Part 22

The principal friends of madame de Sévigné were united in what she termed the Fauxbourg, where the house of madame de la Fayette, then the resort of the persons most distinguished in Paris for talent, wit, refinement, and good moral conduct, was situated. Madame de la Fayette, and her friend the duke de la Rochefoucauld, have already been introduced to the reader in the memoir of the latter. It would seem that the lady was not a favourite with madame de Grignan, and that, with all her talents, she was not popular; but she had admirable qualities; the use of the French term vraie was invented as applicable to her; for Rochefoucauld abridged into this single word Segrais' description, that "she loved the true in all things." This excess of frankness gave her, with some, an air of dryness; and madame de Sévigné's children did not share her affection, which even did not blind her to her friend's defects. Speaking of the Fauxbourg, she says, "I am loved as much as she can love." In an age when there was so much disquisition on character and motive, and in a mind like madame de Sévigné's, so open to impression, and so penetrating, it is no wonder that slight defects were readily discerned, nor that they should be mentioned in so open-hearted an intercourse as that between mother and daughter. All human beings have blots and slurs in their character, or they would not be human. We judge by the better part--by that which raises a circle or an individual superior to the common run, not by those failings which stamp all our fellow-creatures as sons of Adam. Thus, we may pronounce on madame de la Fayette as being one of the most remarkable women of the age, for talent, for wit, and for the sincerity, strength, and uprightness of her character. She suffered much from ill health. Her society was confined to that which she assembled at her own house; but that circumstance only rendered it the more chosen and agreeable.

M. and madame de Coulanges formed its ornaments. He was madame de Sévigné's cousin, and brought up with her, though several years younger. His lively thoughtless disposition made him the charm of society. He was educated for the bar, but was far too vivacious to make his way. He was pleading a suit concerning a marsh disputed by two peasants, one of whom was called Grappin:--perceiving that he was getting confused in the details, and in the points of law, he suddenly broke off his speech, exclaiming, "Excuse me, gentlemen, but I am drowning myself in Grappin's marsh: I am your most obedient;" and so threw up his brief, and, it is said, never took another.[68] He was, in youth, and continued to the end of his life, a man of pleasure, singing with spirit songs which he made impromptu, and which, afterwards, every one learnt as _à propos_ of the events of the day; a teller of good stories, a lover of good dinners, an enjoyer of good wine; charming every one by the exuberance of his spirits; amusing others, because he himself was amused. He loved books, he cultivated his taste, and collected pictures, joining the refinements and tastes of a gentleman to the hilarity and recklessness of a boy.

His wife, a relation of le Tellier and Louvois, enjoyed the reputation of a wit, as well as of being the most charming woman in Paris. She had good sense, and was often annoyed by her husband's thoughtlessness, which caused him to degenerate at times into buffoonery; while her repartees and letters caused her to be universally cited and esteemed[69]; and her easy agreeable conversation made her the delight of every one who knew her. The airiness of her mind is well expressed in the names madame de Sévigné gives her in her correspondence: la Mouche, la Feuille, la Sylphide all denote a mixture of lightness, gaiety, and grace, with a touch of coquetry, and the _piquancé_ of wit, whose point was sharp, but free from venom. When madame de Maintenon became the chief lady in the kingdom, she was charmed to have near her this early friend and amusing companion. Madame de Coulanges frequented court assiduously, but she enjoyed no place. Her species of intellect was characteristic of the times. The conceits, mystifications, and metaphysical flights of the Hôtel de Rambouillet had given place to wit, and to sententious and pointed, yet perspicuous and natural, turns of expression. Truth and clearness, and a certain sort of art, that shrouded itself in an appearance of simplicity, was the tone aimed at by those who wished to shine. Equivokes, _sous-entendres_, metaphors, and antithesis, all kinds of trifles, sarcastic or laudatory, were lightly touched on, coloured for a moment with rainbow-hues, and vanished as fast: these were the fashion; and no conversation was more replete with these, and yet freer from obvious pretension, than that of madame de Coulanges. It is true that there must always be a sort of pedantry in an adherence to a fashion; but, when the manner is graceful, smiling, unaffected, and original, the pretension is lost in the pleasure derived. All this was natural to madame de Coulanges. Her confessor said of her. "Each of this lady's sins is an epigram." When recovering from a severe illness, madame de Sévigné announced, as the sign of her convalescence, "Epigrams are beginning to be pointed;" not that by epigrams sarcasms were meant, but merely novel turns of expression, words wittily applied, ideas full of finesse, that pleased by their originality. She and her husband were, perhaps, too much alike to accord well: she was annoyed at his want of dignity, and the heedlessness that, joined to her extravagance, left them poor and himself unconsidered. He liked to be where he was more at his ease than in his wife's company. Her faults, however, diminished as she grew old. She learnt to appreciate the court at its true value. She ceased her attendance on madame de Maintenon; but her intimacy with Ninon de l'Enclos continued to the end of her life. The ingratitude of her court friends, the smallness of her fortune, her advancing age, and consequent loss of beauty, and her weak health, rendered her neither crabbed nor sad: on the contrary, she became indulgent, gentle, and contented.

Her husband preserved his characteristics to the end. When exhorted by a preacher to more serious habits, he replied by an impromptu:--

"Je voudrois, à mon âge, Il en seroit le temps, Etre moins volage Que les jeunes gens, Et mettre en usage D'un vieillard bien sage Tous les sentimens.

"Je voudrois du viel homme Etre séparé; Le morceau de pomme N'est pas digéré."[70]

He died at the advanced age of eighty.

During the earlier portion of the correspondence, madame Scarron figures as one of the favourite guests of the Fauxbourg. Her husband was dead, and she was living at the Hôtel d'Albret, among her earliest friends. The latter correspondence is full of anecdotes about her, as madame de Maintenon, and indicate her gradual advancement; but those which speak of her early days, when she was the char&i and ornament of her circle, merely through her talents, and agreeable and excellent qualities, are the most interesting.

Corbinelli was another chief friend of madame de Sévigné. He was descended from an Italian, who came into France on the marriage of Catherine de Medici and Henry II. His father was attached to marshal d'Ancre, and was enveloped in his ruin. We have no details of his actual circumstances, except that, although he was poor, his position in society was brilliant. A stranger, without employment, without fortune or rank, he was sought, esteemed, and loved by the first society; while his character presents many contradictions. Studious and accomplished, a man of learning and science, he only wrote compilations. Something of a sceptic, he studied religion, and became a quietist. Pitied by his friends, as neither rich nor great, he passed a happy life; and, though always in ill health, his life was prolonged to more than a century. He was one of madame de Sévigné's most familiar friends. In early life he had had employments under cardinal Mazarin. He was a friend of the marquis de Vardes, and shared the disgrace he incurred, together with Bussy-Rabutin and others, on account of certain letters fabricated, pretending to be written by the king of Spain, for the purpose of informing his sister, the queen of France, of Louis XIV.'s attachment for mademoiselle de la Vallière. This event was fatal to his fortunes; but it developed his talents, since he made use of the leisure afforded by his retreat for the purpose of study. He applied himself to the theories of Descartes, and became deeply versed in classic literature. At one time he turned his attention to the study of law, but soon threw it aside with disgust: his clear and comprehensive understanding was utterly alien to the contradictions, subterfuges, and confusion of old French law. In religion, he sided with the mystics and quietists; but was more of a philosopher than a religionist; and chose his party for its being more allied to protestant tenets, and because, M. de Sévigné says, his mysticism freed him from the necessity of going to mass. He was a mixture of Stoic and Epicurean. He would not go half a league on horseback, he said, to seek a throne. And thus he harmonised his temper with his fortunes, for he was an unlucky man. "His merit brings him ill luck," madame de la Fayette said. It may be added that it brought also a contented mind, a friendly disposition, and calm studious habits. An amusing anecdote is told of his presence of mind in extricating himself from a dilemma in which he was placed.

Louis XIV. learnt that the prince of Conti, and other young and heedless nobles of high rank, had, at a certain supper, uttered various sarcasms against, and told stories to the discredit of, himself and madame de Maintenon. The king wished to learn the details, and sent D'Argenson to inquire of Corbinelli, who was supposed to have been at the supper. Corbinelli was by this time grown old and deaf. "Where did you sup on such an evening?" asked D'Argenson. "I do not remember," the other replied. "Are you acquainted with such and such princes?" "I forget." "Did you not sup with them?" "I do not in the least remember?" "It seems to me that a man like you ought to recollect these things." "True, sir, but before a man like you, I am not a man like myself." Madame de Sévigné's correspondence with this accomplished and valued friend is lost, but her letters to her daughter are full of expressions of esteem and friendship towards him.

Thus, in her letters, we find all the events of the day alluded to in the tone used by this distinguished society. Some of the observations are witty and amusing; others remarkable for their truth, founded on a just and delicate knowledge of the human heart.[71] These are mingled with details of the events of the day. We may mention, among others, the letters that regard the death of Turenne. The glory that lighted up that name shines with peculiar brilliancy in her pages. His heroism, gentleness, and generosity are all recorded with enthusiasm.[72] Sometimes her letters record the gossip, sometimes the _bon mots_, of the day; and each finds its place, and is told with grace, simplicity, and ease.

From this scene, full of life and interest, at the call of duty, she visited Britany; and, when her uncle desired, or motives of economy urged, buried herself in the solitude of her country seat of Les Rochers, a _château_ belonging to the family of Sévigné, one league from Vitré, and still further from Rennes. As far as the character and person of the writer are concerned, we prefer the letters written from this retirement to those that record the changes and chances of her Parisian life. They breathe affection and peace, the natural sentiments of a kind heart, an enlightened taste, and an active mind. "At length, my child," she writes, on her first visit to her solitude after her daughter's marriage (May 31. 1671), "here I am at these poor Rochers. Can I see these avenues, these devices, my cabinet and books, and this room, without dying of sorrow? There are many agreeable memories, but so many that are tender and lively, that I can scarcely support them: those that are associated with you are of this number. Can you not understand their effect on my heart? My young trees are surprisingly beautiful. Pilois (her gardener) raises them to the sky with an admirable straightness. Really, nothing can be more beautiful than the avenues you saw planted. You remember that I gave you an appropriate device: here is one I carved on a tree for my son, who has returned from Candia: _Vago di fama._ Is it not pretty to say so much in a single word? Yesterday I had carved, in honour of the indolent, _Bella cosa far niente._ Alas, dear child, how rustic my letters are! Where is the time when I could speak, as others do, of Paris? You will receive only news of myself; and such is my confidence, that I am persuaded that you will like these letters as well as my others. The society I have here pleases me much. Our abbé (the abbé de Coulanges, her uncle, who resided constantly with her) is always delightful. My son and La Mousse (a relation of M. de Coulanges) suit me extremely, and I suit them. We are always together; and, when business takes me from them, they are in despair, and think me very silly to prefer a farmer's account to a tale of La Fontaine."--"Your brother is a treasure of folly, and is delightful here. We have sometimes serious conversations, by which he may profit; but there is something of whipped cream in his character: with all that, he is amiable."--"We are reading Tasso with pleasure. I find myself an adept, through the good masters I had. My son reads "Cleopatra" (a romance of Calprenède) to La Mousse; and, in spite of myself, I listen, and find amusement. My son is setting off for Lorraine: his absence will give me much _ennui_. You know how sorry I am to see agreeable company depart; and you have been witness, also, to my transports of joy when I see a carriage drive away with that which restrained and annoyed me; and how this caused us to decide that bad company was better than good. I remember all the follies we committed here, and every thing you did or said: the recollection never quits me. All the young plantations you saw are delicious. I delight in raising this young generation; and often, without thinking of the injury to my profit, I cut down great trees, because they overshadow and inconvenience my young children. My son looks on; but I do not suffer him to make the application my conduct might inspire." It was not, however, always solitude at the Rochers. The duke of Chaulnes was lieutenant-governor of Britany; and he and the duchess were too happy to visit madame de Sévigné, and to persuade her to join them when they visited the province, to hold the assembly of the states. From such a busy scene she gladly plunges again into her avenues and old halls, her moonlight walks, and darling reveries. [Sidenote: 1672. Ætat. 46.] She returned to Paris in December; and, in July of the following year, visited her daughter in Provence, where she spent fifteen months. These periods, so full of happiness to her, are blanks to us; and when, with tears and sighs, she tears herself away from Grignan, and the letters begin again, our amusement and delight recommences. [Sidenote: 1674. Ætat. 48.] In 1674, madame de Grignan visited Paris, and remained fourteen months. Parisian society was invested for the tender mother with a charm and an interest, which became mingled with sadness on her daughter's departure.

[Sidenote: 1675. Ætat. 49.]

The letters on this separation are rendered interesting by the circumstance of her intimacy with cardinal de Retz, who was then projecting abdicating his cardinal's hat, which the pope forbade, and his retreat, for the sake of paying his debts. This last was a measure founded on motives of honour and integrity, whatever his adversary, M. de la Rochefoucauld, may say to the contrary. The esteem, amounting to respect, which madame de Sévigné expresses for him, raises them both. The death of Turenne happened also during this spring, and the letters are redeemed from the only fault which a certain sort of minds might find with them, that of frivolity. If they are frivolous, what are our own lives? Let us turn our eyes towards ourselves, and ask, if we daily put down our occupations, the subjects of our conversation, our pleasures and our serious thoughts, would they not be more empty of solid information than madame de Sévigné's letters; or, if more learned, will they not be less wise, and, above all, deficient in the warmth of heart that burns in hers? In the summer of this year, she would fain have visited her daughter; but her uncle insisted that a journey to Britany was necessary for the final settlement of their mutual affairs, as he was grown old, and might die any day. She arrived at the Rochers at the end of September. Her life was more lonely than during the previous visit, for her only companion was her uncle. She had felt deeply disappointed at giving up her journey to Provence, and the additional distance between her and her daughter, when in Britany, was hard to bear. "We were far enough off," she writes; "another hundred leagues added pains my heart; and I cannot dwell upon the thought without having great need of your sermons. What you say of the little profit you often derive from them yourself displays a tenderness that greatly pleases me. You wish me, then, to speak of my woods. The sterility of my letters does not disgust you. Well, dear child! I may tell you, that I do honour to the moon, which I love, as you know. The good abbé fears the dew: I never suffer from it, and I remain, with Beaulieu (her dog) and my servants in attendance, till eight o'clock. Indeed, these avenues are of a beauty, and breathe a tranquillity, a peace, and a silence, of which I can never have too much. When I think of you, it is with tenderness; and I must leave it to you to imagine whether I feel this deeply--I cannot express it. I am glad to feel alone, and fear the arrival of some ladies, that is, of constraint." Her residence in the province was painfully disturbed, on account of the riots which had taken place at Rennes, on account of the taxes; and the governor had brought down 4000 soldiers to punish the inhabitants. Ever fearful that her letters might be read at the post, madame de Sévigné never directly blames any act of government, but her disapprobation and regret are plainly expressed. "I went to see the duchess de Chaulnes, at Vitré, yesterday," she writes, "and dined there: she received me with joy, and conversed with me for two hours, with affection and eagerness; relating their conduct for the last six months, and all she suffered, and the dangers she ran. I thanked her for her confidence. In a word, this province has been much to blame; but it is cruelly punished, so that it will never recover. There are 5000 soldiers at Rennes, of which one half will pass the winter. They have taken, at hazard, five-and-twenty or thirty men, whom they are about to hang. Parliament is transferred--this is the great blow--for, without that, Rennes is not a better town than Vitré. The misfortunes of the province delay all business, and complete our ruin."--"They have laid tax of 100,000 crowns on the citizens; and, if this sum be not forthcoming in twenty-four hours, it will be doubled, and exacted by the soldiers. They have driven away and banished the inhabitants of one whole street, and forbidden any one to give them refuge, on pain of death; so that you see these poor wretches--women lately brought to bed, old men and children--wander weeping from the town, not knowing whither to go, without food or shelter. Sixty citizens are arrested: to-morrow they begin to hang. This province is an example to others, teaching them, above all, to respect their governors and their wives; not to call them names, nor to throw stones in their garden." Coming back from these scenes, which filled her with grief and indignation, she returns to her woods. "I have business with the abbé: I am with my dear workmen; and life passes so quickly, and, consequently, we approach our end so fast, that I wonder how one can feel worldly affairs so deeply. My woods inspire me with these reflections. My people have such ridiculous care of me, that they guard me in the evening, completely armed, while the only enemy they find is a squirrel." These twilight walks had a sorrowful conclusion. [Sidenote: 1676. Ætat. 50.] In January she was suddenly laid prostrate by rheumatism: it was the first illness she ever had--the first intimation she had received, she says, that she was not immortal. Her son was with her: they were better friends than ever. "There is no air of maternity," she writes, "in our intercourse: he is excellent company, and he finds me the same." On this disaster, his tenderness and attentions were warm and sedulous. "Your brother," she writes, "has been an inexpressible consolation to me." She at first made light of her attack, in her letters, though she was obliged to acknowledge that she could not move her right side, and was forced to write the few lines she was able to trace with her left hand; and soon she lost even the power of using this. In the then state of medicine, her cure, of course, was long and painful.

This illness deranged many of madame de Sévigné's plans. On her return to Paris, she was ordered to take medicinal baths, to complete her cure. She went to Vichi, where her health mended, and then returned to Paris, where she expected a speedy visit from her daughter. Her letters during this period are very diverting. She throws an interest over every detail. The one that describes her visit at Versailles, on her return, gives us a lively and picturesque account of the etiquette and amusements of the court.[73]