Lives of Celebrated Women

The flight of the king filled her with alarm; his arrest and return to Paris excited new hopes; she looked for safety only in his dethronement, and in the establishment of a republican form of government; but for this she hardly dared hope. “It would be a folly, an absurdity, almost a horror,” she writes to a friend at this time, “to replace the king on the throne. To bring Louis XVI. to trial, would doubtless be the greatest and most just of measures; but we are incapable of adopting it.”

At the end of seven months, Roland’s mission terminated, and he returned to Lyons. But Madame Roland could no longer be happy in the quiet, domestic circle; her discontent thus expresses itself in a letter to a friend, but, unwittingly perhaps, does not assign it to the true cause: “I see with regret that my husband is cast back on silence and obscurity. He is habituated to public life; his energy and activity injure his health when not exercised according to his inclinations; in addition, I had hoped for great advantages for my child in a residence at Paris. Occupied there by her education, I should have excited and developed some sort of talent. The recluse life I lead here makes me tremble for her. From the moment that my husband has no occupation but his desks, I must remain near to amuse him, according to a duty and a habit which may not be eluded. This existence is exactly opposite to that suitable for a child of ten. My heart is saddened by this opposition of duties. I find myself fallen into the nullity of a provincial life, where no exterior circumstances supply that which I cannot do myself. If I believed my husband were satisfied, hope would embellish the prospect. However, our destiny is fixed, and I must try to render it as happy as I can.”

But the truth was, that her life at Paris had opened a new prospect to Madame Roland, and excited new desires in her bosom. Her activity and enthusiasm longed to employ themselves upon a grand theatre, and she panted to become great, as Plutarch’s heroes were great, and to go down to posterity as one of the founders of her country’s freedom.

She was soon restored to the wished-for scene of action. In December, 1792, her husband was appointed minister of the interior. She relates with great good-humor the surprise which her husband’s plain, citizen-like costume excited at court. The master of ceremonies pointed him out to Dumoriez with an angry and agitated mien, exclaiming, “Ah, sir, no buckles to his shoes!” “Ah, sir,” replied Dumoriez, with mock gravity, “all is lost!”

Two measures, which the liberal party deemed essential, were presented to the king by the ministry, but were rejected by him. The party urged the ministers, as a body, to remonstrate; but a majority declined. Madame Roland insisted that her husband should individually present a remonstrance, which she prepared for him; it was couched in bold and menacing language, and rather calculated to irritate than to persuade the king. Roland read it to the king in full council; he listened patiently to his minister’s rebuke, but the next day dismissed him from his office.

Satisfied with having discharged their duty to liberty, Roland and his wife felt no regret at the loss of office. They ceased to meddle with politics, and led a retired life, with the fearful anticipation that the intervention of foreign troops would soon put an end to all their hopes of constitutional freedom. Her appearance and manners at this period of her life are thus described by one who visited her: “Her eyes, her figure, and hair, were of remarkable beauty; her delicate complexion had a freshness and color, which, joined to her reserved yet ingenuous appearance, imparted a singular air of youth. She spoke well, and without affectation; wit, good sense, propriety of expression, keen reasoning, natural grace, all flowing without effort from her rosy lips. Her husband resembled a Quaker, and she looked like his daughter. Her child flitted about her with ringlets down to her waist. She spoke of public affairs only, and I perceived that my moderation inspired pity. Her mind was excited, but her heart remained gentle. Although the monarchy was not yet overturned, she did not conceal that symptoms of anarchy began to appear, and she declared herself ready to resist them to death. I remember the calm and resolute tone in which she declared that she was ready, if need were, to place her head on the block. I confess that the image of that charming head delivered over to the axe of the executioner made an ineffaceable impression; for party excesses had not yet accustomed us to such frightful ideas.”

The fomenters of disturbance and the friends of anarchy were the party of the Mountain, at the head of which were Robespierre, Danton, Marat, &c. To this party the known moderation of Madame Roland made her peculiarly obnoxious. When, after the suspension of the royal authority, consequent on the events of the 10th of August, it was proposed in the National Convention to recall Roland to the ministry, one of the party exclaimed, “We had better invite madame; she is the real minister.” He was reinstated in his office, and maintained for a short time an unflinching struggle with the anarchists; but his efforts were not supported by others; and, wearied out, he tendered his resignation. The Mountain urged its acceptance, but the only charges against him were complaints of his feebleness, and of his being governed by his wife. The Girondists yet held the ascendency in the Convention, and his resignation was not accepted. At the entreaty of his friends, he consented to remain, and wrote thus to the Convention: “Since I am calumniated, since I am threatened by dangers, and since the Convention appear to desire it, I remain. It is too glorious that my alliance with courage and virtue is the only reproach made against me.”

Madame Roland has herself offered an apology for her interference in the business of her husband. In the early days of their marriage, she had acted as his amanuensis, and had faithfully copied what he wrote. But the dryness of his style did not suit her taste, and she began to amend his writings. At length, having a perfect agreement in views and opinions with her husband, he entirely yielded up to her the pen. “I could not express any thing,” she says, “that regarded reason or justice, which he was not capable of realizing or maintaining with his conduct; while I expressed better than he could whatever he had done or promised to do. Without my intervention, Roland had been an equally good agent; his activity and knowledge, as well as his probity, were all his own; but he produced a greater sensation through me, since I put into his writings that mixture of energy and gentleness, of authority and persuasion, which is peculiar to a woman of a warm heart and a clear head. I wrote with delight such pieces as I thought would be useful, and I took greater pleasure in them than I should have done had I been their acknowledged author.”

Roland continued his struggle against the Mountain, who were daily gaining strength. Although in a minority in the Convention, they were all powerful with the mob; and the knowledge of this, together with their menaces, induced some of the more timid Girondists to vote for their savage measures. Of the frightful state of affairs at Paris, Madame Roland thus writes to a friend: “We are under the knife of Robespierre and Marat. These men agitate the people, and endeavor to turn them against the Assembly and Council; they have a little army, which they pay with money stolen from the Tuileries.” Again she writes, “Danton leads all; Robespierre is his puppet; Marat holds his torch and dagger; this ferocious tribune reigns, and we are his slaves until the moment when we shall become his victims. You are aware of my enthusiasm for the revolution; well, I am ashamed of it; it is deformed by monsters, and become hideous. It is degrading to remain, but we are not allowed to quit Paris; they shut us up to murder us when occasion serves.”

At length, disheartened by his unavailing efforts to stem the tide of anarchy, Roland again resigned his office; and, satisfied that remaining at Paris could be of no advantage to their country, he and his wife began their preparations for retiring to the country. Her illness caused a delay, and they were yet in Paris when the final overthrow of the Girondists left them no hope for safety but in flight. An order was issued by the Convention for the arrest of Roland: his wife resolved to appeal in person to the Assembly in his behalf. Veiled and alone, she hurried to the place of meeting. She was not admitted: she sent in a letter, soliciting to be heard; but it received no attention. Sadly she left the national palace, sought out her husband, related to him her want of success, and then returned to make another effort to be heard. The Convention was no longer sitting. She returned home: her husband was in a place of security; and, indifferent to her own fate, she resolved to await whatever might happen.

At a late hour of the night she retired to rest, but was soon roused by her servant, who announced to her that a party of soldiers had come to arrest her. The sanguinary shouts of the mob saluted her as she passed through the streets. “Shall I close the windows?” said an officer who rode with her in the carriage. “No,” replied she; “innocence, however oppressed, will never assume the appearance of guilt. I fear the eyes of no one, and will not hide myself.” “You have more firmness than most men,” said the officer.

Her plans for prison life were at once arranged: she asked and obtained a few books, Plutarch being of the number. The situation of the poorer class of prisoners exciting her pity, she restricted herself to the most abstemious diet, and distributed the money which she thus saved among them.

At the end of about three weeks, a most cruel deception was practised upon her. She was told that she was free, and left the prison; but, on reaching home, she was again arrested, and carried to a new prison, in which the lowest and most infamous criminals of both sexes were confined. A few hours’ reflection restored the equanimity which this outrage had disturbed. “Had I not my books?” she says; “was I no longer myself? I was almost angry at having felt disturbed, and thought only of making use of my life, and employing my faculties with that independence which a strong mind preserves even in chains, and which disappoints one’s most cruel enemies.”

At first, she was confined in the midst of the most abandoned of her sex; but, after a time, the wife of the jailer took compassion on her, and removed her to a more retired apartment. Nor did this humane woman stop here; she sought in every way to soften the rigors of imprisonment. Jasmine was twined round the bars of her window; a piano-forte was provided, with every comfort which her narrow quarters would allow. A few friends were allowed to visit her: she learned that her husband and child were in safety; she became almost happy. But her quiet was soon disturbed. The visitor of the prison was angry at the comforts which she enjoyed; equality must be preserved, and he ordered her to be removed to a common cell.

At one period she meditated suicide. There was no accusation against her, and she saw herself left behind in the daily drafts for the guillotine. “Two months ago,” she writes, “I aspired to the honor of ascending the scaffold. Victims were still allowed to speak, and the energy of great courage might have been of service to truth. Now all is lost; to live is basely to submit to a ferocious rule.” But her purpose was changed when she found herself included in the act of accusation against the chief Girondists. She expected to be examined before the Revolutionary Tribunal, and hoped to do some good by courageously speaking the truth.

On the 31st of October, 1792, she was transferred to the prison of the Conciergerie, a yet more squalid place of confinement. Her examination commenced the next day, and was continued for several days. The charge against her was holding intercourse with the Girondists. Her defence, which was written out, but not spoken, is eloquent and full of feeling. She was, of course, declared guilty, and sentenced to be executed within twenty-four hours.

Even during these few eventful days, she was not occupied entirely with self. Many of her hours were devoted to the consolation of her fellow-victims. She who was a prisoner with her thus speaks of her: “Perfectly aware of the fate that awaited her, her tranquillity was not disturbed. Though past the bloom of life, she was yet full of attractions: tall, and of an elegant figure, her physiognomy was animated; but sorrow and long imprisonment had left traces of melancholy in her face that tempered her natural vivacity. Something more than is usually found in the eyes of woman beamed in her large, dark eyes, full of sweetness and expression. She often spoke to me at the grate with the freedom and courage of a great man. This republican language, falling from the lips of a pretty woman, for whom the scaffold was prepared, was a miracle of the revolution. We gathered attentively around her in a species of admiration and stupor. Her conversation was serious, without being cold. She spoke with a purity, a melody, and a measure, which rendered her language a sort of music, of which the ear was never tired. Sometimes her sex had the mastery, and we perceived that she had wept over the recollections of her husband and daughter. The woman who attended her said to me one day, ‘Before you she calls up all her courage; but in her room she sometimes remains for hours leaning on the window, weeping.’”

She was led to execution on the 10th of November. On the way she exerted herself to restore the failing fortitude of a fellow-sufferer, and won from him, it is said, two smiles. On arriving at the place of execution, she bowed to the statue of Liberty, saying, “O Liberty, how many crimes are committed in thy name!” She bade her companion ascend the scaffold first, that he might escape the pain of seeing her die. To the last, she preserved her courage and dignity of manner.

The news of her death reached her husband at Rouen. He resolved not to outlive her. He doubted whether to surrender himself to the Revolutionary Tribunal, or to commit suicide. He decided on the latter course, in order to save for his child his property, which by law would be confiscated if he died by the judgment of a court. On the 15th of November, he was found dead on the road to Paris, four miles from Rouen. In his pocket was found a paper, setting forth the reasons for his death – “The blood that flows in torrents in my country dictates my resolve; indignation caused me to quit my retreat. As soon as I heard of the murder of my wife, I determined no longer to remain on the earth tainted by crime.”

MADAME DE SÉVIGNÉ

The subject of this memoir, as celebrated in her own particular department of literature as Shakspere or Molière were in theirs, would have been very much surprised to find herself occupying a conspicuous place in the “Lives of Celebrated Women.” She made no pretensions to authorship, and her “Letters,” which have been esteemed models of epistolary composition, are the unpremeditated and unrevised outpourings of a mind rich in wit and good sense, and a heart filled with the warmest affections, and were written without the slightest idea that they would ever be read by any other persons than those to whom they were addressed.

Maria de Robertin-Chantal, Baroness de Chantal and Bombilly, was born on the 5th of February, 1626. Her father was the head of a distinguished and noble family of Burgundy. Of his rough wit and independence his daughter has preserved a specimen. When Schomberg was transformed, by Louis XIII., from a minister of finance to a field-marshal, Chantal wrote to him the following letter: —

“My Lord,

“Rank – black beard – intimacy.

“Chantal.” —

meaning that he owed his advancement, not to his military exploits, but to his rank, his having a black beard, like his master, and to his intimacy with that master.

When Maria was about a year and a half old, the English made a descent upon the Island of Rhé; and her father placed himself at the head of a party of gentlemen who volunteered to assist in repelling them, in which honorable service he lost his life. His widow survived him five years. She was the daughter of a secretary of state, and her family, that of De Coulanges, belonged to the class of nobility who owed that distinction to civil services, and who were known as “nobles of the robe,” to distinguish them from those who could trace their descent from the heroes of the crusades and the days of chivalry.

It seems to have been expected that the paternal grandmother would have taken charge of the education of the little orphan. But she was too much occupied with the affairs of the other world, and with founding religious houses, – of which eighty-seven owed their existence to her, – and Maria was left in the hands of her maternal relations. The pious labors of the “Blessed Mother of Chantal” were acknowledged by the head of the church, and her name now fills a place in the calendar, among the saints. The guardianship of the young baroness devolved on her uncle, Christophe de Coulanges, abbé de Livry.

Most men would have shrunk from the task of personally superintending the education of a young girl, and would, in conformity to the customs of the times, have consigned her to a convent, where she would have been taught to read, to write, to dance, and to embroider; and then her education would have been deemed complete. It is no slight evidence of the good sense of her uncle that he retained her in his own house. The decision was a fortunate one for posterity; for her faculties, which the formal training of the convent would have cramped, were called into exercise and expanded by an unusual indulgence in the range of reading, and probably by a familiar intercourse with the men of letters who sought her uncle’s society. Under his instructions she doubtless acquired a knowledge of the Latin and Italian languages, and something of the Spanish. All this, however, is to some extent matter of inference, for we have no record of her early life. She tells us in her “Letters” that she was brought up at court, and there she formed her manners and her tastes – fortunately without the corruption of her morals.

From the accounts given by her witty and profligate cousin Bussy-Robertin, we can obtain a tolerably correct idea of her appearance when she entered as an actor upon the scene of life. She was somewhat tall for a woman; had a good shape, a pleasing voice, a fine complexion, brilliant eyes, and a profusion of light hair; but her eyes, though brilliant, were small, and, together with the eyelashes, were of different tints: her lips, though well colored, were too flat, and the end of her nose too square. De Bussy tells us that she had more shape than grace, yet danced well; she had also a taste for singing. He makes to her the objection that she was too playful “for a woman of quality.”

Not beautiful, but highly attractive, of cordial manners, and with a lively sensibility, at one moment dissolved in tears, and at another almost dying with laughter, – Mademoiselle de Robertin, then eighteen years old, was married to the Marquis de Sévigné, of an ancient family of Brittany. Her letters written during the first years of her marriage are full of gayety; there is no trace of misfortune or sorrow. But her husband was fond of pleasure, extravagant in his expenses, heedless, and gay – a character not likely to escape the contagion of that universal depravity of manners which prevailed at the French court. His conduct threw a cloud over their happiness. Madame de Sévigné bore her misfortunes with dignity and patience. In spite of his misconduct, she loved him deeply; and his death, not long afterwards, in a duel, caused her the most profound sorrow.

Her uncle, the abbé, resumed his former office of protector and counsellor. He withdrew her from the contemplation of her grief, and drew her attention to her duties, the chief and dearest of which was the education of her two children, a son and a daughter. To this object, and to rendering the life of her uncle happy, she resolved to devote herself. Of her obligations to her uncle she thus speaks in a letter written many years afterwards, on the occasion of his death: “I am plunged in sorrow: ten days ago I saw my dear uncle die; and you know what he was to his dear niece. He has conferred on me every benefit in the world, either by giving me property of his own, or preserving and augmenting that of my children. He drew me from the abyss into which M. de Sévigné’s death plunged me; he gained lawsuits; he put my affairs in good order; he paid our debts; he has made the estate on which my son lives the prettiest and most agreeable in the world.”

Time restored to the young widow her lost gayety, and she was the delight of the circles in which she was intimate. The Hôtel de Rambouillet, at Paris, where she resided, was the resort of all who were celebrated for wit or talent, and her presence was always hailed with joy. Euphuism was the fashion of the day, and in this coterie it had reached the highest degree of perfection. Common appellations were discarded; water became “l’humeur celeste,” and a chaplet “une chaine spirituelle.” The use of names was banished, and each was addressed as “ma chere” or “ma precieuse.” “Les Precieuses Ridicules” of Molière at length put an end to the affectation. Many of the coterie were present at its first representation, and were obliged to swallow the vexation which the delight evinced by the public at seeing them held up to ridicule, could not fail to excite.

The early education of her children being completed, their establishment in life became a source of anxiety. Her son, when nineteen, joined the expedition to Candia; concerning which Madame de Sévigné writes to her cousin De Bussy, “I suppose you know that my son is gone to Candia. He mentioned it to M. de Turenne, to Cardinal de Retz, and to M. de la Rochefoucauld. These gentlemen so approved his design that it was resolved on and made public before I knew any thing of it. He is gone. I wept his departure bitterly, and am deeply afflicted. I shall not have a moment’s repose during the expedition. I see all the dangers, and they destroy me; but I am not the mistress. On such occasions mothers have no voice.” She had reason for anxiety. Few of the officers returned, but one of these was the Baron de Sévigné. A commission was purchased for him in the army, and he served with distinction during several campaigns; but his family had taken part against the court during the wars of the Fronde, and were Jansenists, so that he received no promotion, and at length left the army, and settled into a quiet, well-behaved, country gentleman. Rejecting many nice matches which his mother sought to make for him, he chose a wife for himself, and his choice fortunately met her approbation.

Her daughter was presented at court, in 1663, and took part in the brilliant fêtes of the following year. The mother’s heart was, no doubt, gladdened by the declaration of the Count de Treville, a sort of oracle in the great world, “That beauty will set the world on fire.” Her marriage became a subject of the deepest anxiety, and it was long before her mother was satisfied with any of those who pretended to the hand of “la plus jolie fille de France.” She at length accepted the proposals of the twice-widowed Count de Grignan, and the event is thus announced to her cousin: “I must tell you a piece of news which will doubtless delight you. At length the prettiest woman in France is about to marry, not the handsomest youth, but the most excellent man in the kingdom. You have long known M. de Grignan. All his wives are dead, to make room for your cousin, as well as, through wonderful luck, his father and his son; so that, being richer than he ever was, and being, through his birth, his position, and his good qualities, such as we desire, we conclude at once. The public appears satisfied, and that is much, for one is silly enough to be greatly influenced by it.”

By marrying her daughter to a courtier, Madame de Sévigné hoped to secure her daughter’s permanent residence near herself at Paris. The count, however, was deputy-governor of Provence, and received orders, soon after his marriage, to proceed to that distant province, where he continued to reside, with the exception of occasional visits to Paris, during the remainder of his mother-in-law’s life. The mother and daughter contrived to pass about half the time with each other, and, in the intervals, to keep up a conversation by means of constant epistolary correspondence, in which the former relates all the amusing gossip which would have been subject of discourse had they been together. To the mother’s share of these conversations we are delighted listeners. She speaks of events which in themselves are trifling, and of persons of whom we never before heard; yet she is never tedious. The vivacity of her intellect and the charms of her style give an interest to every thought and act. The task of selecting specimens is a difficult one; all is worthy of transcription; we will take those which throw the most light upon her character and mode of life. The following was written at an estate of her husband’s, called “The Rocks,” situated on the sea-coast of Brittany, where she delighted to pass her time: she had a love of the country, of nature, and of simple pleasures – a rare taste for a Frenchwoman of that age. Nothing pleased her more than the song of the nightingale, the cuckoo, and the thrush, during the early spring; her writings are filled with her passion for the birds and avenues of “Les Rochers.” The letter is addressed, not to her daughter, but to her cousin, De Coulanges.