In
the middle of the sands, however, still trickled a tiny thread of
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the middle of the sands, however, still trickled a tiny thread of
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Warner - World's Best Literature - v15 - Kab to Les
Dobrunka did not even know that she
was pretty, and she could not understand why her stepmother
flew into a rage at the mere sight of her. The poor child was
obliged to do all the work of the house; she had to sweep,
cook, wash, sew, spin, weave, cut the grass, and take care of
the cow, while Katinka lived like a princess, — that is to say,
did nothing
Dobrunka worked with a good will, and took reproaches
and blows with the gentleness of a lamb; but nothing soothed
her stepmother, for every day added to the beauty of the elder
sister and the ugliness of the younger. « They are growing
up,
► thought the mother, and suitors will soon appear, who will
refuse my daughter when they see this hateful Dobrunka, who
grows beautiful on purpose to spite me. I must get rid of her,
cost what it may. ”
)
## p. 8750 (#366) ###########################################
8750
ÉDOUARD RENÉ LEFEBVRE LABOULAYE
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»
>
One day in the middle of January, Katinka took a fancy for
some violets. She called Dobrunka, and said, "Go to the forest
and bring me a bunch of violets, that I may put them in my
bosom and enjoy their fragrance. ”
“Oh, sister, what an idea! answered Dobrunka: « as if there
were any violets under the snow!
"Hold your tongue, stupid fool," returned her sister, "and do
as I bid you.
If you do not go to the forest and bring me back
a bunch of violets, I will beat you to a jelly. ” Upon this the
mother took Dobrunka by the arm, put her out of the door, and
drew the bolt on her.
The poor girl went to the forest weeping bitterly. Every-
thing was covered with snow; there was not even a footpath.
She lost her way and wandered about, till, famishing with hunger
and perishing with cold, she entreated God to take her from this
wretched life.
All at once she saw a light in the distance.
She went on,
climbing higher and higher, until at last she reached the top of
a huge rock, upon which a great fire was built. Around the fire
were twelve stones; and on each stone sat a motionless figure,
wrapped in a large mantle, his head covered with a hood which
fell over his eyes. Three of these mantles were white like the
snow, three were green like the grass of the meadows, three
were golden like the sheaves of ripe wheat, and three were pur-
ple like the grapes of the vine. These twelve figures, gazing
at the fire in silence, were the Twelve Months of the year.
Dobrunka knew January by his long white beard.
He was
the only one that had a staff in his hand. The poor girl was
terribly frightened. She drew near, saying in a timid voice,
"My good sirs, please to let me warm myself by your fire: I am
freezing with cold. ”
January nodded his head. “Why have you come here, my
child ? ” he asked. “What are you looking for ? ”
"I am looking for violets,” replied Dobrunka.
« This is not the season for them: there are no violets in the
time of snow,” said January in his gruff voice.
“I know it,” replied Dobrunka sadly; “but my sister and
mother will beat me to a jelly if I do not bring them some. My
good sirs, please to tell me where I can find them. ”
Old January rose, and turning to a young man in a green
mantle, put his staff in his hand, and said to him, "Brother
March, this is your business. ”
(
## p. 8751 (#367) ###########################################
ÉDOUARD RENÉ LEFEBVRE LABOULAYE
8751
»
March rose in turn, and stirred the fire with the staff, when
behold! the flames rose, the snow melted, the buds put forth on
the trees, the grass turned green under the bushes, the flowers
peeped through the verdure, and the violets opened - it was
spring
"Make haste, my child, and gather your violets,” said March.
Dobrunka gathered a large bouquet, thanked the Twelve
Months, and joyfully ran home. You can imagine the aston-
ishment of Katinka and the stepmother. The fragrance of the
violets filled the whole house.
“Where did you get these fine things? ” asked Katinka in a
disdainful voice.
“Up yonder, on the mountain,” answered her sister. It
looked like a great blue carpet under the bushes. ”
Katinka put the bouquet in her bosom, and did not even
thank the poor child.
The next morning the wicked sister, as she sat idling by the
stove, took a fancy for some strawberries. “Go to the forest and
bring me some strawberries,” said she to Dobrunka.
“O sister, what an idea! as if there were any strawberries
under the snow! »
"Hold your tongue, stupid fool, and do as I bid you.
don't go to the forest and bring me back a basket of strawberries,
I will beat you to a jelly. ”
The mother took Dobrunka by the arm, put her out of the
door, and drew the bolt on her.
The poor girl returned to the forest, looking with all her
eyes for the light that she had seen the day before.
She was
fortunate enough to spy it, and she reached the fire trembling
and almost frozen. The Twelve Months were in their places,
motionless and silent.
My good sirs,” said Dobrunka, "please to let me warm my-
self by your fire: I am almost frozen with cold. ”
“Why have you returned ? " asked January.
« What are you
looking for ? »
“I am looking for strawberries," answered she.
« This is not the season for them,” returned January in his
gruff voice: “there are no strawberries under the snow. ”
“I know it,” replied Dobrunka sadly; "but my mother and
sister will beat me to a jelly if I do not bring them some. My
good sirs, please to tell me where I can find them. ”
If you
## p. 8752 (#368) ###########################################
8752
ÉDOUARD RENÉ LEFEBVRE LABOULAYE
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»
(
Old January rose, and turning to a man in a golden mantle,
he put his staff in his hand, saying, “Brother June, this is your
business. ”
June rose in turn, and stirred the fire with the staff, when
behold! the flames rose, the snow melted, the earth grew green,
the trees were covered with leaves, the birds sang, and the
flowers opened - it was summer. Thousands of little white stars
enameled the turf, then turned to red strawberries; looking, in
their green cups, like rubies set in emeralds.
"Make haste, my child, and gather your strawberries,” said
June.
Dobrunka filled her apron, thanked the Twelve Months, and
joyfully ran home. You may imagine the astonishment of Ka-
tinka and the stepmother. The fragrance of the strawberries
filled the whole house.
“Where did you find these fine things? ” asked Katinka in a
disdainful voice.
"Up yonder on the mountain,” answered her sister; there
were so many of them that they looked like blood poured on the
ground. ”
Katinka and her mother devoured the strawberries without
even thanking the poor child.
The third day the wicked sister took a fancy for some red
apples. The same threats, the same insults, and the same vio-
lence followed. Dobrunka ran to the mountain, and was for-
tunate enough to find the Twelve Months warming themselves,
motionless and silent.
“You here again, my child ? ” said old January, making room
for her by the fire. Dobrunka told him with tears how, if she
did not bring home some red apples, her mother and sister would
beat her to death.
Old January repeated the ceremonies of the day before.
« Brother September,” said he to a gray-bearded man in a
purple mantle, “this is your business. ”
September rose and stirred the fire with the staff, when
behold! the flames ascended, the snow melted, and the trees put
forth a few yellow leaves, which fell one by one before the wind;
it was autumn. The only flowers were a few late pinks, daisies,
and immortelles. Dobrunka saw but one thing, an apple-tree
with its rosy fruit.
"Make haste, my child: shake the tree,” said September.
(
(c
»
»
## p. 8753 (#369) ###########################################
ÉDOUARD RENÉ LEFEBVRE LABOULAYE
8753
She shook it, and an apple fell; she shook it again, and a sec-
ond apple followed.
Make haste, Dobrunka, make haste home! ” cried September
in an imperious voice.
The good child thanked the Twelve Months, and joyfully ran
home. You may imagine the astonishment of Katinka and the
stepmother.
“Fresh apples in January! Where did you get these apples? ”
asked Katinka.
«Up yonder on the mountain: there is a tree there that is as
red with them as a cherry-tree in July. ”
“Why did you bring only two ? You ate the rest on the
(
way. ”
even
a
"O sister, I did not touch them; I was only permitted to
shake the tree twice, and but two apples fell. ”
« Begone, you fool! ” cried Katinka, striking her sister, who
ran away crying.
The wicked girl tasted one of the apples; she had never eaten
anything so delicious in her life, neither had her mother. How
they regretted not having any more!
"Mother,” said Katinka, "give me my fur cloak.
I will go to
the forest and find the tree; and whether I am permitted or not,
I will shake it so hard that all the apples will be ours. "
The mother tried to stop her. A spoiled child listens to noth-
ing. Katinka wrapped herself in her fur cloak, drew the hood
over her head, and hastened to the forest.
Everything was covered with snow; there was not
footpath. Katinka lost her way, but she pushed on, spurred by
pride and covetousness. She spied a light in the distance. She
climbed and climbed till she reached the place, and found the
Twelve Months each seated on his stone, motionless and silent.
Without asking their permission, she approached the fire.
“Why have you come here ? What do you want? Where are
you going ? ” asked old January gruffly.
«What matters it to you, old fool ? " answered Katinka. “It
is none of your business where I came from or whither I am
going. ” She plunged into the forest. January frowned, and
raised his staff above his head. In the twinkling of an eye the
sky was overcast, the fire went out, the snow fell, and the wind
blew. Katinka could not see the way before her. She lost her-
self, and vainly tried to retrace her steps. The snow fell and the
XV-548
## p. 8754 (#370) ###########################################
8754
ÉDOUARD RENÉ LEFEBVRE LABOULAYE
wind blew. She called her mother, she cursed her sister, she
cursed God. The snow fell and the wind blew. Katinka froze,
her limbs stiffened, and she fell motionless. The snow still fell
and the wind still blew.
The mother went without ceasing from the window to the
door, and from the door to the window. The hours passed and
Katinka did not return.
“I must go and look for my daughter,” said she. « The child
has forgotten herself with those hateful apples. ” She took her
fur cloak and hood and hastened to the mountain. Everything
was covered with snow; there was not even a footpath. She
plunged into the forest, calling her daughter. The snow fell and
the wind blew. She walked on with feverish anxiety, shouting
at the top of her voice. The snow still fell and the wind still
blew.
Dobrunka waited through the evening and the night, but no
one returned. In the morning she took her wheel and spun a
whole distaff full; there was still no news. «What can have
happened ? ” said the good girl, weeping. The sun was shining
through an icy mist, and the ground was covered with snow.
Dobrunka prayed for her mother and sister. They did not re-
turn; and it was not till spring that a shepherd found the two
corpses in the forest.
Dobrunka remained the sole mistress of the house, the cow,
and the garden, to say nothing of a piece of meadow adjoining
the house. But when a good and pretty girl has a field under
her window, the next thing that follows is a young farmer, who
offers her his heart and hand. Dobrunka was
soon married.
The Twelve Months did not abandon their child. More than
once, when the north wind blew fearfully and the windows shook
in their frames, old January stopped up all the crevices of the
house with snow, so that the cold might not enter this peaceful
abode.
Dobrunka lived to a good old age, always virtuous and happy,
having, according to the proverb, winter at the door, summer in
the barn, autumn in the cellar, and spring in the heart.
## p. 8755 (#371) ###########################################
ÉDOUARD RENÉ LEFEBVRE LABOULAYE
8755
THE STORY OF COQUERICO
A SPANISH Tale
From the Fairy Book. Translated by Mary L. Booth, and published by
Harper & Brothers
Oi
O
NCE upon a time there was a handsome hen who lived like a
great lady in the poultry-yard of a rich farmer, surrounded
by a numerous family which clucked about her, and none
of which clamored more loudly or picked up the corn faster with
his beak than a poor little deformed and crippled chicken. This
was precisely the one that the mother loved best.
It is the way
with all mothers: the weakest and most unsightly are always
their favorites. This misshapen creature had but one eye, one
wing, and one leg in good condition; it might have been thought
that Solomon had executed his memorable sentence on Coquerico-
for that was the name of the wretched chicken — and cut him in
two with his famous sword. When a person is one-eyed, lame,
and one-armed, he may reasonably be expected to be modest;
but our Castilian ragamuffin was prouder than his father,— the
best spurred, most elegant, bravest, and most gallant cock to be
seen from Burgos to Madrid. He thought himself a phoenix of
grace and beauty, and passed the best part of the day in admir-
ing himself in the brook. If one of his brothers ran against him
by accident, he abused him, called him envious and jealous, and
risked his only remaining eye in battle; if the hens clucked on
seeing him, he said it was to hide their spite because he did not
condescend to look at them.
One day, when he was more puffed up with vanity than usual,
he resolved no longer to remain in such a narrow sphere, but to
go out into the world, where he would be better appreciated.
“My lady mother,” said he, “I am tired of Spain; I am going
to Rome to see the Pope and cardinals. ”
“What are you thinking of, my poor child! ” cried his mother.
«Who has put such a folly into your head ? Never has one of
our family been known to quit his country; and for this reason
are the honor of our race, and are proud of our genealogy.
Where will you find a poultry-yard like this,- mulberry-trees
to shade you, a white-washed hen-roost, a magnificent dunghill,
worms and corn everywhere, brothers that love you, and three
»
we
## p. 8756 (#372) ###########################################
8756
ÉDOUARD RENÉ LEFEBVRE LABOULAYE
«Don't you
>
great dogs to guard you from the foxes ? Do you not think
that at Rome itself you will regret the ease and plenty of such
a life? "
Coquerico shrugged his crippled wing in token of disdain.
“You are a simple woman, my good mother,” said he: "every-
thing is accounted worthy of admiration by him who has never
quitted his dunghill. But I have wit enough to see that my
brothers have no ideas, and that my cousins are nothing but
rustics. My genius is stifling in this hole; I wish to roam the
world and seek my fortune. ”
But, my son, have you never looked in the brook ? » resumed
the poor hen.
know that you lack an eye, a leg,
and a wing? To make your fortune, you need the eyes of a
fox, the legs of a spider, and the wings of a vulture. Once out.
side of these walls you are lost. ”
"My good mother,” replied Coquerico, “when a hen hatches
a duck, she is always frightened on seeing it run to the water.
You know me no better. It is my nature to succeed by my wit
and talent. I must have a public capable of appreciating the
charms of my person; my place is not among inferior people. ”
“My son,” said the hen, seeing all her counsels useless,-“my
son, listen at least to your mother's last words. If you go to
Rome, take care to avoid St. Peter's Church; the saint, it is
said, dislikes cocks, especially when they crow. Shun, moreover,
,
certain personages called cooks and scullions; you will know
them by their paper caps, their tucked-up sleeves, and the great
knives which they wear at their sides. They are licensed assas-
sins, who track our steps without pity, and cut our throats with-
out giving us time to cry mercy. And now my child,” she
added, raising her claw, "receive my blessing. May St. James,
the patron saint of pilgrims, protect thee! ”
Coquerico pretended not to see the tear that trembled in his
mother's eye, nor did he trouble himself any more about his
father, who bristled his plumage and seemed about to call him
back. Without caring for those whom he left behind, he glided
through the half-open door, and once outside, flapped his only
wing and crowed three times to celebrate his freedom « Cock-a-
doodle-do!
As he half flew, half hopped over the fields, he came to
the bed of a brook which had been dried up by the sun.
In
the middle of the sands, however, still trickled a tiny thread of
(C
## p. 8757 (#373) ###########################################
ÉDOUARD RENÉ LEFEBVRE LABOULAYE
8757
(
-
»
(
water, so small that it was choked by a couple of dead leaves
that had fallen into it.
“My friend,” exclaimed the streamlet at the sight of our trav-
eler, -«my friend, you see my weakness; I have not even the
strength to carry away these leaves which obstruct my passage,
much less to make a circuit, so completely am I exhausted. With
a stroke of your beak you can restore me to life. I am not an
ingrate; if you oblige me, you may count on my gratitude the
first rainy day, when the water from heaven shall have restored
my strength. ”
“You are jesting,” said Coquerico. « Do I look like one
whose business it is to sweep the brooks ? Apply to those of
your own sort. ” And with his sound leg he leaped across the
streamlet.
You will remember me when you least expect it,” murmured
the brook, but with so feeble a voice that it was lost on the
proud cock.
A little farther on, Coquerico saw the wind lying breathless
on the ground.
“Dear Coquerico, come to my aid,” it cried: "here on earth we
should help each other. You see to what I am reduced by the
heat of the day; I, who in former times uprooted the olive-trees
and lashed the waves to frenzy, lie here well-nigh slain by the
dog-star. I suffered myself to be lulled to sleep by the perfume
of the roses with which I was playing; and lo! here I am,
stretched almost lifeless upon the ground. If you will raise me
a couple of inches with your beak and fan me a little with your
wing, I shall have the strength to mount to yonder white clouds
which I see in the distance, where I shall receive aid enough
from my family to keep me alive till I gain fresh strength from
the next whirlwind. ”
«My lord,” answered the spiteful Coquerico, "your Excellency
has more than once amused himself by playing tricks at my
expense. It is not a week since your Lordship glided like a
traitor behind me, and diverted himself by opening my tail like
a fan and covering me with confusion in the face of nations.
Have patience, therefore, my worthy friend: mockers always have
their turn; it does them good to repent, and to learn to respect
those whose birth, wit, and beauty should screen them from the
jests of a fool. ” And Coquerico, bristling his plumage, crowed
three times in his shrillest voice and proudly strutted onward.
(
## p. 8758 (#374) ###########################################
8758
ÉDOUARD RENÉ LEFEBVRE LABOULAYE
»
(
A little farther on he came to a newly mown field, where the
farmers had piled up the weeds in order to burn them. Coque-
rico approached a smoking heap, hoping to find some stray
kernels of corn, and saw a little flame which was charring the
green stalks without being able to set them on fire.
“My good friend, cried the flame to the new-comer, "you
are just in time to save my life: I am dying for want of air. I
cannot imagine what has become of my cousin the wind, who
cares for nothing but his own amusement. Bring me a few dry
straws to rekindle my strength, and you will not have obliged
an ingrate. "
« Wait a moment,” said Coquerico, “and I will serve you
as you deserve, insolent fellow that dares ask my help! ” And
behold! he leaped on the heap of dry weeds, and trampled it
down till he smothered both flame and smoke; after which he
exultingly shouted three times, Cock-a-doodle-doo! ” and flapped
his wing, as if he had done a great deed.
Proudly strutting onward and crowing, Coquerico at last ar-
rived at Rome, the place to which all roads lead. Scarcely had
he reached the city when he hastened to the great church of St.
Peter. Grand and beautiful as it was, he did not stop to admire
it; but planting himself in front of the main entrance, where he
looked like a fly among the great columns, he raised himself on
tiptoe and began to shout, “Cock-a-doodle-doo! ” only to enrage
the saint and disobey his mother.
He had not yet ended his song
when one of the Pope's
guards, who chanced to hear him, laid hands on the insolent
wretch who dared thus to insult the saint, and carried him home
in order to roast him for supper.
«Quick! ” said he to his wife on entering the house, "give
me some boiling water: here is a sinner to be punished. ”
“Pardon, pardon, Madam Water! ” cried Coquerico. "O good
and gentle water, the best and purest thing in the world, do not
scald me, I pray you! ”
Did you have pity on me when I implored your aid, un-
“
grateful wretch ? ” answered the water, boiling with indignation.
And with a single gush it inundated him from head to foot, and
left not a bit of down on his body.
The unhappy Coquerico stripped of all his feathers, the soldier
took him and laid him on the gridiron.
## p. 8759 (#375) ###########################################
ÉDOUARD RENÉ LEFEBVRE LABOULAYE
8759
“O fire, do not burn me! ” cried he in an agony of terror.
“O beautiful and brilliant fire, the brother of the sun and the
cousin of the diamond, spare an unhappy creature; restrain thy
ardor, and soften thy flame; do not roast me! ”
“ Did you have pity on me when I implored your aid, un-
grateful wretch ? ” answered the fire; and fiercely blazing with
anger, in an instant it burnt Coquerico to a coal.
The soldier, seeing his roast chicken in this deplorable condi-
tion, took him by the leg and threw him out of the window.
The wind bore the unhappy fowl to a dunghill, where it left him
for a moment.
"O wind,” murmured Coquerico, who still breathed, “O kindly
zephyr, protecting breeze, behold me cured of my vain follies;
let me rest on the paternal dunghill. ”
"Let you rest! ” roared the wind. Wait, and I will teach
you how I treat ingrates. ” And with one blast it sent him so
high in the air, that as he fell back he was transfixed by a
steeple.
There St. Peter was awaiting him. With his own hand he
nailed him to the highest steeple in Rome, where he is still
shown to travelers. However high-placed he may be, all despise
him because he turns with the slightest wind; black, dried up,
stripped of his feathers, and beaten by the rain, he is no longer
called Coquerico, but Weathercock: and thus expiates, and must
expiate eternally, his disobedience, vanity, and wickedness.
((
## p. 8760 (#376) ###########################################
8760
JEAN DE LA BRUYÈRE
(1645-1696)
Co.
a
HE great French satirist La Bruyère has left a comprehensive
portrait gallery of his contemporaries, where one searches
Ga vainly for the brilliant collector himself. One feels his
desire to entertain, almost hears his amused ironical laugh at human
follies; but his presence is intangible. He never took the world cor.
dially into confidence, and we know little now of his uneventful life.
He was born at Paris, educated with the Oratorians, and then studied
law; but when about twenty-eight he gave up practice, and bought
treasurership at Caen, which he sold
again twelve years later. To his friend
and admirer Bossuet may be attributed his
literary success; for, recommended by him,
he became in 1684 instructor in history to
the young Duc de Bourbon, grandson of the
famous Condé. He received a salary of a
thousand crowns, and seems to have taught
his charge a variety of subjects. The stormy
Condés liked this genial quiet gentleman-
teacher and his ready tact. They may have
stormed sometimes, after their wont; but
La Bruyère knew how to be amiable while
JEAN DE LA BRUYÈRE preserving his own respect and winning
theirs. When his pupil left him, to marry
the daughter of Louis XIV. and Madame de Montespan, he was asked
to stay on as gentleman-in-waiting; and did so until his death of apo-
plexy at the Hôtel Condé, when only fifty-one.
With the Condés the witty bourgeois had every opportunity to
gather material for his famous Characters. He was a keen observer,
with the clear impartial vision possessed only by an unconcerned
spectator. Though he knew the King and all the powerful noblemen
of France, though he was familiar with every court intrigue, he must
often have been made to feel that he was a recognized inferior.
There was quiet malice in his outward respect for these men and
women, and in the merciless analysis with which he exposed their
misplaced pride and ridiculous foibles.
The Characters) (Les Caractères), suggested as its name indicates
by the work of Theophrastus, and partly modeled after it, appeared
## p. 8761 (#377) ###########################################
JEAN DE LA BRUYÈRE
8761
in 1687; and La Bruyère found his literary pastime, his solace to
wounded vanity, winning an immediate success. It is said that he
had offered to give the manuscript to a bookseller friend, the possible
profits to become a dowry for his child. The hesitating bookseller
finally printed it, and thus made a large fortune.
La Bruyère has definitely stated the purpose of his work: “Of the
sixteen chapters which compose it, there are fifteen wholly employed
in detecting the fallacy and absurdity to be found in the objects of
human passions and inclinations, and in demolishing such obstacles
as at first weaken, and afterwards extinguish, any knowledge of God
in mankind: therefore these chapters are merely preparatory to the
sixteenth and last, wherein atheism is attacked, and perhaps routed;
wherein the proofs of a God, such at least as weak man is capable of
receiving, are produced; wherein the providence of God is defended
against the insults and complaints of free-thinkers. ”
The continuity of the sixteen chapters is not very evident. Each
begins with general moral reflections upon Merit,' Women, the
Affections, and similar subjects; and ends with a series of literary
portraits. La Bruyère was not a profound psychologist, but a careful
superficial observer, with a gift for witty description. Although he
used fictitious names, the sketches were too like living originals to be
mistaken. Naturally they caused resentment and personal enmities,
which twice prevented his election to the Academy, finally achieved
in 1693. Everybody read the Characters,' charmed by the delicate,
forceful style, and by the shrewd moral reasoning which enriched the
language with wise sayings. Key after key appeared, identifying his
personages; but La Bruyère repudiated them all, declaring that he
had represented types, not copied individuals.
The influence of this early realist was very great. But for him
Le Sage's famous novel (Gil Blas' might never have been written.
He is said to have inspired the Persian Letters' (Lettres Persanes)
of Montesquieu. Translated into English as early as 1698, the Char-
acters' had a wide influence upon our literature. « There is no
doubt,” says Saintsbury, “that the English essayists of the Queen
Anne school modeled themselves upon it. ”
Its success called forth many feeble imitations, among them
(The Little La Bruyère, or Characters and Morals of Children of this
Century'; and “The La Bruyère for Domestics,' by Madame de Gen-
lis, besides a La Bruyère for Boys) and a La Bruyère for Girls. '
His other works — a translation of Theophrastus, and an unfinished
work upon Quietism,' materially altered by the Abbé du Pin, and
published after La Bruyère's death -- are not noteworthy. But the
(Characters' still constitute a delightful model of style, and a wise
and witty commentary on social life.
## p. 8762 (#378) ###########################################
8762
JEAN DE LA BRUYÈRE
OF FASHION
From the Characters)
I"
T is very foolish, and betrays what a small mind we have, to
allow fashion to sway us in everything that regards taste; in
our way of living, our health, and our conscience. Game is
out of fashion, and therefore insipid; and fashion forbids to cure
a fever by bleeding. This long while it has also not been fash-
ionable to depart this life shriven by Theotimus; now none but
the common people are saved by his pious exhortations, and he
has already beheld his successor.
To have a hobby is not to have a taste for what is good
and beautiful, but for what is rare and singular and for what
no one else can match; it is not to like things which are per-
fect, but those which are most sought after and fashionable. It
is not an amusement, but a passion; and often so violent that in
the meanness of its object it yields only to love and ambition.
Neither is it a passion for everything scarce and in vogue, but
only for some particular object which is rare and yet in fashion.
The lover of flowers has a garden in the suburbs, where he
spends all his time from sunrise till sunset. You see him stand-
ing there, and would think he had taken root in the midst of
his tulips before his “Solitaire ": he opens his eyes wide, rubs
his hands, stoops down and looks closer at it; it never before
seemed to him so handsome; he is in an ecstasy of joy, and
leaves it to go to the “Orient,” then to the “Veuve," from thence
to the “Cloth of Gold,” on to the "Agatha,” and at last returns
to the “Solitaire,” where he remains, is tired out, sits down, and
forgets his dinner; he looks at the tulip and admires its shade,
shape, color, sheen, and edges,— its beautiful form and calyx: but
God and Nature are not in his thoughts, for they do not go
beyond the bulb of his tulips, which he would not sell for a
thousand crowns, though he will give it to you for nothing when
tulips are no longer in fashion, and carnations are all the rage.
This rational being, who has a soul and professes some religion,
comes home tired and half starved, but very much pleased with
his day's work: he has seen some tulips.
Talk to another of the healthy look of the crops, of a plenti-
ful harvest, of a good vintage, and you will find he only cares
for fruit, and understands not a single word you say. Then turn
»
## p. 8763 (#379) ###########################################
JEAN DE LA BRUYÈRE
8763
to figs and melons; tell him that this year the pear-trees are
so heavily laden with fruit that the branches almost break, that
there is abundance of peaches: and you address him in a lan-
guage he completely ignores, and he will not answer you, for his
sole hobby is plum-trees. Do not even speak to him of your
plum-trees, for he is only fond of a certain kind, and laughs and
sneers at the mention of any others; he takes you to his tree
and cautiously gathers this exquisite plum, divides it, gives you
one half, keeps the other himself, and exclaims, “How delicious!
do you like it? is it not heavenly? You cannot find its equal
anywhere;” and then his nostrils dilate, and he can hardly con-
tain his joy and pride under an appearance of modesty. What
a wonderful person, never enough praised and admired, whose
name will be handed down to future ages! Let me look at his
mien and shape whilst he is still in the land of the living, that I
may study the features and the countenance of a man who, alone
amongst mortals, is the happy possessor of such a plum.
Visit a third, and he will talk to you about his brother col-
lectors, but especially of Diognetes. He admits that he admires
him, but that he understands him less than ever.
Perhaps you
imagine,” he continues, "that he endeavors to learn something
of his medals, and considers them speaking evidences of certain
facts that have happened, - fixed and unquestionable monuments
of ancient history. If you do, you are wholly wrong. Perhaps
you think that all the trouble he takes. to become master of a
medallion with a certain head on it is because he will be de-
lighted to possess an uninterrupted series of emperors.
do, you are more hopelessly wrong than ever. Diognetes knows
when a coin is worn, when the edges are rougher than they
ought to be, or when it looks as if it had been newly struck.
All the drawers of his cabinet are full, and there is only room
for one coin; this vacancy so shocks him that in reality he
spends all his property and literally devotes his whole lifetime to
fill it. ”
Another man criticizes those people who make long voyages
either through nervousness or to gratify their curiosity; who
write no narrative or memoirs, and do not even keep a journal;
who go to see, and see nothing, or forget what they have seen;
who only wish to get a look at towers or steeples they never
saw before, and to cross other rivers than the Seine or the
Loire; who leave their own country merely to return again, and
-
If you
## p. 8764 (#380) ###########################################
8764
JEAN DE LA BRUYÈRE
like to be absent, so that one day it may be said they have come
from afar. So far this critic is right and is worth listening to.
But when he adds that books are more instructive than
traveling, and gives me to understand he has a library, I wish
to see it. I call on this gentleman, and at the very foot of the
stairs I almost faint with the smell of the russia-leather bind-
ings of his books. In vain he shouts in my ears, to encourage
me, that they are all with gilt edges and hand-tooled, that they
are the best editions,- and he names some of them, one after
another,- and that his library is full of them, except a few
places painted so carefully that everybody takes them for shelves
and real books and is deceived. He also informs me that he
never reads, nor sets foot in this library, and now only accom-
panies me to oblige me. I thank him for his politeness, but feel
as he does on the subject, and would not like to visit the tan-pit
which he calls a library.
Some people immoderately thirst after knowledge, and are
unwilling to ignore any branch of it, so they study them all and
master none; they are fonder of knowing much than of knowing
some things well, and had rather be superficial smatterers in sev-
eral sciences than be well and thoroughly acquainted with one.
They everywhere meet with some person who enlightens and cor-
rects them; they are deceived by their idle curiosity, and often,
after very long and painful efforts, can but just extricate them-
selves from the grossest ignorance.
Other people have a master-key to all sciences, but never
enter there; they spend their lives in trying to decipher the
Eastern and Northern languages, those of both the Indies, of
the two Poles, nay, the language spoken in the moon itself. The
most useless idioms, the oddest and most hieroglyphical-looking
characters, are just those which awaken their passion and induce
them to study; they pity those persons who ingenuously content
themselves with knowing their own language, or at most the
Greek and Latin tongues. Such men read all historians and
know nothing of history; they run through all books, but are
not the wiser for any; they are absolutely ignorant of all facts
and principles, but they possess as abundant a store and garner-
house of words and phrases as can well be imagined, which
weighs them down, and with which they overload their memory,
whilst their mind remains a blank.
Who can describe all the different kinds of hobbies ?
.
## p. 8765 (#381) ###########################################
JEAN DE LA BRUYÈRE
8765
A fashionable person is like a certain blue flower which grows
wild in the fields, chokes the corn, spoils the crops, and takes
up the room of something better; it has no beauty nor value but
what is owing to a momentary caprice, which dies out almost as
soon as sprung up. To-day it is all the rage, and the ladies are
decked with it; to-morrow it is neglected and left to the common
herd.
A person of merit, on the contrary, is a flower we do not
describe by its color, but call by its name, - which we cultivate
for its beauty or fragrance, such as a lily or a rose; one of the
charms of nature: one of those things which beautify the world,
belonging to all times, admired and popular for centuries, valued
by our fathers, and by us in imitation of them, and not at all
harmed by the dislike or antipathy of a few.
Every hour in itself, and in respect to us, is unique; when
once it is gone, it is entirely lost, and millions of ages will not
bring it back again; days, months, and years are swallowed up
and irrevocably lost in the abyss of time; time itself shall be
destroyed; it is but a point in the immense space of eternity, and
will be erased. There are several slight and frivolous periods of
time which are unstable, pass away, and may be called fashions:
such as grandeur, favor, riches, power, authority, independence,
pleasure, joy, and superfluities. What will become of such fash-
ions when time itself shall have disappeared ? Virtue alone, now
so little in fashion, will last longer than time.
si
THE CHARACTER OF CYDIAS
From the Characters)
a Hegio
A fuller, and Cydias [the
poet Fontenelle) a wit, for that is
his trade. He has a signboard, a shop, work that is ordered,
and journeymen who work under him; he cannot possibly let you
have those stanzas he has promised you in less than a month,
unless he breaks his word with Dosithea, who has engaged him
to write an elegy; he has also an idyl on the loom which is for
Crantor, who presses him for it, and has promised him a liberal
reward. You can have whatever you like prose or verse, for
he is just as good in one as in the other. If you want a letter
of condolence, or one some person's absence, he will write
on
## p. 8766 (#382) ###########################################
8766
JEAN DE LA BRUYÈRE
a
(C
>>
them: he has them even ready-made; step into his warehouse,
and you may pick and choose. Cydias has a friend who has
nothing else to do but to promise to certain people a long time
beforehand that the great man will come to them, and who
finally introduces him in some society as man seldom to be
met with and exquisite in conversation. Then, just as a vocalist
sings or as a lute-player touches his instrument in a company
where it has been expected, Cydias, after having coughed, puts
back his ruffles, extends his hand, opens his fingers, and very
gravely utters his over-refined thoughts and his sophisticated
arguments. Unlike those persons whose principles agree, and
who know that reason and truth are one and the same thing,
and snatch the words out of one another's mouths to acquiesce
in one another's sentiments, he never opens his mouth but to
contradict: "I think,” he says graciously, it is just the opposite
of what you say; or, "I am not at all of your opinion;" or
else, “Formerly I was under the same delusion as you are now;
but . . . ”; and then he continues, “There are three things to
be considered, to which he adds a fourth. He is an insipid
chatterer; no sooner has he obtained a footing into any society
than he looks out for some ladies whom he can fascinate, before
whom he can set forth his wit or his philosophy, and produce
his rare conceptions: for whether he speaks or writes, he ought
never to be suspected of saying what is true or false, sensible or
ridiculous; his only care is not to express the same sentiments
as sonie one else, and to differ from everybody. Therefore in
conversation, he often waits till every one has given his opinion
on some casual subject, or one which not seldom he has intro-
duced himself, in order to utter dogmatically things which are
perfectly new, but which he thinks decisive and unanswerable.
He is, in a word, a compound of pedantry and formality, to be
admired by cits and rustics; in whom, nevertheless, there is
nothing great except the opinion he has of himself.
Translation of Henri Van Laun.
## p. 8767 (#383) ###########################################
8767
MADAME DE LA FAYETTE
(1634-1693)
N THE history of French fiction the work of Madame de La
Fayette marks the beginning of a new era. Her work is
the first which relies for its interest upon the truth of the
emotions. For the impossible romances of heroic gallantry to which
Cervantes had already given the death-blow, and for the picaresque
tales of adventure which were to find their chief exponent in Defoe,
she substituted the novel in which the study of character and the
analysis of motive were to be the main sources of interest. Her
immediate successors in the next century
were the Abbé Prévost in France and Sam-
uel Richardson in England. She raised the
tone of fiction by simplifying motives, by
deepening the characterization, and by ad-
hering more closely to the facts of history
and to the truth of nature. To these im-
proved methods of treatment was added a
distinction of style, and a carefully chosen
but direct and unassuming language. The
work in which her finest qualities are ex-
hibited in combination is the Princess of
Clèves,' upon which two centuries have
placed the indelible mark of a great French MME. DE LA FAYETTE
classic. With this work the analytical novel
of modern times may be said to have had its origin; and if the text-
ure of motives in the Princess of Clèves) seems thin in comparison
with the complicated and closely woven web of Madame Bovary' or
(Middlemarch, it must be remembered that Madame de La Fayette's
book appeared thirty years before (Gil Blas,' and nearly half a cen-
tury before the time of the great English novelists.
Marie Madeleine Pioche de la Vergne was born in Paris in March
1634. Her brilliant qualities of mind were early displayed in the
literary circle of the Hôtel Rambouillet; but after her marriage in
1655 to the Count de La Fayette, her own home became one of the
chief literary centres of Paris. Madame de Sévigné, La Fontaine,
and Segrais were her close friends; and after the early death of her
husband she established an intimate friendship with the Duke de La
>
## p. 8768 (#384) ###########################################
8768
MADAME DE LA FAYETTE
(
Rochefoucauld. Her character was highly estimable, though long
misunderstood. She survived La Rochefoucauld by thirteen years,
which she was reported to have devoted to a life of penance. In
1880 hitherto unpublished letters were brought to light, which show
that during those years Madame de La Fayette continued to play an
important role at court, and was active for good in many a court
intrigue. She was sincerely attached to her friends, of a restless
activity, honestly frank, and possessed of a keen understanding.
At the time when Madame de La Fayette began to write, women
of talent and learning were in disrepute; ecclesiastics had denounced
them; Molière had ridiculed them. Her first story, (The Princess of
Montpensier,' appeared anonymously and made no stir. Her second,
"Zayde,' bore the name of her friend Segrais, and immediately at-
tracted attention. "The Princess of Clèves, published in the spring of
1678, made a sensation. There was in this case no such close con-
cealment of the authorship, but there was considerable mystification.
Many believed the book to be the work of La Rochefoucauld. In one
of her letters Madame de Scudéry wrote, “The book is an orphan
disowned both by father and mother. ” “The Princess of Clèves' was
the first novel in literature that could be called the romance of a
married woman. There can be no doubt that although the scene is
laid at the court of Henry II. , the heroine is Madame de La Fayette
herself; the Prince de Clèves, the Count de La Fayette; and the Duke
de Nemours, La Rochefoucauld. The inner workings of a woman's
life are here portrayed with purity of feeling and faithfulness of
observation. The Princess's confession to her husband of her love
for another man is related without dramatic fervor, but with a grace-
ful certainty of touch. Two other works require only passing men-
tion: ‘The History of Henrietta of England, published in 1720, and
the Mémoires of the Court of France,' published in 1731. It is the
(Princess of Clèves) alone that renders Madame de La Fayette pre-
eminent among the many brilliant women of France in the seven-
teenth century. “In order to produce it,” says her biographer, “there
were needed a court and a country like the court and France of
Louis XIV. Let us give greeting to these graces that we shall see
no more; but since this flower is not yet faded, let us breathe its per-
fume which awakens in us the dreams of that brilliant time, and let
us adınire its undying freshness. ”
Madame de La Fayette died in Paris on May 25th, 1693.
## p.
was pretty, and she could not understand why her stepmother
flew into a rage at the mere sight of her. The poor child was
obliged to do all the work of the house; she had to sweep,
cook, wash, sew, spin, weave, cut the grass, and take care of
the cow, while Katinka lived like a princess, — that is to say,
did nothing
Dobrunka worked with a good will, and took reproaches
and blows with the gentleness of a lamb; but nothing soothed
her stepmother, for every day added to the beauty of the elder
sister and the ugliness of the younger. « They are growing
up,
► thought the mother, and suitors will soon appear, who will
refuse my daughter when they see this hateful Dobrunka, who
grows beautiful on purpose to spite me. I must get rid of her,
cost what it may. ”
)
## p. 8750 (#366) ###########################################
8750
ÉDOUARD RENÉ LEFEBVRE LABOULAYE
(
»
>
One day in the middle of January, Katinka took a fancy for
some violets. She called Dobrunka, and said, "Go to the forest
and bring me a bunch of violets, that I may put them in my
bosom and enjoy their fragrance. ”
“Oh, sister, what an idea! answered Dobrunka: « as if there
were any violets under the snow!
"Hold your tongue, stupid fool," returned her sister, "and do
as I bid you.
If you do not go to the forest and bring me back
a bunch of violets, I will beat you to a jelly. ” Upon this the
mother took Dobrunka by the arm, put her out of the door, and
drew the bolt on her.
The poor girl went to the forest weeping bitterly. Every-
thing was covered with snow; there was not even a footpath.
She lost her way and wandered about, till, famishing with hunger
and perishing with cold, she entreated God to take her from this
wretched life.
All at once she saw a light in the distance.
She went on,
climbing higher and higher, until at last she reached the top of
a huge rock, upon which a great fire was built. Around the fire
were twelve stones; and on each stone sat a motionless figure,
wrapped in a large mantle, his head covered with a hood which
fell over his eyes. Three of these mantles were white like the
snow, three were green like the grass of the meadows, three
were golden like the sheaves of ripe wheat, and three were pur-
ple like the grapes of the vine. These twelve figures, gazing
at the fire in silence, were the Twelve Months of the year.
Dobrunka knew January by his long white beard.
He was
the only one that had a staff in his hand. The poor girl was
terribly frightened. She drew near, saying in a timid voice,
"My good sirs, please to let me warm myself by your fire: I am
freezing with cold. ”
January nodded his head. “Why have you come here, my
child ? ” he asked. “What are you looking for ? ”
"I am looking for violets,” replied Dobrunka.
« This is not the season for them: there are no violets in the
time of snow,” said January in his gruff voice.
“I know it,” replied Dobrunka sadly; “but my sister and
mother will beat me to a jelly if I do not bring them some. My
good sirs, please to tell me where I can find them. ”
Old January rose, and turning to a young man in a green
mantle, put his staff in his hand, and said to him, "Brother
March, this is your business. ”
(
## p. 8751 (#367) ###########################################
ÉDOUARD RENÉ LEFEBVRE LABOULAYE
8751
»
March rose in turn, and stirred the fire with the staff, when
behold! the flames rose, the snow melted, the buds put forth on
the trees, the grass turned green under the bushes, the flowers
peeped through the verdure, and the violets opened - it was
spring
"Make haste, my child, and gather your violets,” said March.
Dobrunka gathered a large bouquet, thanked the Twelve
Months, and joyfully ran home. You can imagine the aston-
ishment of Katinka and the stepmother. The fragrance of the
violets filled the whole house.
“Where did you get these fine things? ” asked Katinka in a
disdainful voice.
“Up yonder, on the mountain,” answered her sister. It
looked like a great blue carpet under the bushes. ”
Katinka put the bouquet in her bosom, and did not even
thank the poor child.
The next morning the wicked sister, as she sat idling by the
stove, took a fancy for some strawberries. “Go to the forest and
bring me some strawberries,” said she to Dobrunka.
“O sister, what an idea! as if there were any strawberries
under the snow! »
"Hold your tongue, stupid fool, and do as I bid you.
don't go to the forest and bring me back a basket of strawberries,
I will beat you to a jelly. ”
The mother took Dobrunka by the arm, put her out of the
door, and drew the bolt on her.
The poor girl returned to the forest, looking with all her
eyes for the light that she had seen the day before.
She was
fortunate enough to spy it, and she reached the fire trembling
and almost frozen. The Twelve Months were in their places,
motionless and silent.
My good sirs,” said Dobrunka, "please to let me warm my-
self by your fire: I am almost frozen with cold. ”
“Why have you returned ? " asked January.
« What are you
looking for ? »
“I am looking for strawberries," answered she.
« This is not the season for them,” returned January in his
gruff voice: “there are no strawberries under the snow. ”
“I know it,” replied Dobrunka sadly; "but my mother and
sister will beat me to a jelly if I do not bring them some. My
good sirs, please to tell me where I can find them. ”
If you
## p. 8752 (#368) ###########################################
8752
ÉDOUARD RENÉ LEFEBVRE LABOULAYE
(C
»
(
Old January rose, and turning to a man in a golden mantle,
he put his staff in his hand, saying, “Brother June, this is your
business. ”
June rose in turn, and stirred the fire with the staff, when
behold! the flames rose, the snow melted, the earth grew green,
the trees were covered with leaves, the birds sang, and the
flowers opened - it was summer. Thousands of little white stars
enameled the turf, then turned to red strawberries; looking, in
their green cups, like rubies set in emeralds.
"Make haste, my child, and gather your strawberries,” said
June.
Dobrunka filled her apron, thanked the Twelve Months, and
joyfully ran home. You may imagine the astonishment of Ka-
tinka and the stepmother. The fragrance of the strawberries
filled the whole house.
“Where did you find these fine things? ” asked Katinka in a
disdainful voice.
"Up yonder on the mountain,” answered her sister; there
were so many of them that they looked like blood poured on the
ground. ”
Katinka and her mother devoured the strawberries without
even thanking the poor child.
The third day the wicked sister took a fancy for some red
apples. The same threats, the same insults, and the same vio-
lence followed. Dobrunka ran to the mountain, and was for-
tunate enough to find the Twelve Months warming themselves,
motionless and silent.
“You here again, my child ? ” said old January, making room
for her by the fire. Dobrunka told him with tears how, if she
did not bring home some red apples, her mother and sister would
beat her to death.
Old January repeated the ceremonies of the day before.
« Brother September,” said he to a gray-bearded man in a
purple mantle, “this is your business. ”
September rose and stirred the fire with the staff, when
behold! the flames ascended, the snow melted, and the trees put
forth a few yellow leaves, which fell one by one before the wind;
it was autumn. The only flowers were a few late pinks, daisies,
and immortelles. Dobrunka saw but one thing, an apple-tree
with its rosy fruit.
"Make haste, my child: shake the tree,” said September.
(
(c
»
»
## p. 8753 (#369) ###########################################
ÉDOUARD RENÉ LEFEBVRE LABOULAYE
8753
She shook it, and an apple fell; she shook it again, and a sec-
ond apple followed.
Make haste, Dobrunka, make haste home! ” cried September
in an imperious voice.
The good child thanked the Twelve Months, and joyfully ran
home. You may imagine the astonishment of Katinka and the
stepmother.
“Fresh apples in January! Where did you get these apples? ”
asked Katinka.
«Up yonder on the mountain: there is a tree there that is as
red with them as a cherry-tree in July. ”
“Why did you bring only two ? You ate the rest on the
(
way. ”
even
a
"O sister, I did not touch them; I was only permitted to
shake the tree twice, and but two apples fell. ”
« Begone, you fool! ” cried Katinka, striking her sister, who
ran away crying.
The wicked girl tasted one of the apples; she had never eaten
anything so delicious in her life, neither had her mother. How
they regretted not having any more!
"Mother,” said Katinka, "give me my fur cloak.
I will go to
the forest and find the tree; and whether I am permitted or not,
I will shake it so hard that all the apples will be ours. "
The mother tried to stop her. A spoiled child listens to noth-
ing. Katinka wrapped herself in her fur cloak, drew the hood
over her head, and hastened to the forest.
Everything was covered with snow; there was not
footpath. Katinka lost her way, but she pushed on, spurred by
pride and covetousness. She spied a light in the distance. She
climbed and climbed till she reached the place, and found the
Twelve Months each seated on his stone, motionless and silent.
Without asking their permission, she approached the fire.
“Why have you come here ? What do you want? Where are
you going ? ” asked old January gruffly.
«What matters it to you, old fool ? " answered Katinka. “It
is none of your business where I came from or whither I am
going. ” She plunged into the forest. January frowned, and
raised his staff above his head. In the twinkling of an eye the
sky was overcast, the fire went out, the snow fell, and the wind
blew. Katinka could not see the way before her. She lost her-
self, and vainly tried to retrace her steps. The snow fell and the
XV-548
## p. 8754 (#370) ###########################################
8754
ÉDOUARD RENÉ LEFEBVRE LABOULAYE
wind blew. She called her mother, she cursed her sister, she
cursed God. The snow fell and the wind blew. Katinka froze,
her limbs stiffened, and she fell motionless. The snow still fell
and the wind still blew.
The mother went without ceasing from the window to the
door, and from the door to the window. The hours passed and
Katinka did not return.
“I must go and look for my daughter,” said she. « The child
has forgotten herself with those hateful apples. ” She took her
fur cloak and hood and hastened to the mountain. Everything
was covered with snow; there was not even a footpath. She
plunged into the forest, calling her daughter. The snow fell and
the wind blew. She walked on with feverish anxiety, shouting
at the top of her voice. The snow still fell and the wind still
blew.
Dobrunka waited through the evening and the night, but no
one returned. In the morning she took her wheel and spun a
whole distaff full; there was still no news. «What can have
happened ? ” said the good girl, weeping. The sun was shining
through an icy mist, and the ground was covered with snow.
Dobrunka prayed for her mother and sister. They did not re-
turn; and it was not till spring that a shepherd found the two
corpses in the forest.
Dobrunka remained the sole mistress of the house, the cow,
and the garden, to say nothing of a piece of meadow adjoining
the house. But when a good and pretty girl has a field under
her window, the next thing that follows is a young farmer, who
offers her his heart and hand. Dobrunka was
soon married.
The Twelve Months did not abandon their child. More than
once, when the north wind blew fearfully and the windows shook
in their frames, old January stopped up all the crevices of the
house with snow, so that the cold might not enter this peaceful
abode.
Dobrunka lived to a good old age, always virtuous and happy,
having, according to the proverb, winter at the door, summer in
the barn, autumn in the cellar, and spring in the heart.
## p. 8755 (#371) ###########################################
ÉDOUARD RENÉ LEFEBVRE LABOULAYE
8755
THE STORY OF COQUERICO
A SPANISH Tale
From the Fairy Book. Translated by Mary L. Booth, and published by
Harper & Brothers
Oi
O
NCE upon a time there was a handsome hen who lived like a
great lady in the poultry-yard of a rich farmer, surrounded
by a numerous family which clucked about her, and none
of which clamored more loudly or picked up the corn faster with
his beak than a poor little deformed and crippled chicken. This
was precisely the one that the mother loved best.
It is the way
with all mothers: the weakest and most unsightly are always
their favorites. This misshapen creature had but one eye, one
wing, and one leg in good condition; it might have been thought
that Solomon had executed his memorable sentence on Coquerico-
for that was the name of the wretched chicken — and cut him in
two with his famous sword. When a person is one-eyed, lame,
and one-armed, he may reasonably be expected to be modest;
but our Castilian ragamuffin was prouder than his father,— the
best spurred, most elegant, bravest, and most gallant cock to be
seen from Burgos to Madrid. He thought himself a phoenix of
grace and beauty, and passed the best part of the day in admir-
ing himself in the brook. If one of his brothers ran against him
by accident, he abused him, called him envious and jealous, and
risked his only remaining eye in battle; if the hens clucked on
seeing him, he said it was to hide their spite because he did not
condescend to look at them.
One day, when he was more puffed up with vanity than usual,
he resolved no longer to remain in such a narrow sphere, but to
go out into the world, where he would be better appreciated.
“My lady mother,” said he, “I am tired of Spain; I am going
to Rome to see the Pope and cardinals. ”
“What are you thinking of, my poor child! ” cried his mother.
«Who has put such a folly into your head ? Never has one of
our family been known to quit his country; and for this reason
are the honor of our race, and are proud of our genealogy.
Where will you find a poultry-yard like this,- mulberry-trees
to shade you, a white-washed hen-roost, a magnificent dunghill,
worms and corn everywhere, brothers that love you, and three
»
we
## p. 8756 (#372) ###########################################
8756
ÉDOUARD RENÉ LEFEBVRE LABOULAYE
«Don't you
>
great dogs to guard you from the foxes ? Do you not think
that at Rome itself you will regret the ease and plenty of such
a life? "
Coquerico shrugged his crippled wing in token of disdain.
“You are a simple woman, my good mother,” said he: "every-
thing is accounted worthy of admiration by him who has never
quitted his dunghill. But I have wit enough to see that my
brothers have no ideas, and that my cousins are nothing but
rustics. My genius is stifling in this hole; I wish to roam the
world and seek my fortune. ”
But, my son, have you never looked in the brook ? » resumed
the poor hen.
know that you lack an eye, a leg,
and a wing? To make your fortune, you need the eyes of a
fox, the legs of a spider, and the wings of a vulture. Once out.
side of these walls you are lost. ”
"My good mother,” replied Coquerico, “when a hen hatches
a duck, she is always frightened on seeing it run to the water.
You know me no better. It is my nature to succeed by my wit
and talent. I must have a public capable of appreciating the
charms of my person; my place is not among inferior people. ”
“My son,” said the hen, seeing all her counsels useless,-“my
son, listen at least to your mother's last words. If you go to
Rome, take care to avoid St. Peter's Church; the saint, it is
said, dislikes cocks, especially when they crow. Shun, moreover,
,
certain personages called cooks and scullions; you will know
them by their paper caps, their tucked-up sleeves, and the great
knives which they wear at their sides. They are licensed assas-
sins, who track our steps without pity, and cut our throats with-
out giving us time to cry mercy. And now my child,” she
added, raising her claw, "receive my blessing. May St. James,
the patron saint of pilgrims, protect thee! ”
Coquerico pretended not to see the tear that trembled in his
mother's eye, nor did he trouble himself any more about his
father, who bristled his plumage and seemed about to call him
back. Without caring for those whom he left behind, he glided
through the half-open door, and once outside, flapped his only
wing and crowed three times to celebrate his freedom « Cock-a-
doodle-do!
As he half flew, half hopped over the fields, he came to
the bed of a brook which had been dried up by the sun.
In
the middle of the sands, however, still trickled a tiny thread of
(C
## p. 8757 (#373) ###########################################
ÉDOUARD RENÉ LEFEBVRE LABOULAYE
8757
(
-
»
(
water, so small that it was choked by a couple of dead leaves
that had fallen into it.
“My friend,” exclaimed the streamlet at the sight of our trav-
eler, -«my friend, you see my weakness; I have not even the
strength to carry away these leaves which obstruct my passage,
much less to make a circuit, so completely am I exhausted. With
a stroke of your beak you can restore me to life. I am not an
ingrate; if you oblige me, you may count on my gratitude the
first rainy day, when the water from heaven shall have restored
my strength. ”
“You are jesting,” said Coquerico. « Do I look like one
whose business it is to sweep the brooks ? Apply to those of
your own sort. ” And with his sound leg he leaped across the
streamlet.
You will remember me when you least expect it,” murmured
the brook, but with so feeble a voice that it was lost on the
proud cock.
A little farther on, Coquerico saw the wind lying breathless
on the ground.
“Dear Coquerico, come to my aid,” it cried: "here on earth we
should help each other. You see to what I am reduced by the
heat of the day; I, who in former times uprooted the olive-trees
and lashed the waves to frenzy, lie here well-nigh slain by the
dog-star. I suffered myself to be lulled to sleep by the perfume
of the roses with which I was playing; and lo! here I am,
stretched almost lifeless upon the ground. If you will raise me
a couple of inches with your beak and fan me a little with your
wing, I shall have the strength to mount to yonder white clouds
which I see in the distance, where I shall receive aid enough
from my family to keep me alive till I gain fresh strength from
the next whirlwind. ”
«My lord,” answered the spiteful Coquerico, "your Excellency
has more than once amused himself by playing tricks at my
expense. It is not a week since your Lordship glided like a
traitor behind me, and diverted himself by opening my tail like
a fan and covering me with confusion in the face of nations.
Have patience, therefore, my worthy friend: mockers always have
their turn; it does them good to repent, and to learn to respect
those whose birth, wit, and beauty should screen them from the
jests of a fool. ” And Coquerico, bristling his plumage, crowed
three times in his shrillest voice and proudly strutted onward.
(
## p. 8758 (#374) ###########################################
8758
ÉDOUARD RENÉ LEFEBVRE LABOULAYE
»
(
A little farther on he came to a newly mown field, where the
farmers had piled up the weeds in order to burn them. Coque-
rico approached a smoking heap, hoping to find some stray
kernels of corn, and saw a little flame which was charring the
green stalks without being able to set them on fire.
“My good friend, cried the flame to the new-comer, "you
are just in time to save my life: I am dying for want of air. I
cannot imagine what has become of my cousin the wind, who
cares for nothing but his own amusement. Bring me a few dry
straws to rekindle my strength, and you will not have obliged
an ingrate. "
« Wait a moment,” said Coquerico, “and I will serve you
as you deserve, insolent fellow that dares ask my help! ” And
behold! he leaped on the heap of dry weeds, and trampled it
down till he smothered both flame and smoke; after which he
exultingly shouted three times, Cock-a-doodle-doo! ” and flapped
his wing, as if he had done a great deed.
Proudly strutting onward and crowing, Coquerico at last ar-
rived at Rome, the place to which all roads lead. Scarcely had
he reached the city when he hastened to the great church of St.
Peter. Grand and beautiful as it was, he did not stop to admire
it; but planting himself in front of the main entrance, where he
looked like a fly among the great columns, he raised himself on
tiptoe and began to shout, “Cock-a-doodle-doo! ” only to enrage
the saint and disobey his mother.
He had not yet ended his song
when one of the Pope's
guards, who chanced to hear him, laid hands on the insolent
wretch who dared thus to insult the saint, and carried him home
in order to roast him for supper.
«Quick! ” said he to his wife on entering the house, "give
me some boiling water: here is a sinner to be punished. ”
“Pardon, pardon, Madam Water! ” cried Coquerico. "O good
and gentle water, the best and purest thing in the world, do not
scald me, I pray you! ”
Did you have pity on me when I implored your aid, un-
“
grateful wretch ? ” answered the water, boiling with indignation.
And with a single gush it inundated him from head to foot, and
left not a bit of down on his body.
The unhappy Coquerico stripped of all his feathers, the soldier
took him and laid him on the gridiron.
## p. 8759 (#375) ###########################################
ÉDOUARD RENÉ LEFEBVRE LABOULAYE
8759
“O fire, do not burn me! ” cried he in an agony of terror.
“O beautiful and brilliant fire, the brother of the sun and the
cousin of the diamond, spare an unhappy creature; restrain thy
ardor, and soften thy flame; do not roast me! ”
“ Did you have pity on me when I implored your aid, un-
grateful wretch ? ” answered the fire; and fiercely blazing with
anger, in an instant it burnt Coquerico to a coal.
The soldier, seeing his roast chicken in this deplorable condi-
tion, took him by the leg and threw him out of the window.
The wind bore the unhappy fowl to a dunghill, where it left him
for a moment.
"O wind,” murmured Coquerico, who still breathed, “O kindly
zephyr, protecting breeze, behold me cured of my vain follies;
let me rest on the paternal dunghill. ”
"Let you rest! ” roared the wind. Wait, and I will teach
you how I treat ingrates. ” And with one blast it sent him so
high in the air, that as he fell back he was transfixed by a
steeple.
There St. Peter was awaiting him. With his own hand he
nailed him to the highest steeple in Rome, where he is still
shown to travelers. However high-placed he may be, all despise
him because he turns with the slightest wind; black, dried up,
stripped of his feathers, and beaten by the rain, he is no longer
called Coquerico, but Weathercock: and thus expiates, and must
expiate eternally, his disobedience, vanity, and wickedness.
((
## p. 8760 (#376) ###########################################
8760
JEAN DE LA BRUYÈRE
(1645-1696)
Co.
a
HE great French satirist La Bruyère has left a comprehensive
portrait gallery of his contemporaries, where one searches
Ga vainly for the brilliant collector himself. One feels his
desire to entertain, almost hears his amused ironical laugh at human
follies; but his presence is intangible. He never took the world cor.
dially into confidence, and we know little now of his uneventful life.
He was born at Paris, educated with the Oratorians, and then studied
law; but when about twenty-eight he gave up practice, and bought
treasurership at Caen, which he sold
again twelve years later. To his friend
and admirer Bossuet may be attributed his
literary success; for, recommended by him,
he became in 1684 instructor in history to
the young Duc de Bourbon, grandson of the
famous Condé. He received a salary of a
thousand crowns, and seems to have taught
his charge a variety of subjects. The stormy
Condés liked this genial quiet gentleman-
teacher and his ready tact. They may have
stormed sometimes, after their wont; but
La Bruyère knew how to be amiable while
JEAN DE LA BRUYÈRE preserving his own respect and winning
theirs. When his pupil left him, to marry
the daughter of Louis XIV. and Madame de Montespan, he was asked
to stay on as gentleman-in-waiting; and did so until his death of apo-
plexy at the Hôtel Condé, when only fifty-one.
With the Condés the witty bourgeois had every opportunity to
gather material for his famous Characters. He was a keen observer,
with the clear impartial vision possessed only by an unconcerned
spectator. Though he knew the King and all the powerful noblemen
of France, though he was familiar with every court intrigue, he must
often have been made to feel that he was a recognized inferior.
There was quiet malice in his outward respect for these men and
women, and in the merciless analysis with which he exposed their
misplaced pride and ridiculous foibles.
The Characters) (Les Caractères), suggested as its name indicates
by the work of Theophrastus, and partly modeled after it, appeared
## p. 8761 (#377) ###########################################
JEAN DE LA BRUYÈRE
8761
in 1687; and La Bruyère found his literary pastime, his solace to
wounded vanity, winning an immediate success. It is said that he
had offered to give the manuscript to a bookseller friend, the possible
profits to become a dowry for his child. The hesitating bookseller
finally printed it, and thus made a large fortune.
La Bruyère has definitely stated the purpose of his work: “Of the
sixteen chapters which compose it, there are fifteen wholly employed
in detecting the fallacy and absurdity to be found in the objects of
human passions and inclinations, and in demolishing such obstacles
as at first weaken, and afterwards extinguish, any knowledge of God
in mankind: therefore these chapters are merely preparatory to the
sixteenth and last, wherein atheism is attacked, and perhaps routed;
wherein the proofs of a God, such at least as weak man is capable of
receiving, are produced; wherein the providence of God is defended
against the insults and complaints of free-thinkers. ”
The continuity of the sixteen chapters is not very evident. Each
begins with general moral reflections upon Merit,' Women, the
Affections, and similar subjects; and ends with a series of literary
portraits. La Bruyère was not a profound psychologist, but a careful
superficial observer, with a gift for witty description. Although he
used fictitious names, the sketches were too like living originals to be
mistaken. Naturally they caused resentment and personal enmities,
which twice prevented his election to the Academy, finally achieved
in 1693. Everybody read the Characters,' charmed by the delicate,
forceful style, and by the shrewd moral reasoning which enriched the
language with wise sayings. Key after key appeared, identifying his
personages; but La Bruyère repudiated them all, declaring that he
had represented types, not copied individuals.
The influence of this early realist was very great. But for him
Le Sage's famous novel (Gil Blas' might never have been written.
He is said to have inspired the Persian Letters' (Lettres Persanes)
of Montesquieu. Translated into English as early as 1698, the Char-
acters' had a wide influence upon our literature. « There is no
doubt,” says Saintsbury, “that the English essayists of the Queen
Anne school modeled themselves upon it. ”
Its success called forth many feeble imitations, among them
(The Little La Bruyère, or Characters and Morals of Children of this
Century'; and “The La Bruyère for Domestics,' by Madame de Gen-
lis, besides a La Bruyère for Boys) and a La Bruyère for Girls. '
His other works — a translation of Theophrastus, and an unfinished
work upon Quietism,' materially altered by the Abbé du Pin, and
published after La Bruyère's death -- are not noteworthy. But the
(Characters' still constitute a delightful model of style, and a wise
and witty commentary on social life.
## p. 8762 (#378) ###########################################
8762
JEAN DE LA BRUYÈRE
OF FASHION
From the Characters)
I"
T is very foolish, and betrays what a small mind we have, to
allow fashion to sway us in everything that regards taste; in
our way of living, our health, and our conscience. Game is
out of fashion, and therefore insipid; and fashion forbids to cure
a fever by bleeding. This long while it has also not been fash-
ionable to depart this life shriven by Theotimus; now none but
the common people are saved by his pious exhortations, and he
has already beheld his successor.
To have a hobby is not to have a taste for what is good
and beautiful, but for what is rare and singular and for what
no one else can match; it is not to like things which are per-
fect, but those which are most sought after and fashionable. It
is not an amusement, but a passion; and often so violent that in
the meanness of its object it yields only to love and ambition.
Neither is it a passion for everything scarce and in vogue, but
only for some particular object which is rare and yet in fashion.
The lover of flowers has a garden in the suburbs, where he
spends all his time from sunrise till sunset. You see him stand-
ing there, and would think he had taken root in the midst of
his tulips before his “Solitaire ": he opens his eyes wide, rubs
his hands, stoops down and looks closer at it; it never before
seemed to him so handsome; he is in an ecstasy of joy, and
leaves it to go to the “Orient,” then to the “Veuve," from thence
to the “Cloth of Gold,” on to the "Agatha,” and at last returns
to the “Solitaire,” where he remains, is tired out, sits down, and
forgets his dinner; he looks at the tulip and admires its shade,
shape, color, sheen, and edges,— its beautiful form and calyx: but
God and Nature are not in his thoughts, for they do not go
beyond the bulb of his tulips, which he would not sell for a
thousand crowns, though he will give it to you for nothing when
tulips are no longer in fashion, and carnations are all the rage.
This rational being, who has a soul and professes some religion,
comes home tired and half starved, but very much pleased with
his day's work: he has seen some tulips.
Talk to another of the healthy look of the crops, of a plenti-
ful harvest, of a good vintage, and you will find he only cares
for fruit, and understands not a single word you say. Then turn
»
## p. 8763 (#379) ###########################################
JEAN DE LA BRUYÈRE
8763
to figs and melons; tell him that this year the pear-trees are
so heavily laden with fruit that the branches almost break, that
there is abundance of peaches: and you address him in a lan-
guage he completely ignores, and he will not answer you, for his
sole hobby is plum-trees. Do not even speak to him of your
plum-trees, for he is only fond of a certain kind, and laughs and
sneers at the mention of any others; he takes you to his tree
and cautiously gathers this exquisite plum, divides it, gives you
one half, keeps the other himself, and exclaims, “How delicious!
do you like it? is it not heavenly? You cannot find its equal
anywhere;” and then his nostrils dilate, and he can hardly con-
tain his joy and pride under an appearance of modesty. What
a wonderful person, never enough praised and admired, whose
name will be handed down to future ages! Let me look at his
mien and shape whilst he is still in the land of the living, that I
may study the features and the countenance of a man who, alone
amongst mortals, is the happy possessor of such a plum.
Visit a third, and he will talk to you about his brother col-
lectors, but especially of Diognetes. He admits that he admires
him, but that he understands him less than ever.
Perhaps you
imagine,” he continues, "that he endeavors to learn something
of his medals, and considers them speaking evidences of certain
facts that have happened, - fixed and unquestionable monuments
of ancient history. If you do, you are wholly wrong. Perhaps
you think that all the trouble he takes. to become master of a
medallion with a certain head on it is because he will be de-
lighted to possess an uninterrupted series of emperors.
do, you are more hopelessly wrong than ever. Diognetes knows
when a coin is worn, when the edges are rougher than they
ought to be, or when it looks as if it had been newly struck.
All the drawers of his cabinet are full, and there is only room
for one coin; this vacancy so shocks him that in reality he
spends all his property and literally devotes his whole lifetime to
fill it. ”
Another man criticizes those people who make long voyages
either through nervousness or to gratify their curiosity; who
write no narrative or memoirs, and do not even keep a journal;
who go to see, and see nothing, or forget what they have seen;
who only wish to get a look at towers or steeples they never
saw before, and to cross other rivers than the Seine or the
Loire; who leave their own country merely to return again, and
-
If you
## p. 8764 (#380) ###########################################
8764
JEAN DE LA BRUYÈRE
like to be absent, so that one day it may be said they have come
from afar. So far this critic is right and is worth listening to.
But when he adds that books are more instructive than
traveling, and gives me to understand he has a library, I wish
to see it. I call on this gentleman, and at the very foot of the
stairs I almost faint with the smell of the russia-leather bind-
ings of his books. In vain he shouts in my ears, to encourage
me, that they are all with gilt edges and hand-tooled, that they
are the best editions,- and he names some of them, one after
another,- and that his library is full of them, except a few
places painted so carefully that everybody takes them for shelves
and real books and is deceived. He also informs me that he
never reads, nor sets foot in this library, and now only accom-
panies me to oblige me. I thank him for his politeness, but feel
as he does on the subject, and would not like to visit the tan-pit
which he calls a library.
Some people immoderately thirst after knowledge, and are
unwilling to ignore any branch of it, so they study them all and
master none; they are fonder of knowing much than of knowing
some things well, and had rather be superficial smatterers in sev-
eral sciences than be well and thoroughly acquainted with one.
They everywhere meet with some person who enlightens and cor-
rects them; they are deceived by their idle curiosity, and often,
after very long and painful efforts, can but just extricate them-
selves from the grossest ignorance.
Other people have a master-key to all sciences, but never
enter there; they spend their lives in trying to decipher the
Eastern and Northern languages, those of both the Indies, of
the two Poles, nay, the language spoken in the moon itself. The
most useless idioms, the oddest and most hieroglyphical-looking
characters, are just those which awaken their passion and induce
them to study; they pity those persons who ingenuously content
themselves with knowing their own language, or at most the
Greek and Latin tongues. Such men read all historians and
know nothing of history; they run through all books, but are
not the wiser for any; they are absolutely ignorant of all facts
and principles, but they possess as abundant a store and garner-
house of words and phrases as can well be imagined, which
weighs them down, and with which they overload their memory,
whilst their mind remains a blank.
Who can describe all the different kinds of hobbies ?
.
## p. 8765 (#381) ###########################################
JEAN DE LA BRUYÈRE
8765
A fashionable person is like a certain blue flower which grows
wild in the fields, chokes the corn, spoils the crops, and takes
up the room of something better; it has no beauty nor value but
what is owing to a momentary caprice, which dies out almost as
soon as sprung up. To-day it is all the rage, and the ladies are
decked with it; to-morrow it is neglected and left to the common
herd.
A person of merit, on the contrary, is a flower we do not
describe by its color, but call by its name, - which we cultivate
for its beauty or fragrance, such as a lily or a rose; one of the
charms of nature: one of those things which beautify the world,
belonging to all times, admired and popular for centuries, valued
by our fathers, and by us in imitation of them, and not at all
harmed by the dislike or antipathy of a few.
Every hour in itself, and in respect to us, is unique; when
once it is gone, it is entirely lost, and millions of ages will not
bring it back again; days, months, and years are swallowed up
and irrevocably lost in the abyss of time; time itself shall be
destroyed; it is but a point in the immense space of eternity, and
will be erased. There are several slight and frivolous periods of
time which are unstable, pass away, and may be called fashions:
such as grandeur, favor, riches, power, authority, independence,
pleasure, joy, and superfluities. What will become of such fash-
ions when time itself shall have disappeared ? Virtue alone, now
so little in fashion, will last longer than time.
si
THE CHARACTER OF CYDIAS
From the Characters)
a Hegio
A fuller, and Cydias [the
poet Fontenelle) a wit, for that is
his trade. He has a signboard, a shop, work that is ordered,
and journeymen who work under him; he cannot possibly let you
have those stanzas he has promised you in less than a month,
unless he breaks his word with Dosithea, who has engaged him
to write an elegy; he has also an idyl on the loom which is for
Crantor, who presses him for it, and has promised him a liberal
reward. You can have whatever you like prose or verse, for
he is just as good in one as in the other. If you want a letter
of condolence, or one some person's absence, he will write
on
## p. 8766 (#382) ###########################################
8766
JEAN DE LA BRUYÈRE
a
(C
>>
them: he has them even ready-made; step into his warehouse,
and you may pick and choose. Cydias has a friend who has
nothing else to do but to promise to certain people a long time
beforehand that the great man will come to them, and who
finally introduces him in some society as man seldom to be
met with and exquisite in conversation. Then, just as a vocalist
sings or as a lute-player touches his instrument in a company
where it has been expected, Cydias, after having coughed, puts
back his ruffles, extends his hand, opens his fingers, and very
gravely utters his over-refined thoughts and his sophisticated
arguments. Unlike those persons whose principles agree, and
who know that reason and truth are one and the same thing,
and snatch the words out of one another's mouths to acquiesce
in one another's sentiments, he never opens his mouth but to
contradict: "I think,” he says graciously, it is just the opposite
of what you say; or, "I am not at all of your opinion;" or
else, “Formerly I was under the same delusion as you are now;
but . . . ”; and then he continues, “There are three things to
be considered, to which he adds a fourth. He is an insipid
chatterer; no sooner has he obtained a footing into any society
than he looks out for some ladies whom he can fascinate, before
whom he can set forth his wit or his philosophy, and produce
his rare conceptions: for whether he speaks or writes, he ought
never to be suspected of saying what is true or false, sensible or
ridiculous; his only care is not to express the same sentiments
as sonie one else, and to differ from everybody. Therefore in
conversation, he often waits till every one has given his opinion
on some casual subject, or one which not seldom he has intro-
duced himself, in order to utter dogmatically things which are
perfectly new, but which he thinks decisive and unanswerable.
He is, in a word, a compound of pedantry and formality, to be
admired by cits and rustics; in whom, nevertheless, there is
nothing great except the opinion he has of himself.
Translation of Henri Van Laun.
## p. 8767 (#383) ###########################################
8767
MADAME DE LA FAYETTE
(1634-1693)
N THE history of French fiction the work of Madame de La
Fayette marks the beginning of a new era. Her work is
the first which relies for its interest upon the truth of the
emotions. For the impossible romances of heroic gallantry to which
Cervantes had already given the death-blow, and for the picaresque
tales of adventure which were to find their chief exponent in Defoe,
she substituted the novel in which the study of character and the
analysis of motive were to be the main sources of interest. Her
immediate successors in the next century
were the Abbé Prévost in France and Sam-
uel Richardson in England. She raised the
tone of fiction by simplifying motives, by
deepening the characterization, and by ad-
hering more closely to the facts of history
and to the truth of nature. To these im-
proved methods of treatment was added a
distinction of style, and a carefully chosen
but direct and unassuming language. The
work in which her finest qualities are ex-
hibited in combination is the Princess of
Clèves,' upon which two centuries have
placed the indelible mark of a great French MME. DE LA FAYETTE
classic. With this work the analytical novel
of modern times may be said to have had its origin; and if the text-
ure of motives in the Princess of Clèves) seems thin in comparison
with the complicated and closely woven web of Madame Bovary' or
(Middlemarch, it must be remembered that Madame de La Fayette's
book appeared thirty years before (Gil Blas,' and nearly half a cen-
tury before the time of the great English novelists.
Marie Madeleine Pioche de la Vergne was born in Paris in March
1634. Her brilliant qualities of mind were early displayed in the
literary circle of the Hôtel Rambouillet; but after her marriage in
1655 to the Count de La Fayette, her own home became one of the
chief literary centres of Paris. Madame de Sévigné, La Fontaine,
and Segrais were her close friends; and after the early death of her
husband she established an intimate friendship with the Duke de La
>
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8768
MADAME DE LA FAYETTE
(
Rochefoucauld. Her character was highly estimable, though long
misunderstood. She survived La Rochefoucauld by thirteen years,
which she was reported to have devoted to a life of penance. In
1880 hitherto unpublished letters were brought to light, which show
that during those years Madame de La Fayette continued to play an
important role at court, and was active for good in many a court
intrigue. She was sincerely attached to her friends, of a restless
activity, honestly frank, and possessed of a keen understanding.
At the time when Madame de La Fayette began to write, women
of talent and learning were in disrepute; ecclesiastics had denounced
them; Molière had ridiculed them. Her first story, (The Princess of
Montpensier,' appeared anonymously and made no stir. Her second,
"Zayde,' bore the name of her friend Segrais, and immediately at-
tracted attention. "The Princess of Clèves, published in the spring of
1678, made a sensation. There was in this case no such close con-
cealment of the authorship, but there was considerable mystification.
Many believed the book to be the work of La Rochefoucauld. In one
of her letters Madame de Scudéry wrote, “The book is an orphan
disowned both by father and mother. ” “The Princess of Clèves' was
the first novel in literature that could be called the romance of a
married woman. There can be no doubt that although the scene is
laid at the court of Henry II. , the heroine is Madame de La Fayette
herself; the Prince de Clèves, the Count de La Fayette; and the Duke
de Nemours, La Rochefoucauld. The inner workings of a woman's
life are here portrayed with purity of feeling and faithfulness of
observation. The Princess's confession to her husband of her love
for another man is related without dramatic fervor, but with a grace-
ful certainty of touch. Two other works require only passing men-
tion: ‘The History of Henrietta of England, published in 1720, and
the Mémoires of the Court of France,' published in 1731. It is the
(Princess of Clèves) alone that renders Madame de La Fayette pre-
eminent among the many brilliant women of France in the seven-
teenth century. “In order to produce it,” says her biographer, “there
were needed a court and a country like the court and France of
Louis XIV. Let us give greeting to these graces that we shall see
no more; but since this flower is not yet faded, let us breathe its per-
fume which awakens in us the dreams of that brilliant time, and let
us adınire its undying freshness. ”
Madame de La Fayette died in Paris on May 25th, 1693.
## p.
