman who could play the role of a heroine of
Corneille or of a sentimental shepherdess, as the caprice seized her.
A tragical bit of romance colored the mature life of the Grande
Mademoiselle. She had always professed a great aversion to love,
regarding it as "unworthy of a well-ordered soul." She even went so far
as to say that it was better to marry from reason or any other thing
imaginable, dislike included, than from passion that was, in any case,
short-lived. But this princess of intrepid spirit, versatile gifts,
ideal fancies, and platonic theories, who had aimed at an emperor and
missed a throne; this amazon, with her penchant for glory and contempt
for love, forgot all her sage precepts, and at forty-two fell a victim
to a violent passion for the Comte de Lauzun. She has traced its course
to the finest shades of sentiment. Her pride, her infatuation, her
scruples, her new-born humility--we are made familiar with them
all, even to the finesse of her respectful adorer, and the reluctant
confession of love which his discreet silence wrings from her at last..
Her royal cousin, after much persuasion, consented to the unequal union.
The impression this affair made upon the world is vividly shown in a
letter written by Mme. de Sevigne to her daughter:
I am going to tell you a thing the most astonishing, the most
surprising, the most marvelous, the most miraculous, the most
triumphant, the most astounding, the most unheard of, the most singular,
the most extraordinary, the most incredible, the most unexpected, the
grandest, the smallest, the rarest, the most common, the most dazzling,
the most secret even until today, the most brilliant, the most worthy of
envy.... a thing in fine which is to be done Sunday, when those who see
it will believe themselves dazed; a thing which is to be done Sunday
and which will not perhaps have been done Monday... M. de Lauzun marries
Sunday, at the Louvre--guess whom?... He marries Sunday at the Louvre,
with the permission of the King, Mademoiselle, Mademoiselle de,
Mademoiselle; guess the name; he marries Mademoiselle, MA FOI, PAR MA
FOI, MA FOI JUREE, Mademoiselle, la grande Mademoiselle, Mademoiselle,
daughter of the late Monsieur, Mademoiselle, grand-daughter of Henry IV,
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 parti in France worthy of
Monsieur. VOILA a fine subject for conversation. If you cry out, if you
are beside yourself, if you say that we have deceived you, that it is
false, that one trifles with you, that it is a fine bit of raillery,
that it is very stupid to imagine, if, in fine, you abuse us, we shall
find that you are right; we have done as much ourselves.
In spite of the prudent warnings of her friends, the happy princess
could not forego the eclat of a grand wedding, and before the hasty
arrangements were concluded, the permission was withdrawn. Her tears,
her entreaties, her cries, her rage, and her despair, were of no avail.
Louis XIV took her in his arms, and mingled his tears with hers,
even reproaching her for the two or three days of delay; but he was
inexorable. Ten years of loyal devotion to her lover, shortly afterward
imprisoned at Pignerol, and of untiring efforts for his release which
was at last secured at the cost of half her vast estates, ended in a
brief reunion. A secret marriage, a swift discovery that her idol was
of very common clay, abuse so violent that she was obliged to forbid
him forever her presence, and the disenchantment was complete. The sad
remnant of her existence was devoted to literature and to conversation;
the latter she regarded as "the greatest pleasure in life, and almost
the only one." When she died, the Count de Lauzun wore the deepest
mourning, had portraits of her everywhere, and adopted permanently the
subdued colors that would fitly express the inconsolable nature of his
grief.
Without tact or fine discrimination, the Grande Mademoiselle was a woman
of generous though undisciplined impulses, loyal disposition, and pure
character; but her egotism was colossal. Under different conditions,
one might readily imagine her a second Joan of Arc, or a heroine of the
Revolution. She says of herself: "I know not what it is to be a heroine;
I am of a birth to do nothing that is not grand or elevated. One may
call that what one likes. As for myself, I call it to follow my own
inclination and to go my own way. I am not born to take that of others."
She lacked the measure, the form, the delicacy of the typical precieuse;
but her quick, restless intellect and ardent imagination were swift
to catch the spirit of the Hotel de Rambouillet, and to apply it in an
original fashion. Though many subjects were interdicted in her salon,
and many people were excluded, it gives us interesting glimpses into
the life of the literary noblesse, and furnishes a complete gallery
of pen-portraits of more or less noted men and women. With all the
brilliant possibilities of her life, it was through the diversion of her
idle hours that this princess, author, amazon, prospective queen, and
disappointed woman has left the most permanent trace upon the world.