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MATILDE SERAO
Her friend slept quietly, composedly, breathing like a child.
13150
MATILDE SERAO
Her friend slept quietly, composedly, breathing like a child.
Warner - World's Best Literature - v22 - Sac to Sha
" "Where is Friozzi of the Blues?
"
"Here! " "In line, and to the left, if you please. " "The Greens,
in line the Greens, or no fruit for dinner to-morrow. " "Quick!
the refectory bell has rung twice already. " "Federici of the
Reds, walk straight! " "Young ladies of the White-and-Greens,
the bell is ringing for the third time. " "Are the Tricolors all
here? " "All. " "Casacalenda is missing. " "She is coming;
she is still at the organ. " "Altimare is missing. "
"Where is Altimare? "
"She was here just now,- she must have disappeared in the
bustle; shall I look for her? "
"Look; and come to the refectory with her. "
Then the corridor emptied, and the refectory filled with light
and merriment. With measured, almost rhythmic step, Caterina
went to and fro in the deserted passages, seeking her friend
Altimare. She descended to the ground floor, called her twice.
from the garden: no answer. Then she mounted the stairs
again, and entered the dormitory. The white beds formed a line
under the crude gaslight: Lucia was not there. A shade of
anxiety began to dawn on Caterina's rosy face. She passed by
the chapel twice, without going in. But the third time, finding
the door ajar, she made up her mind to enter. It was dark
## p. 13143 (#581) ##########################################
MATILDE SERAO
13143
inside. A lamp burning before the Madonna scarcely relieved.
the gloom. She passed on, half intimidated despite her well-
balanced nerves; for she was alone in the darkness, in church.
Along one of the altar steps, stretched out on the crimson
velvet carpet, a white form was lying, with open arms and pallid
face, a spectral figure. It was Lucia Altimare, who had fainted.
―
THE fan of Artemisia Minichini, made of a large sheet of
manuscript, waved noisily to and fro. .
«Minichini, you disturb the professor," said Friscia, the assist-
ant teacher, without raising her eyes from her crochet work.
"Friscia, you don't feel the heat? " returned Minichini inso-
lently.
"No. "
"You are lucky to be so insensible. "
In the class-room where the Tricolor young ladies were tak-
ing their lesson in Italian history, it was very hot. There were
two windows opening upon the garden, a door leading to the
corridor, three rows of benches, and twenty-four pupils. On a
high raised step stood the table and arm-chair of the professor.
The fans waved hither and thither, some vivaciously, some lan-
guidly. Here and there a head bent over its book as if weighted
with drowsiness. Ginevra Avigliana stared at the professor, nod-
ding as if in approval, though her face expressed entire absence.
of mind. Minichini had put down her fan, opened her pince-nez,
and fixed it impudently upon the professor's face. With her nose
tip-tilted, and a truant lock of hair curling on her forehead, she
laughed her silent laugh that so irritated the teachers. The pro-
fessor explained the lesson in a low voice.
He was small, spare,
and pitiable. He might have been about two-and-thirty; but his
emaciated face, whose dark coloring had yellowed with the pal-
lor of some long illness, proclaimed him a convalescent. A big
scholarly head surmounting the body of a dwarf, a wild thick
mane in which some white hairs were already visible, proud yet
shy eyes, a small, dirty-black beard, thinly planted towards the
thin cheeks, completed his sad and pensive ugliness.
He spoke without gesture, his eyes downcast; occasionally
his right hand moved ever so slightly. Its shadow on the wall
seemed to belong to a skeleton, it was so thin and crooked. He
proceeded slowly, picking his words. These girls intimidated
him some because of their intelligence, others because of their
## p. 13144 (#582) ##########################################
MATILDE SERAO
13144
impertinence, others simply because of their sex. His scholastic
austerity was perturbed by their shining eyes, by their graceful
and youthful forms; their white garments formed a kind of mi-
rage before his eyes. A pungent scent diffused itself throughout
the class, although perfumes were prohibited; whence came it?
And at the end of the third bench, Giovanna Casacalenda, who
paid not the slightest attention, sat, with half-closed eyes, furi-
ously nibbling a rose. Here in front, Lucia Altimare, with hair
falling loose about her neck, one arm hanging carelessly over the
bench, resting her brow against her hand and hiding her eyes,
looked at the professor through her fingers; every now and then
she pressed her handkerchief to her too crimson lips, as if to
mitigate their feverishness. The professor felt upon him the
gaze that filtered through her fingers; while, without looking at
her, he could see Giovanna Casacalenda tearing the rose to
pieces with her little teeth. He remained apparently imperturba-
ble, still discoursing of Carmagnola and the conspiracy of Fiesco,
addressing himself to the tranquil face of Caterina Spaccapietra,
who penciled rapid notes in her copy-book.
"What are you writing, Pentasuglia? " asked the teacher
Friscia, who had been observing the latter for some time.
"Nothing," replied Pentasuglia, reddening.
"Give me that scrap of paper. "
"What for? There is nothing on it. "
«Give me that scrap of paper. "
"It is not a scrap of paper," said Minichini audaciously, tak-
ing hold of it as if to hand it to her. "It is one, two, three,
four, five, twelve useless fragments"
To save her schoolfellow, she had torn it to shreds. There
was silence in the class: they trembled for Minichini. The
teacher bent her head, tightened her thin lips, and picked up her
crochet again as if nothing had happened. The professor ap-
peared to take no notice of the incident, as he looked through
his papers; but his mind must have been inwardly disturbed. A
flush of youthful curiosity made him wonder what those girls
were thinking of; what they scribbled in their little notes; for
whom their smiles were meant, as they looked at the plaster bust
of the King; what they thought when they drew the tricolor
scarves round their waists. But the ghastly face and false gray
eyes of Cherubina Friscia, the governess, frightened him
"Avigliana, say the lesson. "
## p. 13145 (#583) ##########################################
MATILDE SERAO
13145
The girl rose, and began rapidly to speak of the Viscontis,
like a well-trained parrot. When asked to give a few historical
comments, she made no reply: she had not understood her own
words.
>>>
"Minichini, say the lesson.
"Professor, I don't know it. "
"And why? "
"Yesterday was Sunday, and we went out, so I could not
study. "
The professor made a note in the register; the young lady
shrugged her shoulders.
"Casacalenda? "
This one made no answer. She was gazing with intense ear-
nestness at her white hands, - hands that looked as if they were
modeled in wax.
"Casacalenda, will you say the lesson ? "
Opening her great eyes as if she were dazed, she began,
stumbling at every word, puzzled, making one mistake upon
another; the professor prompted, and she repeated, with the win-
ning air of a strong, beautiful young animal; she neither knew
nor understood nor was ashamed- maintaining her sculpturesque
placidity, moistening her rustic Diana-like lips, contemplating her
pink nails.
The professor bent his head in displeasure, not dar-
ing to scold that splendid stupid creature, whose voice had such
enchanting modulations.
He made two or three other attempts; but the class, owing
to the preceding holiday, had not studied. This was the expla-
nation of the flowers, the perfumes, and the little notes: the
twelve hours' liberty had upset the girls. Their eyes were full
of visions; they had seen the world yesterday. He drew himself
together, perplexed; a sense of mingled shame and respect kept
every mouth closed. How he loved that science of history! His
critical acumen measured its widest horizons; his was a vast
ideal, and he suffered in having to offer crumbs of it to those
pretty, aristocratic, indolent girls, who would have none of it.
Still young, he had grown old and gray in arduous study; and
now, behold-gay and careless youth, choosing rather to live
than to know, rose in defiance against him. Bitterness welled up
to his lips, and went out towards those creatures, thrilling with
life and contemptuous of his ideal; bitterness in that he could not
like them be beautiful and vigorous, and revel in heedlessness,
## p. 13146 (#584) ##########################################
13146
MATILDE SERAO
and be beloved. Anguish rushed through his veins, from his
heart, and poisoned his brain, that he should have to humiliate
his knowledge before those frivolous, scarcely human girls. But
the gathering storm was held back; and nothing of it was per-
ceptible save a slight flush on his meagre cheek bones.
"Since none of you have studied," he said slowly, in a low
voice, none of you can have done the composition. "
«<
"Altimare and I have done it," answered Caterina Spaccapie-
tra. "We did not go home," she added apologetically, to avoid
offending her friends.
"Then you read, Spaccapietra: the subject is, I think, Beatrice
di Tenda. "
"Yes: Beatrice di Tenda. "
Spaccapietra stood up and read, in her pure, slow voice:-
"Ambition had ever been the ruling passion of the Viscontis of
Milan, who shrank from naught that could minister to the mainte-
nance of their sovereign power. Filippo Maria, son of Gian Galeazzo,
who had succeeded his brother Gian Galeazzo, differed in no way
from his predecessors. For the love of gain, this prince espoused
Beatrice di Tenda, the widow of a condottiere (a soldier of fortune);
a virtuous and accomplished woman of mature age. She brought
her husband in dowry the dominions of Tortona, Novara, Vercelli,
and Alessandria; but he tired of her as soon as he had satisfied his
thirst for wealth. He caused her to be accused of unfaithfulness to
her wifely duty, with a certain Michele Orombello, a simple squire.
Whether the accusation was false or made in good faith, whether
the witnesses were to be relied upon or not, Beatrice di Tenda was
declared guilty, and with Michele Orombello mounted the scaffold in
the year 1418, which was the forty-eighth of her life, she having
been born in 1370,"
Caterina had folded up her paper, and the professor was still
waiting; two minutes elapsed.
"Is there no more? "
"No. "
«<
Really, is that all? »
"All. "
"It is a very meagre composition, Spaccapietra. It is but
the bare narrative of the historical fact, as it stands in the text-
book. Does not the hapless fate of Beatrice inspire you with any
sympathy? "
## p. 13147 (#585) ##########################################
MATILDE SERAO
13147
"I don't know," murmured the young scholar, pale with emo-
tion.
"Yet you are a woman. It so happens that I had chosen a
theme which suggests the manifestation of a noble impulse; say
of pity, or contempt for the false accusation. But in this form the
story turns to mere chronology. The composition is too meagre.
You have no imagination, Spaccapietra. "
"Yes, professor," replied the young girl submissively, as she
took her seat again, while tears welled to her eyes.
"Let us hear Altimare. "
Lucia appeared to start out of a lethargy. She sought for
some time among her papers, with an ever increasing expres-
sion of weariness. Then, in a weak inaudible voice, she began
to read, slowly, dragging the syllables, as if overpowered by an
invincible lassitude.
"Louder, Altimare. "
"I cannot, professor. "
And she looked at him with such melancholy eyes that he
repented of having made the remark. Again she touched her
parched lips with her handkerchief, and continued:-
-
-
«<
through the evil lust of power. He was Filippo Maria
Visconti; of a noble presence, with the eye of a hawk, of powerful
build, and ever foremost in the saddle. The maidens who watched
him pass, clad in armor under the velvet coat, on the breastpiece of
which was broidered the wily, fascinating serpent, the crest of the
lords of Visconti, sighed as they exclaimed, 'How handsome he is! '
But under this attractive exterior-as is ever the case in this mel-
ancholy world, where appearance is but part of the mise-en-scène of
life he hid a depraved soul. O gentle, loving women, trust not
him who flutters round you with courteous manner, and words that
charm, and protestations of exquisite sentiment: he deceives you.
All is vanity, all is corruption, all is ashes!
better than the hapless Beatrice di Tenda,
tell you.
None learnt this lesson
ose tale I am about to
"This youthful widow was of unblemished character and matchless
beauty: fair was her hair of spun gold, soft were her eyes of a blue
worthy to reflect the firmament; her skin was as dazzling white as
the petals of a lily. Her first marriage with Facino Cane could not
have been a happy one. He, a soldier of fortune,- fierce, blood-
thirsty, trained to the arms, the wine, and the rough speech of mar-
tial camps,- could scarcely have been a man after Beatrice's heart.
Woe to those marriages in which one consort neither understands nor
## p. 13148 (#586) ##########################################
13148
MATILDE SERAO
appreciates the mind of the other. Woe to those marriages in which
the man ignores the mystic poetry, the mysterious sentiments, of the
feminine heart! These be the unblessed unions with which, alas!
our corrupt and suffering modern society teems. Facino Cane died.
His widow shed bitter tears over him; but her virgin heart beat
quicker when she first met the valorous yet malefic Filippo Maria
Visconti. Her face turned as pale as Luna's when she drags her
weary way along the starred empyrean. And she loved him with all
the ardor of her stored-up youth, with the chastity of a pious soul
loving the Creator in the created, blending Divine with human love.
Beatrice, pure and beautiful, wedded Filippo Maria for love: Filippo
Maria, black soul that he was, wedded Beatrice for greed of money.
For a short time the august pair were happy on their ducal throne.
But the hymeneal roses were worm-eaten: in the dewy grass lay
hidden the perfidious serpent, perfidious emblem of the most per-
fidious Visconti. No sooner had he obtained possession of the riches
of Beatrice than Filippo Maria wearied of her, as might be expected
of a man of so hard a heart and of such depraved habits. He had
besides formed an infamous connection with a certain Agnese del
Maino, one of the most vicious of women; and more than ever he
was possessed of the desire to rid himself of his wife.
"There lived at the court of the Visconti a simple squire named
Michele Orombello, a young troubadour, a poet, who had dared to
raise his eyes to his august mistress. But the noble woman did not
reciprocate his passion, although the faithlessness and treachery of
Filippo Maria caused her the greatest unhappiness, and almost justi-
fied reprisals: she was simply courteous to her unfortunate adorer.
When Filippo Maria saw how matters stood, he at once threw
Michele Orombello and his chaste consort into prison, accusing them
of treason. Torture was applied to Beatrice, who bore it bravely
and maintained her innocence. Michele Orombello, being younger
and perchance weaker to combat pain, or because he was treacher-
ously advised that he might thereby save Beatrice, made a false
confession. The judges, vile slaves of Filippo Maria, and trem-
blingly submissive to his will, condemned that most ill-starred of
women and her miserable lover to die on the scaffold. The saintly
woman ascended it with resignation; embracing the crucifix whereon
the Redeemer agonized and died for our sins. Then, perceiving the
young squire, who, weeping desperately, went with her to death, she
cried: 'I forgive thee, Michele Orombello;' and he made answer: '
proclaim thee the purest of wives! ' But it availed not; the prince's
will must needs be carried out; the axe struck off the squire's dark
head. Beatrice cried, Gesù Maria! ' and the axe felled the blonde
head too. A pitiable spectacle, and full of horror for those as-
sembled! Yet none dared to proclaim the infamy of the mighty
## p. 13149 (#587) ##########################################
MATILDE SERAO
13149
Filippo Maria Visconti. Thus it ever is in life: virtue is oppressed,
and vice triumphs. Only before the Eternal Judge is justice; only
before that God of mercy who has said, 'I am the resurrection and
the life. >>>
A profound silence ensued. The pupils were embarrassed,
and looked furtively at each other. Caterina gazed at Lucia
with frightened, astonished eyes. Lucia remained standing, pale,
panting, contemptuous, with twitching lips. The professor, deep
in thought, held his peace.
"The composition is very long, Altimare," he said at last.
"You have too much imagination. "
Then silence one more-and the dry, malicious, hissing voice
of Cherubina Friscia, "Give me that composition, Altimare. "
All trembled, seized by an unknown terror.
THE SCHOOLGIRLS' VOW
From (Fantasy›
THE
HERE was only one flickering jet of gas burning at the en-
trance to the dormitory that contained the little white beds.
in which the Tricolors passed the last night of their school
days. There had been short dialogues, interrupted by sighs, mel-
ancholy reflections, and regrets, until a late hour. They would
have liked to sit up all night to indulge in their grief. But
fatigue had melted their project away. When they could hold
out no longer, sleep mastered those restless beings, weary with
weeping. A languid "Good-night" was audible here and there;
gradually the irregular breathing had subsided, and the sobs had
died out. Complete repose reigned in the dormitory of the Tri-
colors.
When the great clock struck two after midnight, Lucia Alti-
mare opened her eyes. She had not slept; devoured by im-
patience, she had watched. Without rising, she gently and
noiselessly took her clothes from the chair near her bed and put
them on, thrust her bare feet into her slippers, and then crept
out of bed. She moved like a shadow, with infinite precaution,
casting in passing an oblique glance at the beds where her com-
panions slept. Now and again she looked towards the end of the
hall where Cherubina Friscia lay. There was no danger. Lucia
passed like a tall white phantom, with burning eyes, through the
heavy gloom to Caterina's bedside.
## p.
13150 (#588) ##########################################
13150
MATILDE SERAO
Her friend slept quietly, composedly, breathing like a child.
She bent down and whispered close to her ear:
"Caterina, Caterina! "
Caterina opened her eyes in alarm; a sign from Lucia froze
the cry that rose to her lips. The surprise on her face spoke
for her, and questioned her friend.
"If you love me, Caterina, dress and follow me. "
"Where are we going? " the other ventured to ask, hesitat-
ingly.
"If you love me
Caterina no longer questioned her. She dressed herself in
silence, looking now and then at Lucia, who stood there like a
statue, waiting. When Caterina was ready, she took her by the
hand to lead her.
>>>>
"Fear nothing," breathed Lucia, who could feel the coldness
of her hand. They glided down the passage that divided the
beds from the rest of the room. Artemisia Minichini was the
only one who turned in her bed, and appeared for a moment to
have opened her eyes. They closed again; but perhaps she saw
through her lids. No other sign of waking. They shrank closer
together when they passed the last bed, Friscia's, and stooped to
make themselves smaller. That moment seemed to them like a
century. When they got into the corridor, Caterina squeezed
Lucia's hand, as if they had passed through a great danger.
"Come, come, come! " murmured the siren voice of Lucia, and
suddenly they stopped before a door. Lucia dropped Caterina's
hand and inserted a key into the keyhole; the door creaked as
it flew open.
A gust of chill air struck the two young girls; a
faint diffuse light broke in upon them. A lamp was burning
before the image of the Virgin. They were in the chapel.
Calmly Lucia knelt before the altar, and lighted two candelabra.
Then she turned to Caterina, who, dazed by the light, was catch-
ing her breath, and once more said, "Come. "
They advanced towards the altar. In the little whitewashed
church, with two high windows open on the country, a pleasant
dampness tempered the heat of the August night. The faintest
perfume of incense still clung to the air. The church was so
placid and restful, the candelabra in their places, the tapers extin-
guished, the sacrament shut away in its pyx, the altar-cloth turned
up to cover it. But a quaintly fashioned silver arabesque, behind
which Lucia had lighted a taper, projected on the wall the profile
of a strange monstrous beast. Caterina stood there in a dream,
## p. 13151 (#589) ##########################################
MATILDE SERAO
13151
with her hand still clasped in Lucia's, whose fever it had caught.
Even at that unusual hour, in the dead of night, she no longer
asked herself what strange rite was to be solemnized in that
chapel illuminated only for them. She was conscious of a vague
tremor, of a weight in the head, and a longing for sleep; she
would fain have been back in the dormitory, with her cheek on
her pillow. But like one who dreams of having the well-defined
will to do a thing, and yet while the dream lasts has neither the
speech to express nor the energy to accomplish it, she was con-
scious, between sleeping and waking, of the torpor of her own
mind. She looked around her as one in a stupor, neither under-
standing nor caring to understand. From time to time her mouth
twitched with an imperceptible yawn. Lucia's hands were crossed
over her bosom, and her eyes fixed on the Madonna. No sound
escaped her half-open lips. Caterina leant forward to observe
her; in the vague turn of thought that went round and round
in her sleepy brain, she asked herself if she were dreaming, and
Lucia a phantom. She passed one hand across her brow, either
to awake herself or to dispel the hallucination.
"Listen, Caterina, and try and comprehend me better than I
know how to express myself. Do you give your whole attention ? »
«
"Yes," said the other with an effort.
"You alone know how we have loved each other here. After
God, the Madonna Addolorata, and my father, I have loved you,
Caterina. You have saved my life; I can never forget it. But
for you I should have gone to burn in hell, where suicides must
eternally suffer. I thank you, dear heart. You believe in my
gratitude? "
"Yes," said Caterina, opening wide her eyes the better to
understand her.
"Now we who so love each other must part.
«
You go to the
left, I to the right. You are to be married: I know not what
will happen to me. Shall we meet again? I know not. Shall
we again come together in the future? Who knows?
Do you
know? "
"No," replied Caterina, starting.
“Well, then, I propose to you to conquer time and space, men
and circumstances, should they stand in the way of our affection.
From afar, howsoever we may be separated, let us love each
other as we do to-day, as we did yesterday. Do you promise? "
"I promise. "
## p. 13152 (#590) ##########################################
13152
MATILDE SERAO
"The Madonna hears us, Caterina. Do you promise with a
vow, with an oath ? »
"With a vow, with an oath," repeated Caterina monotonously
like an echo.
"And I too promise that no one shall ever by word or deed
lessen this our steadfast friendship. Do you promise? "
"I promise. "
"And I too promise that neither shall ever seek to do ill to
the other, or willingly cause her sorrow, or ever, ever betray her.
Promise: the Madonna hears us. "
"I promise. "
“I swear it,—that always, whatever befalls, one shall try to
help the other. Say, do you promise? "
"I promise. "
"And I too. Besides, that either will be ever ready to sacri-
fice her own happiness to that of the other. Swear it; swear! "
Caterina thought for an instant. Was she dreaming a strange
dream, or was she binding herself for life? "I swear," she said
firmly.
"I swear," reiterated Lucia. "The Madonna has heard. Woe
to her who breaks her vow! God will punish her. "
Caterina bowed her assent. Lucia took her rosary from her
pocket. It was a string of lapis-lazuli bound together by little
silver links. From it depended a small silver crucifix, and a
little gold medal on which was engraved the image of the Ma-
donna della Saletta. She kissed it.
"We will break this rosary in two equal parts, Caterina.
Half of it you shall take with you, the other half I will keep.
It will be our keepsake, to remind us of our vow. When I pray
at night, I shall remember. You too will remember me in your
prayers. The missing half will remind you of your absent
friend. "
And taking up the rosary between them, they pulled hard
at it from either side. Lucia kept the half with the crucifix,
Caterina the half with the medal. The two girls embraced.
Then they heard the clock strike three. When silence reigned
once more in the college and in the empty chapel, both knelt
down on the steps of the altar, crossed their hands on their
bosoms, and with closed eyes repeated in unison
"Our Father — »
Translation of Henry Harland.
## p. 13152 (#591) ##########################################
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MARIE DE SEVIGNE.
## p. 13152 (#593) ##########################################
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VAR E DE SEVIONA
## p. 13152 (#595) ##########################################
13153
MADAME DE SÉVIGNÉ
(1627-1696)
MONG the great writers of the world, Madame de Sévigné is
perhaps the only one except Lady Nairne whose purely lit-
erary fame was entirely posthumous. It is true that when
Louis XIV. became possessed of a number of her letters, upon the
arrest of her friend Fouquet the Superintendent of Finance, he pro-
claimed that their style was matchless in grace of thought and
expression; and the little court world which took from the King its
opinions, on matters of taste as in so much else, henceforth placed
Madame de Sévigné at the head of that group of charming women
who wrote charming letters in seventeenth-century France. Her sub-
sequent correspondence was frequently handed about from friend to
friend; but the interest it excited depended quite as much upon the
amusing news of the court and the salons which it contained, as
upon the style in which the agreeable gossip was related. That in
later times her name should stand high in the literature of France,
and her house be visited as the shrine of her gracious memory, was
anticipated by none of her contemporaries; least of all by herself.
Marie de Rabutin-Chantal, the only child of Celse Benigne de
Rabutin, Baron de Chantal, and of Marie de Coulanges his wife, was
born in the Château de Bourbilly, Burgundy, on February 5th, 1627.
Left an orphan when five years old, she was consigned to the care
of her uncle Philippe de Coulanges; and upon his death in 1636 she
became the charge of his brother Christophe de Coulanges, Abbé de
Livry. To the latter she was indebted for her careful education under
the best masters of the day, - among them Chapelain and Ménage.
Of the training received from "Le Bien-bon," as she termed her
uncle, she says: "I owed to him the sweetness and repose of my
life; all my gayety, my good-humor, my vivacity. In a word, he has
made me what I am, such as you have seen me; and worthy of your
esteem and of your friendship. ”
When sixteen years old, Marie de Rabutin-Chantal married Henri,
Marquis de Sévigné,- a profligate young noble of a distinguished
Breton family. It was said of him, "He loved everywhere; but never
anything so amiable as his own wife. " He was killed in 1651 in a
duel, undertaken in defense of an unworthy name, leaving his wife
with a young son and daughter. Madame de Sévigné spent the early
years of her widowhood with her children at "Les Rochers"— her
XXII-823
## p. 13152 (#596) ##########################################
+
i
MARIE DE SEVIGNE
1
## p. 13153 (#597) ##########################################
13153
MADAME DE SÉVIGNÉ
(1627-1696)
MONG the great writers of the world, Madame de Sévigné is
perhaps the only one except Lady Nairne whose purely lit-
erary fame was entirely posthumous. It is true that when
Louis XIV. became possessed of a number of her letters, upon the
arrest of her friend Fouquet the Superintendent of Finance, he pro-
claimed that their style was matchless in grace of thought and
expression; and the little court world which took from the King its
opinions, on matters of taste as in so much else, henceforth placed
Madame de Sévigné at the head of that group of charming women
who wrote charming letters in seventeenth-century France. Her sub-
sequent correspondence was frequently handed about from friend to
friend; but the interest it excited depended quite as much upon the
amusing news of the court and the salons which it contained, as
upon the style in which the agreeable gossip was related. That in
later times her name should stand high in the literature of France,
and her house be visited as the shrine of her gracious memory, was
anticipated by none of her contemporaries; least of all by herself.
Marie de Rabutin-Chantal, the only child of Celse Benigne de
Rabutin, Baron de Chantal, and of Marie de Coulanges his wife, was
born in the Château de Bourbilly, Burgundy, on February 5th, 1627.
Left an orphan when five years old, she was consigned to the care
of her uncle Philippe de Coulanges; and upon his death in 1636 she
became the charge of his brother Christophe de Coulanges, Abbé de
Livry. To the latter she was indebted for her careful education under
the best masters of the day,- among them Chapelain and Ménage.
Of the training received from "Le Bien-bon," as she termed her
uncle, she says: "I owed to him the sweetness and repose of my
life; all my gayety, my good-humor, my vivacity. In a word, he has
made me what I am, such as you have seen me; and worthy of your
esteem and of your friendship. "
When sixteen years old, Marie de Rabutin-Chantal married Henri,
Marquis de Sévigné,-a profligate young noble of a distinguished
Breton family. It was said of him, "He loved everywhere; but never
anything so amiable as his own wife. " He was killed in 1651 in a
duel, undertaken in defense of an unworthy name, leaving his wife
with a young son and daughter. Madame de Sévigné spent the early
years of her widowhood with her children at "Les Rochers"— her
XXII-823
## p. 13154 (#598) ##########################################
MADAME DE SÉVIGNÉ
13154
husband's estate in Brittany-returning to Paris in 1654. Charles de
Sévigné, her eldest child, inherited his father's pleasure-loving nature;
and during the years of his early manhood caused his mother much
anxiety. On resigning his commission in the army, he retired to
his estate in Brittany, married a good woman, became "serious," and
spent the rest of his years in the study of the Fathers and of Horace.
When Madame de Sévigné presented her daughter Françoise at
court, this "prettiest girl in France" seemed destined to set the
world on fire. On her the affection of the mother's heart, which had
met disappointment in so many other directions, was lavished. Made-
moiselle de Sévigné married in 1669 François Adhémar de Monteil,
Comte de Grignan; and the following year went with him to Provence,
where he exercised viceregal functions,-nominally during the minor-
ity of the Duc de Vendôme, but as the duke never in fact assumed
authority, the count was the actual ruler of the province for forty
years. From the moment when, on entering her daughter's vacant
room, Madame de Sévigné's grief was renewed at sight of the famil-
iar objects, relief was found only in pouring forth her heart in con-
stant letters to Madame de Grignan, which every courier carried to
Provence. The wonderful series is as vividly fresh now as then,
when by the direct aid of Providence and the postal service of the
day they reached Château Grignan on its heights above the sea.
The letters were full of domestic and public news: the details of
daily life, the books the writer had read, the people she had met;
what was said, thought, and suspected in the world of Paris. Very
much too of contemporary history is woven into the correspondence.
The letters addressed in 1664 to M. de Pomponne, the former minis-
ter of Louis XIV. , then living in exile on his estate, contain the
most vivid and detailed account of the trial of Superintendent Fou-
quet which remains to us. In them the course of the proceedings
is daily related, the character of witnesses and judges discussed,
the nature of the testimony weighed, and the hopes and anxieties of
the prisoner's friends communicated. There are among the collection
letters to other friends; but the mass of the correspondence was
addressed to Madame de Grignan, and it contains a detailed account
of the mother's life from 1670 to 1696.
Madame de Sévigné died at Château Grignan, on April 18th, 1696,
and was buried in the church of Grignan. Her tomb was undisturbed
during the storms of the Revolution, and may still be seen.
Unauthorized editions of a portion of the letters of Madame de
Sévigné were published in 1726; but so incomplete and full of errors
were the collections, that her granddaughter, Madame de Simiane, was
forced very reluctantly to consent to the issuing of the correspond-
ence in a more correct form and under her own supervision. She
## p. 13155 (#599) ##########################################
MADAME DE SÉVIGNÉ
13155
disliked the publicity thus given to private letters, however, believ-
ing that "one should be at liberty to be witty with impunity in one's
family. " Even this last-named collection was not complete; and dili-
gent research has subsequently increased the number of letters, and
given rise to numerous editions of the entire correspondence. The
one printed in Paris in 1823, and edited by M. Gault de Saint-Germain,
contained letters from many of Madame de Sévigné's friends, and has
very full biographical and critical notices.
Into the literary work of Madame de Sévigné no moral purpose
obtrudes, although it unconsciously reveals not only her intellectual
power but also the strongly ethical bent of her character. It had
no other inspiration than the passion of motherhood, which was her
controlling impulse; was conceived without reference to audience
or critics, nor with thought of inspection by other eyes than those of
her daughter. She wrote of the world, but not for the world; to
amuse Madame de Grignan, and relieve her own heart by express-
ing the love and longing which filled it. The correspondence is full
of wit, of humor, of epigram; not designed to dazzle or attract, but
after the manner of a highly endowed and highly cultured nature.
Her style, formed under the guidance of authors of distinction, has
become a model for imitation throughout the world. Her language is
pure in form and graceful in expression. It is true that in the free-
dom of family correspondence, she occasionally used provincial terms;
but they were always borrowed with due acknowledgment of their
source, not as being a part of the personal appanage of the writer.
It was said of her: "You don't read her letters, you think she is
speaking; you listen to her. " To her friends so much of Madame
de Sévigné's personal attraction was associated with what she wrote,
that it is not strange they could not dissever them. Even after the
lapse of two centuries, that personal grace and charm is so present
in the written speech, that we can believe in what was said of her
by her cousin Count Bussy de Rabutin:-
"No one was ever weary in her society. She was one of those
people who should never have died; as there are others who should
never have been born. "
――――――
TO HER COUSIN, M. DE COULANGES
PARIS, Monday, December 15th, 1670.
I
AM going to tell you something most astonishing, most sur-
prising, most miraculous, most triumphant, most bewildering,
most unheard-of, most singular, most extraordinary, most
incredible, most unexpected, most important, most insignificant,
## p. 13156 (#600) ##########################################
13156
MADAME DE SÉVIGNÉ
most rare, most ordinary, most startling, most secret (until to-day),
most brilliant, most enviable; finally, something of which past ages
furnish only one example, and that example is not exactly similar.
Something which we in Paris can hardly credit, and how then
can it be believed at Lyons? Something which makes all the
world cry Bless me! " Something which overwhelms Madame
de Rohan and Madame d'Hauterive with joy. ' Something, finally,
which is to happen on Sunday, when those who will see it will
think they are blind. Something which will happen on Sunday,
and yet by Monday may not be done. I can't make up my
mind to tell you,- you must divine it.
"Here! " "In line, and to the left, if you please. " "The Greens,
in line the Greens, or no fruit for dinner to-morrow. " "Quick!
the refectory bell has rung twice already. " "Federici of the
Reds, walk straight! " "Young ladies of the White-and-Greens,
the bell is ringing for the third time. " "Are the Tricolors all
here? " "All. " "Casacalenda is missing. " "She is coming;
she is still at the organ. " "Altimare is missing. "
"Where is Altimare? "
"She was here just now,- she must have disappeared in the
bustle; shall I look for her? "
"Look; and come to the refectory with her. "
Then the corridor emptied, and the refectory filled with light
and merriment. With measured, almost rhythmic step, Caterina
went to and fro in the deserted passages, seeking her friend
Altimare. She descended to the ground floor, called her twice.
from the garden: no answer. Then she mounted the stairs
again, and entered the dormitory. The white beds formed a line
under the crude gaslight: Lucia was not there. A shade of
anxiety began to dawn on Caterina's rosy face. She passed by
the chapel twice, without going in. But the third time, finding
the door ajar, she made up her mind to enter. It was dark
## p. 13143 (#581) ##########################################
MATILDE SERAO
13143
inside. A lamp burning before the Madonna scarcely relieved.
the gloom. She passed on, half intimidated despite her well-
balanced nerves; for she was alone in the darkness, in church.
Along one of the altar steps, stretched out on the crimson
velvet carpet, a white form was lying, with open arms and pallid
face, a spectral figure. It was Lucia Altimare, who had fainted.
―
THE fan of Artemisia Minichini, made of a large sheet of
manuscript, waved noisily to and fro. .
«Minichini, you disturb the professor," said Friscia, the assist-
ant teacher, without raising her eyes from her crochet work.
"Friscia, you don't feel the heat? " returned Minichini inso-
lently.
"No. "
"You are lucky to be so insensible. "
In the class-room where the Tricolor young ladies were tak-
ing their lesson in Italian history, it was very hot. There were
two windows opening upon the garden, a door leading to the
corridor, three rows of benches, and twenty-four pupils. On a
high raised step stood the table and arm-chair of the professor.
The fans waved hither and thither, some vivaciously, some lan-
guidly. Here and there a head bent over its book as if weighted
with drowsiness. Ginevra Avigliana stared at the professor, nod-
ding as if in approval, though her face expressed entire absence.
of mind. Minichini had put down her fan, opened her pince-nez,
and fixed it impudently upon the professor's face. With her nose
tip-tilted, and a truant lock of hair curling on her forehead, she
laughed her silent laugh that so irritated the teachers. The pro-
fessor explained the lesson in a low voice.
He was small, spare,
and pitiable. He might have been about two-and-thirty; but his
emaciated face, whose dark coloring had yellowed with the pal-
lor of some long illness, proclaimed him a convalescent. A big
scholarly head surmounting the body of a dwarf, a wild thick
mane in which some white hairs were already visible, proud yet
shy eyes, a small, dirty-black beard, thinly planted towards the
thin cheeks, completed his sad and pensive ugliness.
He spoke without gesture, his eyes downcast; occasionally
his right hand moved ever so slightly. Its shadow on the wall
seemed to belong to a skeleton, it was so thin and crooked. He
proceeded slowly, picking his words. These girls intimidated
him some because of their intelligence, others because of their
## p. 13144 (#582) ##########################################
MATILDE SERAO
13144
impertinence, others simply because of their sex. His scholastic
austerity was perturbed by their shining eyes, by their graceful
and youthful forms; their white garments formed a kind of mi-
rage before his eyes. A pungent scent diffused itself throughout
the class, although perfumes were prohibited; whence came it?
And at the end of the third bench, Giovanna Casacalenda, who
paid not the slightest attention, sat, with half-closed eyes, furi-
ously nibbling a rose. Here in front, Lucia Altimare, with hair
falling loose about her neck, one arm hanging carelessly over the
bench, resting her brow against her hand and hiding her eyes,
looked at the professor through her fingers; every now and then
she pressed her handkerchief to her too crimson lips, as if to
mitigate their feverishness. The professor felt upon him the
gaze that filtered through her fingers; while, without looking at
her, he could see Giovanna Casacalenda tearing the rose to
pieces with her little teeth. He remained apparently imperturba-
ble, still discoursing of Carmagnola and the conspiracy of Fiesco,
addressing himself to the tranquil face of Caterina Spaccapietra,
who penciled rapid notes in her copy-book.
"What are you writing, Pentasuglia? " asked the teacher
Friscia, who had been observing the latter for some time.
"Nothing," replied Pentasuglia, reddening.
"Give me that scrap of paper. "
"What for? There is nothing on it. "
«Give me that scrap of paper. "
"It is not a scrap of paper," said Minichini audaciously, tak-
ing hold of it as if to hand it to her. "It is one, two, three,
four, five, twelve useless fragments"
To save her schoolfellow, she had torn it to shreds. There
was silence in the class: they trembled for Minichini. The
teacher bent her head, tightened her thin lips, and picked up her
crochet again as if nothing had happened. The professor ap-
peared to take no notice of the incident, as he looked through
his papers; but his mind must have been inwardly disturbed. A
flush of youthful curiosity made him wonder what those girls
were thinking of; what they scribbled in their little notes; for
whom their smiles were meant, as they looked at the plaster bust
of the King; what they thought when they drew the tricolor
scarves round their waists. But the ghastly face and false gray
eyes of Cherubina Friscia, the governess, frightened him
"Avigliana, say the lesson. "
## p. 13145 (#583) ##########################################
MATILDE SERAO
13145
The girl rose, and began rapidly to speak of the Viscontis,
like a well-trained parrot. When asked to give a few historical
comments, she made no reply: she had not understood her own
words.
>>>
"Minichini, say the lesson.
"Professor, I don't know it. "
"And why? "
"Yesterday was Sunday, and we went out, so I could not
study. "
The professor made a note in the register; the young lady
shrugged her shoulders.
"Casacalenda? "
This one made no answer. She was gazing with intense ear-
nestness at her white hands, - hands that looked as if they were
modeled in wax.
"Casacalenda, will you say the lesson ? "
Opening her great eyes as if she were dazed, she began,
stumbling at every word, puzzled, making one mistake upon
another; the professor prompted, and she repeated, with the win-
ning air of a strong, beautiful young animal; she neither knew
nor understood nor was ashamed- maintaining her sculpturesque
placidity, moistening her rustic Diana-like lips, contemplating her
pink nails.
The professor bent his head in displeasure, not dar-
ing to scold that splendid stupid creature, whose voice had such
enchanting modulations.
He made two or three other attempts; but the class, owing
to the preceding holiday, had not studied. This was the expla-
nation of the flowers, the perfumes, and the little notes: the
twelve hours' liberty had upset the girls. Their eyes were full
of visions; they had seen the world yesterday. He drew himself
together, perplexed; a sense of mingled shame and respect kept
every mouth closed. How he loved that science of history! His
critical acumen measured its widest horizons; his was a vast
ideal, and he suffered in having to offer crumbs of it to those
pretty, aristocratic, indolent girls, who would have none of it.
Still young, he had grown old and gray in arduous study; and
now, behold-gay and careless youth, choosing rather to live
than to know, rose in defiance against him. Bitterness welled up
to his lips, and went out towards those creatures, thrilling with
life and contemptuous of his ideal; bitterness in that he could not
like them be beautiful and vigorous, and revel in heedlessness,
## p. 13146 (#584) ##########################################
13146
MATILDE SERAO
and be beloved. Anguish rushed through his veins, from his
heart, and poisoned his brain, that he should have to humiliate
his knowledge before those frivolous, scarcely human girls. But
the gathering storm was held back; and nothing of it was per-
ceptible save a slight flush on his meagre cheek bones.
"Since none of you have studied," he said slowly, in a low
voice, none of you can have done the composition. "
«<
"Altimare and I have done it," answered Caterina Spaccapie-
tra. "We did not go home," she added apologetically, to avoid
offending her friends.
"Then you read, Spaccapietra: the subject is, I think, Beatrice
di Tenda. "
"Yes: Beatrice di Tenda. "
Spaccapietra stood up and read, in her pure, slow voice:-
"Ambition had ever been the ruling passion of the Viscontis of
Milan, who shrank from naught that could minister to the mainte-
nance of their sovereign power. Filippo Maria, son of Gian Galeazzo,
who had succeeded his brother Gian Galeazzo, differed in no way
from his predecessors. For the love of gain, this prince espoused
Beatrice di Tenda, the widow of a condottiere (a soldier of fortune);
a virtuous and accomplished woman of mature age. She brought
her husband in dowry the dominions of Tortona, Novara, Vercelli,
and Alessandria; but he tired of her as soon as he had satisfied his
thirst for wealth. He caused her to be accused of unfaithfulness to
her wifely duty, with a certain Michele Orombello, a simple squire.
Whether the accusation was false or made in good faith, whether
the witnesses were to be relied upon or not, Beatrice di Tenda was
declared guilty, and with Michele Orombello mounted the scaffold in
the year 1418, which was the forty-eighth of her life, she having
been born in 1370,"
Caterina had folded up her paper, and the professor was still
waiting; two minutes elapsed.
"Is there no more? "
"No. "
«<
Really, is that all? »
"All. "
"It is a very meagre composition, Spaccapietra. It is but
the bare narrative of the historical fact, as it stands in the text-
book. Does not the hapless fate of Beatrice inspire you with any
sympathy? "
## p. 13147 (#585) ##########################################
MATILDE SERAO
13147
"I don't know," murmured the young scholar, pale with emo-
tion.
"Yet you are a woman. It so happens that I had chosen a
theme which suggests the manifestation of a noble impulse; say
of pity, or contempt for the false accusation. But in this form the
story turns to mere chronology. The composition is too meagre.
You have no imagination, Spaccapietra. "
"Yes, professor," replied the young girl submissively, as she
took her seat again, while tears welled to her eyes.
"Let us hear Altimare. "
Lucia appeared to start out of a lethargy. She sought for
some time among her papers, with an ever increasing expres-
sion of weariness. Then, in a weak inaudible voice, she began
to read, slowly, dragging the syllables, as if overpowered by an
invincible lassitude.
"Louder, Altimare. "
"I cannot, professor. "
And she looked at him with such melancholy eyes that he
repented of having made the remark. Again she touched her
parched lips with her handkerchief, and continued:-
-
-
«<
through the evil lust of power. He was Filippo Maria
Visconti; of a noble presence, with the eye of a hawk, of powerful
build, and ever foremost in the saddle. The maidens who watched
him pass, clad in armor under the velvet coat, on the breastpiece of
which was broidered the wily, fascinating serpent, the crest of the
lords of Visconti, sighed as they exclaimed, 'How handsome he is! '
But under this attractive exterior-as is ever the case in this mel-
ancholy world, where appearance is but part of the mise-en-scène of
life he hid a depraved soul. O gentle, loving women, trust not
him who flutters round you with courteous manner, and words that
charm, and protestations of exquisite sentiment: he deceives you.
All is vanity, all is corruption, all is ashes!
better than the hapless Beatrice di Tenda,
tell you.
None learnt this lesson
ose tale I am about to
"This youthful widow was of unblemished character and matchless
beauty: fair was her hair of spun gold, soft were her eyes of a blue
worthy to reflect the firmament; her skin was as dazzling white as
the petals of a lily. Her first marriage with Facino Cane could not
have been a happy one. He, a soldier of fortune,- fierce, blood-
thirsty, trained to the arms, the wine, and the rough speech of mar-
tial camps,- could scarcely have been a man after Beatrice's heart.
Woe to those marriages in which one consort neither understands nor
## p. 13148 (#586) ##########################################
13148
MATILDE SERAO
appreciates the mind of the other. Woe to those marriages in which
the man ignores the mystic poetry, the mysterious sentiments, of the
feminine heart! These be the unblessed unions with which, alas!
our corrupt and suffering modern society teems. Facino Cane died.
His widow shed bitter tears over him; but her virgin heart beat
quicker when she first met the valorous yet malefic Filippo Maria
Visconti. Her face turned as pale as Luna's when she drags her
weary way along the starred empyrean. And she loved him with all
the ardor of her stored-up youth, with the chastity of a pious soul
loving the Creator in the created, blending Divine with human love.
Beatrice, pure and beautiful, wedded Filippo Maria for love: Filippo
Maria, black soul that he was, wedded Beatrice for greed of money.
For a short time the august pair were happy on their ducal throne.
But the hymeneal roses were worm-eaten: in the dewy grass lay
hidden the perfidious serpent, perfidious emblem of the most per-
fidious Visconti. No sooner had he obtained possession of the riches
of Beatrice than Filippo Maria wearied of her, as might be expected
of a man of so hard a heart and of such depraved habits. He had
besides formed an infamous connection with a certain Agnese del
Maino, one of the most vicious of women; and more than ever he
was possessed of the desire to rid himself of his wife.
"There lived at the court of the Visconti a simple squire named
Michele Orombello, a young troubadour, a poet, who had dared to
raise his eyes to his august mistress. But the noble woman did not
reciprocate his passion, although the faithlessness and treachery of
Filippo Maria caused her the greatest unhappiness, and almost justi-
fied reprisals: she was simply courteous to her unfortunate adorer.
When Filippo Maria saw how matters stood, he at once threw
Michele Orombello and his chaste consort into prison, accusing them
of treason. Torture was applied to Beatrice, who bore it bravely
and maintained her innocence. Michele Orombello, being younger
and perchance weaker to combat pain, or because he was treacher-
ously advised that he might thereby save Beatrice, made a false
confession. The judges, vile slaves of Filippo Maria, and trem-
blingly submissive to his will, condemned that most ill-starred of
women and her miserable lover to die on the scaffold. The saintly
woman ascended it with resignation; embracing the crucifix whereon
the Redeemer agonized and died for our sins. Then, perceiving the
young squire, who, weeping desperately, went with her to death, she
cried: 'I forgive thee, Michele Orombello;' and he made answer: '
proclaim thee the purest of wives! ' But it availed not; the prince's
will must needs be carried out; the axe struck off the squire's dark
head. Beatrice cried, Gesù Maria! ' and the axe felled the blonde
head too. A pitiable spectacle, and full of horror for those as-
sembled! Yet none dared to proclaim the infamy of the mighty
## p. 13149 (#587) ##########################################
MATILDE SERAO
13149
Filippo Maria Visconti. Thus it ever is in life: virtue is oppressed,
and vice triumphs. Only before the Eternal Judge is justice; only
before that God of mercy who has said, 'I am the resurrection and
the life. >>>
A profound silence ensued. The pupils were embarrassed,
and looked furtively at each other. Caterina gazed at Lucia
with frightened, astonished eyes. Lucia remained standing, pale,
panting, contemptuous, with twitching lips. The professor, deep
in thought, held his peace.
"The composition is very long, Altimare," he said at last.
"You have too much imagination. "
Then silence one more-and the dry, malicious, hissing voice
of Cherubina Friscia, "Give me that composition, Altimare. "
All trembled, seized by an unknown terror.
THE SCHOOLGIRLS' VOW
From (Fantasy›
THE
HERE was only one flickering jet of gas burning at the en-
trance to the dormitory that contained the little white beds.
in which the Tricolors passed the last night of their school
days. There had been short dialogues, interrupted by sighs, mel-
ancholy reflections, and regrets, until a late hour. They would
have liked to sit up all night to indulge in their grief. But
fatigue had melted their project away. When they could hold
out no longer, sleep mastered those restless beings, weary with
weeping. A languid "Good-night" was audible here and there;
gradually the irregular breathing had subsided, and the sobs had
died out. Complete repose reigned in the dormitory of the Tri-
colors.
When the great clock struck two after midnight, Lucia Alti-
mare opened her eyes. She had not slept; devoured by im-
patience, she had watched. Without rising, she gently and
noiselessly took her clothes from the chair near her bed and put
them on, thrust her bare feet into her slippers, and then crept
out of bed. She moved like a shadow, with infinite precaution,
casting in passing an oblique glance at the beds where her com-
panions slept. Now and again she looked towards the end of the
hall where Cherubina Friscia lay. There was no danger. Lucia
passed like a tall white phantom, with burning eyes, through the
heavy gloom to Caterina's bedside.
## p.
13150 (#588) ##########################################
13150
MATILDE SERAO
Her friend slept quietly, composedly, breathing like a child.
She bent down and whispered close to her ear:
"Caterina, Caterina! "
Caterina opened her eyes in alarm; a sign from Lucia froze
the cry that rose to her lips. The surprise on her face spoke
for her, and questioned her friend.
"If you love me, Caterina, dress and follow me. "
"Where are we going? " the other ventured to ask, hesitat-
ingly.
"If you love me
Caterina no longer questioned her. She dressed herself in
silence, looking now and then at Lucia, who stood there like a
statue, waiting. When Caterina was ready, she took her by the
hand to lead her.
>>>>
"Fear nothing," breathed Lucia, who could feel the coldness
of her hand. They glided down the passage that divided the
beds from the rest of the room. Artemisia Minichini was the
only one who turned in her bed, and appeared for a moment to
have opened her eyes. They closed again; but perhaps she saw
through her lids. No other sign of waking. They shrank closer
together when they passed the last bed, Friscia's, and stooped to
make themselves smaller. That moment seemed to them like a
century. When they got into the corridor, Caterina squeezed
Lucia's hand, as if they had passed through a great danger.
"Come, come, come! " murmured the siren voice of Lucia, and
suddenly they stopped before a door. Lucia dropped Caterina's
hand and inserted a key into the keyhole; the door creaked as
it flew open.
A gust of chill air struck the two young girls; a
faint diffuse light broke in upon them. A lamp was burning
before the image of the Virgin. They were in the chapel.
Calmly Lucia knelt before the altar, and lighted two candelabra.
Then she turned to Caterina, who, dazed by the light, was catch-
ing her breath, and once more said, "Come. "
They advanced towards the altar. In the little whitewashed
church, with two high windows open on the country, a pleasant
dampness tempered the heat of the August night. The faintest
perfume of incense still clung to the air. The church was so
placid and restful, the candelabra in their places, the tapers extin-
guished, the sacrament shut away in its pyx, the altar-cloth turned
up to cover it. But a quaintly fashioned silver arabesque, behind
which Lucia had lighted a taper, projected on the wall the profile
of a strange monstrous beast. Caterina stood there in a dream,
## p. 13151 (#589) ##########################################
MATILDE SERAO
13151
with her hand still clasped in Lucia's, whose fever it had caught.
Even at that unusual hour, in the dead of night, she no longer
asked herself what strange rite was to be solemnized in that
chapel illuminated only for them. She was conscious of a vague
tremor, of a weight in the head, and a longing for sleep; she
would fain have been back in the dormitory, with her cheek on
her pillow. But like one who dreams of having the well-defined
will to do a thing, and yet while the dream lasts has neither the
speech to express nor the energy to accomplish it, she was con-
scious, between sleeping and waking, of the torpor of her own
mind. She looked around her as one in a stupor, neither under-
standing nor caring to understand. From time to time her mouth
twitched with an imperceptible yawn. Lucia's hands were crossed
over her bosom, and her eyes fixed on the Madonna. No sound
escaped her half-open lips. Caterina leant forward to observe
her; in the vague turn of thought that went round and round
in her sleepy brain, she asked herself if she were dreaming, and
Lucia a phantom. She passed one hand across her brow, either
to awake herself or to dispel the hallucination.
"Listen, Caterina, and try and comprehend me better than I
know how to express myself. Do you give your whole attention ? »
«
"Yes," said the other with an effort.
"You alone know how we have loved each other here. After
God, the Madonna Addolorata, and my father, I have loved you,
Caterina. You have saved my life; I can never forget it. But
for you I should have gone to burn in hell, where suicides must
eternally suffer. I thank you, dear heart. You believe in my
gratitude? "
"Yes," said Caterina, opening wide her eyes the better to
understand her.
"Now we who so love each other must part.
«
You go to the
left, I to the right. You are to be married: I know not what
will happen to me. Shall we meet again? I know not. Shall
we again come together in the future? Who knows?
Do you
know? "
"No," replied Caterina, starting.
“Well, then, I propose to you to conquer time and space, men
and circumstances, should they stand in the way of our affection.
From afar, howsoever we may be separated, let us love each
other as we do to-day, as we did yesterday. Do you promise? "
"I promise. "
## p. 13152 (#590) ##########################################
13152
MATILDE SERAO
"The Madonna hears us, Caterina. Do you promise with a
vow, with an oath ? »
"With a vow, with an oath," repeated Caterina monotonously
like an echo.
"And I too promise that no one shall ever by word or deed
lessen this our steadfast friendship. Do you promise? "
"I promise. "
"And I too promise that neither shall ever seek to do ill to
the other, or willingly cause her sorrow, or ever, ever betray her.
Promise: the Madonna hears us. "
"I promise. "
“I swear it,—that always, whatever befalls, one shall try to
help the other. Say, do you promise? "
"I promise. "
"And I too. Besides, that either will be ever ready to sacri-
fice her own happiness to that of the other. Swear it; swear! "
Caterina thought for an instant. Was she dreaming a strange
dream, or was she binding herself for life? "I swear," she said
firmly.
"I swear," reiterated Lucia. "The Madonna has heard. Woe
to her who breaks her vow! God will punish her. "
Caterina bowed her assent. Lucia took her rosary from her
pocket. It was a string of lapis-lazuli bound together by little
silver links. From it depended a small silver crucifix, and a
little gold medal on which was engraved the image of the Ma-
donna della Saletta. She kissed it.
"We will break this rosary in two equal parts, Caterina.
Half of it you shall take with you, the other half I will keep.
It will be our keepsake, to remind us of our vow. When I pray
at night, I shall remember. You too will remember me in your
prayers. The missing half will remind you of your absent
friend. "
And taking up the rosary between them, they pulled hard
at it from either side. Lucia kept the half with the crucifix,
Caterina the half with the medal. The two girls embraced.
Then they heard the clock strike three. When silence reigned
once more in the college and in the empty chapel, both knelt
down on the steps of the altar, crossed their hands on their
bosoms, and with closed eyes repeated in unison
"Our Father — »
Translation of Henry Harland.
## p. 13152 (#591) ##########################################
## p. 13152 (#592) ##########################################
MARIE DE SEVIGNE.
## p. 13152 (#593) ##########################################
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## p. 13152 (#594) ##########################################
VAR E DE SEVIONA
## p. 13152 (#595) ##########################################
13153
MADAME DE SÉVIGNÉ
(1627-1696)
MONG the great writers of the world, Madame de Sévigné is
perhaps the only one except Lady Nairne whose purely lit-
erary fame was entirely posthumous. It is true that when
Louis XIV. became possessed of a number of her letters, upon the
arrest of her friend Fouquet the Superintendent of Finance, he pro-
claimed that their style was matchless in grace of thought and
expression; and the little court world which took from the King its
opinions, on matters of taste as in so much else, henceforth placed
Madame de Sévigné at the head of that group of charming women
who wrote charming letters in seventeenth-century France. Her sub-
sequent correspondence was frequently handed about from friend to
friend; but the interest it excited depended quite as much upon the
amusing news of the court and the salons which it contained, as
upon the style in which the agreeable gossip was related. That in
later times her name should stand high in the literature of France,
and her house be visited as the shrine of her gracious memory, was
anticipated by none of her contemporaries; least of all by herself.
Marie de Rabutin-Chantal, the only child of Celse Benigne de
Rabutin, Baron de Chantal, and of Marie de Coulanges his wife, was
born in the Château de Bourbilly, Burgundy, on February 5th, 1627.
Left an orphan when five years old, she was consigned to the care
of her uncle Philippe de Coulanges; and upon his death in 1636 she
became the charge of his brother Christophe de Coulanges, Abbé de
Livry. To the latter she was indebted for her careful education under
the best masters of the day, - among them Chapelain and Ménage.
Of the training received from "Le Bien-bon," as she termed her
uncle, she says: "I owed to him the sweetness and repose of my
life; all my gayety, my good-humor, my vivacity. In a word, he has
made me what I am, such as you have seen me; and worthy of your
esteem and of your friendship. ”
When sixteen years old, Marie de Rabutin-Chantal married Henri,
Marquis de Sévigné,- a profligate young noble of a distinguished
Breton family. It was said of him, "He loved everywhere; but never
anything so amiable as his own wife. " He was killed in 1651 in a
duel, undertaken in defense of an unworthy name, leaving his wife
with a young son and daughter. Madame de Sévigné spent the early
years of her widowhood with her children at "Les Rochers"— her
XXII-823
## p. 13152 (#596) ##########################################
+
i
MARIE DE SEVIGNE
1
## p. 13153 (#597) ##########################################
13153
MADAME DE SÉVIGNÉ
(1627-1696)
MONG the great writers of the world, Madame de Sévigné is
perhaps the only one except Lady Nairne whose purely lit-
erary fame was entirely posthumous. It is true that when
Louis XIV. became possessed of a number of her letters, upon the
arrest of her friend Fouquet the Superintendent of Finance, he pro-
claimed that their style was matchless in grace of thought and
expression; and the little court world which took from the King its
opinions, on matters of taste as in so much else, henceforth placed
Madame de Sévigné at the head of that group of charming women
who wrote charming letters in seventeenth-century France. Her sub-
sequent correspondence was frequently handed about from friend to
friend; but the interest it excited depended quite as much upon the
amusing news of the court and the salons which it contained, as
upon the style in which the agreeable gossip was related. That in
later times her name should stand high in the literature of France,
and her house be visited as the shrine of her gracious memory, was
anticipated by none of her contemporaries; least of all by herself.
Marie de Rabutin-Chantal, the only child of Celse Benigne de
Rabutin, Baron de Chantal, and of Marie de Coulanges his wife, was
born in the Château de Bourbilly, Burgundy, on February 5th, 1627.
Left an orphan when five years old, she was consigned to the care
of her uncle Philippe de Coulanges; and upon his death in 1636 she
became the charge of his brother Christophe de Coulanges, Abbé de
Livry. To the latter she was indebted for her careful education under
the best masters of the day,- among them Chapelain and Ménage.
Of the training received from "Le Bien-bon," as she termed her
uncle, she says: "I owed to him the sweetness and repose of my
life; all my gayety, my good-humor, my vivacity. In a word, he has
made me what I am, such as you have seen me; and worthy of your
esteem and of your friendship. "
When sixteen years old, Marie de Rabutin-Chantal married Henri,
Marquis de Sévigné,-a profligate young noble of a distinguished
Breton family. It was said of him, "He loved everywhere; but never
anything so amiable as his own wife. " He was killed in 1651 in a
duel, undertaken in defense of an unworthy name, leaving his wife
with a young son and daughter. Madame de Sévigné spent the early
years of her widowhood with her children at "Les Rochers"— her
XXII-823
## p. 13154 (#598) ##########################################
MADAME DE SÉVIGNÉ
13154
husband's estate in Brittany-returning to Paris in 1654. Charles de
Sévigné, her eldest child, inherited his father's pleasure-loving nature;
and during the years of his early manhood caused his mother much
anxiety. On resigning his commission in the army, he retired to
his estate in Brittany, married a good woman, became "serious," and
spent the rest of his years in the study of the Fathers and of Horace.
When Madame de Sévigné presented her daughter Françoise at
court, this "prettiest girl in France" seemed destined to set the
world on fire. On her the affection of the mother's heart, which had
met disappointment in so many other directions, was lavished. Made-
moiselle de Sévigné married in 1669 François Adhémar de Monteil,
Comte de Grignan; and the following year went with him to Provence,
where he exercised viceregal functions,-nominally during the minor-
ity of the Duc de Vendôme, but as the duke never in fact assumed
authority, the count was the actual ruler of the province for forty
years. From the moment when, on entering her daughter's vacant
room, Madame de Sévigné's grief was renewed at sight of the famil-
iar objects, relief was found only in pouring forth her heart in con-
stant letters to Madame de Grignan, which every courier carried to
Provence. The wonderful series is as vividly fresh now as then,
when by the direct aid of Providence and the postal service of the
day they reached Château Grignan on its heights above the sea.
The letters were full of domestic and public news: the details of
daily life, the books the writer had read, the people she had met;
what was said, thought, and suspected in the world of Paris. Very
much too of contemporary history is woven into the correspondence.
The letters addressed in 1664 to M. de Pomponne, the former minis-
ter of Louis XIV. , then living in exile on his estate, contain the
most vivid and detailed account of the trial of Superintendent Fou-
quet which remains to us. In them the course of the proceedings
is daily related, the character of witnesses and judges discussed,
the nature of the testimony weighed, and the hopes and anxieties of
the prisoner's friends communicated. There are among the collection
letters to other friends; but the mass of the correspondence was
addressed to Madame de Grignan, and it contains a detailed account
of the mother's life from 1670 to 1696.
Madame de Sévigné died at Château Grignan, on April 18th, 1696,
and was buried in the church of Grignan. Her tomb was undisturbed
during the storms of the Revolution, and may still be seen.
Unauthorized editions of a portion of the letters of Madame de
Sévigné were published in 1726; but so incomplete and full of errors
were the collections, that her granddaughter, Madame de Simiane, was
forced very reluctantly to consent to the issuing of the correspond-
ence in a more correct form and under her own supervision. She
## p. 13155 (#599) ##########################################
MADAME DE SÉVIGNÉ
13155
disliked the publicity thus given to private letters, however, believ-
ing that "one should be at liberty to be witty with impunity in one's
family. " Even this last-named collection was not complete; and dili-
gent research has subsequently increased the number of letters, and
given rise to numerous editions of the entire correspondence. The
one printed in Paris in 1823, and edited by M. Gault de Saint-Germain,
contained letters from many of Madame de Sévigné's friends, and has
very full biographical and critical notices.
Into the literary work of Madame de Sévigné no moral purpose
obtrudes, although it unconsciously reveals not only her intellectual
power but also the strongly ethical bent of her character. It had
no other inspiration than the passion of motherhood, which was her
controlling impulse; was conceived without reference to audience
or critics, nor with thought of inspection by other eyes than those of
her daughter. She wrote of the world, but not for the world; to
amuse Madame de Grignan, and relieve her own heart by express-
ing the love and longing which filled it. The correspondence is full
of wit, of humor, of epigram; not designed to dazzle or attract, but
after the manner of a highly endowed and highly cultured nature.
Her style, formed under the guidance of authors of distinction, has
become a model for imitation throughout the world. Her language is
pure in form and graceful in expression. It is true that in the free-
dom of family correspondence, she occasionally used provincial terms;
but they were always borrowed with due acknowledgment of their
source, not as being a part of the personal appanage of the writer.
It was said of her: "You don't read her letters, you think she is
speaking; you listen to her. " To her friends so much of Madame
de Sévigné's personal attraction was associated with what she wrote,
that it is not strange they could not dissever them. Even after the
lapse of two centuries, that personal grace and charm is so present
in the written speech, that we can believe in what was said of her
by her cousin Count Bussy de Rabutin:-
"No one was ever weary in her society. She was one of those
people who should never have died; as there are others who should
never have been born. "
――――――
TO HER COUSIN, M. DE COULANGES
PARIS, Monday, December 15th, 1670.
I
AM going to tell you something most astonishing, most sur-
prising, most miraculous, most triumphant, most bewildering,
most unheard-of, most singular, most extraordinary, most
incredible, most unexpected, most important, most insignificant,
## p. 13156 (#600) ##########################################
13156
MADAME DE SÉVIGNÉ
most rare, most ordinary, most startling, most secret (until to-day),
most brilliant, most enviable; finally, something of which past ages
furnish only one example, and that example is not exactly similar.
Something which we in Paris can hardly credit, and how then
can it be believed at Lyons? Something which makes all the
world cry Bless me! " Something which overwhelms Madame
de Rohan and Madame d'Hauterive with joy. ' Something, finally,
which is to happen on Sunday, when those who will see it will
think they are blind. Something which will happen on Sunday,
and yet by Monday may not be done. I can't make up my
mind to tell you,- you must divine it.
