Part 10 (1/2)

It is not within the limits of reason to expect women to rival, in literature, the great writers such as Corneille, Racine, Moliere, Bossuet, La Fontaine, Descartes, Pascal--most of whom were but little influenced by femininity; there were those, however, among the s.e.x, who were conspicuous for elevation of thought, dignity in manner and bearing, and brilliancy in conversation--attributes which they have left to posterity in numberless exquisite and charming letters, in interesting and invaluable memoirs, or in consummate psychological and social portraitures incorporated into the form of novels. Among female writers of letters, Mme. de Sevigne wears the laurel wreath; Mme. de La Fayette, with Mlle. de Scudery, is the representative of the novel; Mme. Dacier was the great advocate of the more liberal education of women; and the _Souvenirs_ of Mme. de Caylus made that auth.o.r.ess immortal.

The a.s.sociation of La Rochefoucauld, the Cardinal de Retz, the Chevalier de Mere, Mme. de La Fayette, and Mme. de Sevigne, was responsible for almost everything elevating and of interest produced in the seventeenth century. Of that highly intellectual circle, Mme. de Sevigne was the leading spirit by force of her extraordinary faculty for making friends, her wonderful talent as a writer, her originality and her charming disposition. She gave the tone to letters; M. f.a.guet says that her epistles were all masterpieces of amiable badinage, lively narration, maternal pa.s.sion, true eloquence.

More than that, they are important sources of historical knowledge, inasmuch as they contain much information concerning the politics of the day, and furnish an excellent guide to the etiquette, fas.h.i.+ons, tastes, and literature of the writer's period.

Mme. de Sevigne was the most important figure of the time, being to that third prodigiously intellectual epoch of France what Marguerite de Navarre was to the sixteenth century, and the Hotel de Rambouillet to the beginning of the seventeenth century. She represented the style, _esprit_, elegance, and _gout_ of this greatest of French cultural periods. Her life may be considered as having had two distinct phases--one connected with an unhappy marriage and the other the period of a restless widowhood.

Marie de Rabutin-Chantal, Marchioness of Sevigne, was born at Paris, in 1626; at the age of eighteen months she lost her father; at seven years of age, her mother; at eight, her grandmother; at ten, her grandfather on her mother's side; she was thus left with her paternal grandmother, Mme. de Chantal, who had her carefully educated under the best masters, such as Menage and Chapelain (court favorites), from whom she early imbibed a genuine taste for solid reading; from these instructors she learned Spanish, Italian, and Latin.

In 1644, she was married to the Marquis Henri de Sevigne, who was killed six years later in a duel, but who had, in the meantime, succeeded in making a considerable gap in her immense fortune, in spite of the precautions of her uncle, the Abbe of Coulanges.

Henceforward, her interests in life were centred in the education of her two children; to them she wrote letters which have brought her name down to posterity as, possibly, the greatest epistolary writer that the history of literature has ever recorded.

Mme. de Sevigne was but nineteen years old when, after the marriage of Julie d'Angennes, the frequenters of the Hotel de Rambouillet began to disperse, and she was in much demand by the successors of Mme. de Rambouillet. While the women of the reign of Louis XIII.--Mmes.

de Hautefort, de Sable, de Longueville, de Chevreuse, etc.--were exceedingly talented talkers, they were poor writers: but in Mme.

de Sevigne, Mme. de La Fayette, and Mlle. de Scudery both arts were developed to the highest degree.

Mme. de Sevigne was on the best terms with every great writer of her time--Pascal, Racine, La Fontaine, Bossuet, Bourdaloue, La Rochefoucauld. She was a woman of such broad affections that numerous friends and admirers were a necessary part of her existence. Of all the eminent women of the seventeenth century, she had the greatest number of lovers--suitors who frequently became her tormentors.

Menage, her teacher, who threatened to leave her never to see her again, was brought back to her by kind words, such as: ”Farewell, friend--of all my friends the best.” The Abbe Marigny, that ”delicate epicurean, that improviser of fine triolets, ballads, vaudevilles, that enemy of all sadness and sticklers for morality,” charmed her, at times, with sentimental ballads, such as the following:

”Si l'amour est un doux servage, Si l'on ne peut trop estimer Les plaisirs ou l'amour engage, Qu'on est sot de ne pas aimer!

”Mais si l'on se sent enflammer D'un feu dont l'ardeur est extreme, Et qu'on n'ose pas l'exprimer, Qu'on est sot alors que l'on aime!

”Si dans la fleur de son bel age, Une qui pourrait tout charmer, Vous donne son coeur en partage, Qu'on est sot de ne point aimer!

”Mais s'il faut toujours s'alarmer, Craindre, rougir, devenir bleme, Aussitot qu'on s'entend nommer, Qu'on est sot alors que l'on aime!

”Pour complaire au plus beau visage Qu'amour puisse jamais former, S'il ne faut rien qu'un doux langage, Qu'on est sot de ne pas aimer!

”Mais quand on se voit consumer.

Si la belle est toujours de meme, Sans que rien la puisse animer, Qu'on est sot alors que l'on aime!

”L'ENVOI.

”En amour si rien n'est amer, Qu'on est sot de ne pas aimer!

Si tout l'est au degre supreme, Qu'on est sot alors que l'on aime!”

[If love is a sweet bondage, If we cannot esteem too much The pleasures in which love engages, How foolish one is not to love!

But if we feel ourselves inflamed With a pa.s.sion whose ardor is extreme, And which we dare not express, How foolish we are, then, to love!

If in the flower of her youth There is one who could charm all.

And offers you her heart to share, How very foolish not to love!

But if we must always be full of alarm-- Fear, blush and become pallid, As soon as our name is spoken, How foolish to love!

If to please the most beautiful countenance That love can ever form, Only a mellow language is necessary, How foolish not to love!

But if we see ourselves wasting away, If the belle is always the same And cannot be animated, How very foolish to love!