TH
HIS is a terrible day, my dear child.
HIS is a terrible day, my dear child.
Warner - World's Best Literature - v22 - Sac to Sha
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,
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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. I'll give you three
guesses. Do you give it up? Well, then, I must tell you: M. de
Lauzun is to marry on Sunday, at the Louvre,- can you imagine
whom? I'll give you three guesses, I'll give you ten, I'll give
you a hundred! I know Madame de Coulanges will say, “That
is not difficult to imagine. It is Mademoiselle de La Vallière. "
Not at all, madame. "Is it then Mademoiselle de Retz? " By
no means; you are far astray. "Ah, yes; we are stupid: it must
be Mademoiselle Colbert! " you say. Still less. "It certainly
is then Mademoiselle de Créqui? " You are not right yet. I
shall have to tell you. He is to marry-on Sunday at the
Louvre, by permission of the King - Mademoiselle - Mademoi-
selle de Mademoiselle - now tell me her name! On my word—
on my sacred word-on my word of honor - MADEMOISELLE!
LA GRANDE MADEMOISELLE; Mademoiselle the daughter of the late
Monsieur; Mademoiselle the granddaughter of Henry the Fourth;
Mademoiselle d'Eu; Mademoiselle de Dombes; Mademoiselle de
Montpensier; Mademoiselle d'Orleans; Mademoiselle, first cousin
to the King; Mademoiselle, destined to a throne; Mademoiselle,
the only match in France who was worthy of Monsieur"! This
is a pretty subject for reflection! If you exclaim, if you are
beside yourself, if you say I am telling a lie, that it is all false,
that I am making fun of you, that it is a joke and rather a stu-
pid one too, we shall agree that you are right: we have said
the same thing. Adieu: the letters which go by this post will
show you whether we are telling the truth or not.
-
―
1 From seeing a royal lady marry below her rank as they had done.
2 The Duke of Lauzun.
3
Gaston, Duke of Orleans, uncle to Louis XIV.
Philippe, Duke of Orleans (brother of Louis XIV. ), whom she had refused.
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MADAME DE SÉVIGNÉ
13157
TO M. DE COULANGES
PARIS, Friday, December 19th, 1670.
WHAT
HAT happened yesterday evening at the Tuileries is what
one might call a fall from the clouds-but I must begin
at the beginning. You heard of the joy, of the trans-
ports, of the bliss, of the princess and her fortunate lover. It
was on Monday that the affair was announced as I wrote you.
Tuesday passed in talking-in wondering-in complimenting.
On Wednesday Mademoiselle made a donation to M. de Lauzun,
with the object of endowing him with the titles, names, and
necessary decorations, that they might be enumerated in the mar-
riage contract, which was made the same day. She gave him,
in preparation for something better, four duchies: the first was
the county of Eu, which is the first peerage in France; the
duchy of Montpensier, whose title he bore through that day; the
duchy of Saint Fargeau; the duchy of Châtellerault, the whole
valued at twenty-two millions. The contract was finally prepared,
in which he took the name of Montpensier. On Thursday morn-
ing-which was yesterday- Mademoiselle hoped that the King
would sign the contract, as he had agreed to do; but about seven
o'clock in the evening, the Queen, Monsieur, and some busy-
bodies convinced the King that this affair would injure his repu-
tation. Accordingly, having summoned Mademoiselle and M. de
Lauzun, his Majesty announced to them, before M. le Prince,
that he forbade them absolutely to think of the marriage. M. de
Lauzun received this order with all the respect and submission,
all the firmness and all the despair, which became so great a fall.
But Mademoiselle - characteristically-burst into tears, shrieks,
and groans, and bitter complaints. She kept her bed the whole
day, taking nothing but bouillons.
TO HER DAUGHTER, MADAME DE GRIGNAN
I
LIVRY, Holy Wednesday, March 25th, 1671.
HAVE been here three hours, my dear child. I left Paris with
the Abbé, Hélène, Hébert, and Marphise,* with the intention
of retiring from the world and its tumult until Thursday
evening. I am supposed to be in retreat. I am making a kind.
I
* Her pet dog.
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MADAME DE SÉVIGNÉ
of little "La Trappe," where I may pray to God and indulge in
a thousand pious reflections. I have resolved to fast here, for
various reasons: to make up in walking for all the time that I
have been in my room; and chiefly, to be bored for the love of
God.
But what I shall do far better than all these, is to think
of you, my child. I have not ceased to do so since I arrived;
and not being able to restrain all my feelings, I have seated
myself to write to you, at the end of this little shady walk which
you love, upon a mossy bank where I have so often seen you
lying. But, mon Dieu! where have I not seen you here! and
how these memories grieve my heart! There is no place, no
spot, either in the house or in the church, in the country or
in the garden,- where I have not seen you. Everything brings
some memory to mind; and whatever it may be, it makes my heart.
ache. I see you; you are present to me. I think of everything
and think again. My brain and my heart grow confused. But
in vain I turn-in vain I seek: that dear child whom I passion-
ately love is two hundred leagues distant from me. I have her
no more; and then I weep, and cannot cease. My love, that is
weakness; but as for me, I do not know how to be strong against
a feeling so powerful and so natural.
―――
I cannot tell in what frame of mind you will be when
reading this letter: perhaps chance may bring it to you in-
opportunely, and it may not be read in the spirit in which it
is written, but for that there is no remedy. To write it, at
least, consoles me now; that is all I ask of it at present, for
the state into which this place has thrown me is inconceivable.
Do not speak of my weaknesses; but you must love and respect
my tears, since they proceed from a heart which is wholly yours.
―――――――――
II
FRIDAY EVENING, April 24th, 1671.
I
MEANT to tell you that the King arrived at Chantilly last
evening. He hunted the stag by moonlight; the lanterns
were very brilliant; and altogether the evening, the supper,
the play, - all went off marvelously well. The weather to-day
makes us anticipate a worthy close to such a beginning. But I
have just heard something as I came here from which I cannot
recover, and which makes me forget what I was about to write
you. Vatel - the great Vatel — maître d'hotel of M. Fouquet, and
who has recently been in the service of M. le Prince—the man
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MADAME DE SÉVIGNÉ
13159
above all others in ability, whose good head was capable of
carrying the affairs of a State - this man, such as I knew him,
finding that at eight o'clock the fish had not arrived, and unable
to sustain the humiliation which he foresaw, stabbed himself.
You can imagine the horrible disorder into which such a dread-
ful accident threw the fête.
PARIS, Sunday, April 26th, 1671.
T
HIS letter will not go before Wednesday; but this is not a
letter, only an account of what Moreuil has just told me
for your benefit, concerning Vatel. I wrote you on Friday
that he had stabbed himself: here is the story in detail.
―――――
The King arrived on Thursday evening; the promenade, the
collation, served on a lawn carpeted with jonquils,- all was
perfect. At supper there were a few tables where the roast was
wanting, on account of some guests whose arrival had not been
expected. This mortified Vatel, who said several times, "My
honor is gone: I can never survive this shame. " He also said to
Gourville, "My head swims. I have not slept for twelve nights.
Help me give the orders. " Gourville encouraged him as well as
he could. The roast had not been wanting at the King's table;
but he could not forget that there was none at the twenty-fifth.
Gourville told M. le Prince, who went immediately to Vatel's
room, and said to him, "Vatel, everything is going on well.
Nothing could be finer than the King's supper. " He replied,
"My lord, your goodness overwhelms me. I know that the roast
was missing at two tables. " "Not at all," said M. le Prince.
"Don't disturb yourself: everything is going on well. " Midnight
came; the fireworks, which cost sixteen thousand francs, did not
succeed, on account of the fog. At four o'clock in the morning,
Vatel, going through the château, found every one asleep. He
met a young steward, who had brought only two hampers of
fish: he asked, "Is that all? "-"Yes, sir. " The lad did not know
that Vatel had sent to all the seaports. Vatel waited some time;
the other purveyors did not arrive: his brain reeled; he believed
no more fish could be had: and finding Gourville, he said, "My
dear sir, I shall never survive this disgrace. " Gourville ridiculed
him. Vatel went up to his chamber, placed his sword against
the door, and stabbed himself to the heart; but only on the
third attempt - for he gave himself two thrusts which were not
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MADAME DE SÉVIGNÉ
mortal did he fall dead.
Meanwhile the fish arrived from
every quarter; and seeking for Vatel to give it out, they went
to his room, knocked, burst in the door, and found him drowned
in his blood. They ran to M. le Prince, who was in despair.
M. le Duc wept; his father told the King in sorrow. It was said
that this occurred because Vatel had a high sense of honor. He
was praised; and his courage both praised and blamed. The
King said that he had deferred going to Chantilly for five years
because he knew how much trouble his visit would cause. He
told M. le Prince that he ought only to have two tables, and not
provide for everybody. He vowed that he would no longer
permit M. le Prince to do so; but it was too late for poor Vatel.
Gourville, however, tried to make up for his loss, in which
he succeeded. They all dined very well: had a collation and a
supper-walked-played-hunted. Everything was perfumed
with jonquils; all was enchantment.
-
III
LES ROCHERS, September 30th, 1671.
Α
S FOR La Mousse, he catechizes on holidays and Sundays; he
is determined to go to Paradise. I tell him it is only for
curiosity, that he may discover once for all whether the sun
is a mass of dust violently agitated, or a globe of fire. The other
day he was catechizing some little children; and after a few ques-
tions they got everything so mixed up that when he asked who
the Virgin was, they answered one after another, "The creator
of heaven and earth. " He was not convinced by the children;
but finding that the men, the women, and even the old people,
said the same thing, he was persuaded of the fact, and gave in
to the general opinion. At last he knew no longer what he was
about; and if I had not appeared on the scene, he would never
have recovered himself. This novel opinion would have created
quite another disturbance from the motion of the little atoms.
## p. 13161 (#605) ##########################################
MADAME DE SÉVIGNÉ
13161
IV
-
You
PARIS, Wednesday, March 16th, 1672.
ou ask me, my dear child, if I am as much in love with life
as ever. I confess it has many troubles; but I am still
more disinclined to die. Indeed, I am so unhappy because
everything must end in death, that I should ask nothing better
than to turn back if it were possible. I am involved in a per-
plexing engagement: entering upon life without my own con-
sent, I must at last leave it. The thought overwhelms me. How
shall I go? Where? By what gate? When will it be? In
what manner? Shall I suffer a thousand thousand griefs, and
die despairing? Shall I be delirious? Shall I perish by an acci-
dent? How shall I stand before God? What shall I have to
offer him? Will fear, will necessity, turn my heart to him?
Shall I feel no emotion save fear? What can I hope? Am I
worthy of Paradise? Am I fit for hell? What an alternative!
What a perplexity! Nothing is so foolish as to be uncertain
about one's salvation: but then, nothing is so natural; and the
careless life which I lead is the easiest thing in the world to
comprehend.
I am overpowered by these thoughts; and death appears to
me so horrible, that I hate life rather because it leads thither,
than for the thorns with which it is sown. You will say that
then I want to live forever. Not at all: but if I had been con-
sulted, I should have preferred to die in my nurse's arms,—it
would have saved me from so many annoyances, and secured
salvation very easily and very certainly. But let us talk of some-
thing else.
V
LAMBESC, Tuesday, December 20th, 1672.
WHE
HEN one reckons without Providence, one must reckon twice.
I was all dressed at eight o'clock; had taken my coffee,
heard mass, made all my adieus; the packs were loaded,
the bells of the mules reminded me that it was time to mount
my litter; my room was full of people, all of whom begged me
not to start because it had rained so much during the last few
days, since yesterday continually, and at this very moment.
more violently than ever. I resisted sturdily all this persuasion,
-
## p. 13162 (#606) ##########################################
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MADAME DE SÉVIGNÉ
In
out of regard to the resolution I had taken, and because of all
that I wrote to you yesterday by the post, assuring you that I
should arrive on Thursday. Suddenly M. de Grignan appeared
in his dressing-gown and spoke seriously to me of the fool-
hardiness of my enterprise: saying that my muleteer could never
follow my litter, that my mules would fall into the ditches, that
my people would be too drenched to help me;- so that in a
moment I changed my mind, and yielded completely to these
wise remonstrances. Therefore, my child, boxes are being un-
loaded, mules unharnessed, lackeys and maids are drying their
clothes, after having merely crossed the court-yard, and I am
sending you a messenger,-knowing your goodness and your
anxiety, and wishing also to quiet my own uneasiness,- because
I am alarmed about your health; and this man will either return
and bring me news of you, or will meet me on the road.
a word, my dear child, he will arrive at Grignan on Thursday
instead of me; and I shall start whenever it pleases the heav-
ens and M. de Grignan. The latter governs me with good inten-
tions, and understands all the reasons which make me desire
so passionately to be at Grignan. If M. de La Garde could be
ignorant of all this, I should be glad; for he will exult in the
pleasure of having foretold the very embarrassment in which I
am placed. But let him beware of the vainglory which may
accompany the gift of prophecy on which he piques himself.
Finally, my child, here I am! don't expect me at all. I shall
surprise you, and take no risks, for fear of troubling you and
also myself. Adieu, my dearest and loveliest. I assure you
that I am greatly afflicted to be kept a prisoner at Lambesc; but
how could one foresee such rains as have not been known in
this country for a hundred years?
VI
MONTELIMART, Thursday, October 5th, 1673.
TH
HIS is a terrible day, my dear child. I confess to you I can
bear no more. I have left you in a state which increases
my grief. I think of all the steps you are taking away
from me, and those I take away from you, and how impossible
that walking in this manner we shall ever meet again. My heart
is at rest when it is near you; that is its natural state, and the
## p. 13163 (#607) ##########################################
MADAME DE SÉVIGNÉ
13163
only one which can give it peace. What happened this morning
gave me keen sorrow, and a pang of which your philosophy can
divine the reasons. I have felt and shall long feel them. My
heart and my imagination are filled with you. I cannot think
of you without weeping, and of you I am always thinking: so
that my present state is unendurable; as it is so extreme, I hope
its violence may not last. I am seeking for you everywhere,
and I find that all things are wanting since I have not you. My
eyes, which for fourteen months have gazed upon you, find you
no more. The happy time that is past makes the present un-
happy—at least until I am a little accustomed to it; but I shall
never be so wonted to it as not to wish ardently to see and
embrace you again. I cannot expect more of the future than of
the past. I know what your absence has made me suffer. I
am henceforth still more to be pitied, because I have made the
habit of seeing you necessary to me. It seems to me that I did
not embrace you enough when we parted: why should I have
refrained? I have never told you often enough what happiness
your tenderness gives me. I have never enough commended you
to M. de Grignan, nor thanked him enough for all his courtesy
and friendship towards me. In a word, I only live for you, my
child. God give me the grace some day to love him as I love
you. Adieu, my beloved child: love me always. Alas! we must
be content now with letters.
VII
PARIS, Friday, December 8th, 1673.
I
MUST begin, my dear child, with the death of the Comte de
Guiche, which is the interest of the day. The poor boy died
of disease and weakness, in M. de Turenne's army; the news
was received on Tuesday morning. Father Bourdaloue announced
it to the Maréchal de Gramont, who suspected it, knowing the
desperate condition of his son. He sent every one out of his
he was in a small apartment which he has in the Capu-
chin monastery. When he was alone with the Father, he threw
himself on his neck, saying that he well knew what he had
to tell him; that it was his death-blow; that he would receive
it as from the hand of God; that he had lost the only, sole, and
true object of his tenderness and of his natural affection; that
room
―
## p. 13164 (#608) ##########################################
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MADAME DE SÉVIGNÉ
he had never experienced real happiness or violent grief save
through this son, who had admirable qualities. He threw him-
self upon the bed, unable to say more, but not weeping; for in
that condition one cannot weep. The Father wept, and had as
yet said nothing; but at last he spoke of God, as you know he
can speak. They were six hours together; and then the Father,
to have him complete his sacrifice, led him to the church of
these good Capuchins, where vigils were being said for this dear
son. The Maréchal entered tottering, trembling, rather carried
and pushed than on his own limbs, his face no longer recogniza-
ble. M. le Duc saw him in this state, and wept in telling us
about it at Madame de La Fayette's house.
The poor Maréchal at last returned to his little room; he is
like a condemned man; the King has written to him; no one
sees him. Madame de Monaco is entirely inconsolable; as is also
Madame de Louvigny, but it is because she is not at all afflicted.
Do you not admire the happiness of the latter? Madame La
Chancelière is transported with joy. The Comtesse de Guiche
behaves very well. She weeps when told of the kind words and
the excuses uttered by her husband when dying.
She says:
"He was lovable; I should have loved him passionately, if he
could have loved me a little. I have endured his contempt with
regret; his death touches my heart and awakens my pity.
was always hoping that his feelings towards me would change. "
This is all true, and not a farce. Madame de Verneuil is genu-
inely touched by it.
The good D'Hacqueville has gone
to Frazé, thirty leagues distant, to announce the tidings to the
Maréchale de Gramont, and to deliver to her a letter from the
poor boy, in which he tries to make an honorable apology for
his past life,-repenting of it and asking pardon publicly. He
begged Vardes to forgive him; and told him many things which
may be useful to him. Finally, he ended the play very well, and
has left a rich and happy widow.
.
·
VERY
MONDAY, DECEMBER 25TH, 1673.
VERY well! very well! Lamentations over the Comte de Guiche!
Alas! my poor child, here we think no longer of him;
not even the Maréchal, who has returned to his occupation
as courtier. As for your princesse [de Monaco], as you cleverly
remark, “After all that she has forgotten, there need be no
anxiety as to the effects of her emotion. " Madame de Louvigny
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MADAME DE SÉVIGNÉ
13165
and her husband are beside themselves with joy. The Comtesse
de Guiche is not disposed to remarry, but a tabouret may tempt
her. There is nobody but the Maréchale who is dying of grief.
VIII
PARIS, Friday, January 5th, 1674.
M.
tain.
DE GRIGNAN is right in saying that Madame de Thiange
no longer wears rouge or low dresses. You would hardly
recognize her in this disguise, but nothing is more cer-
She is often with Madame de Longueville, and quite on
the higher plane of devotion. She is always very good company,
and not at all a recluse. The other day I was near her at din-
ner: a servant handed her a large glass of wine; she said to me,
"Madame, this man does not know that I am religious," — which
made us all laugh. She speaks very naturally of her good inten-
tions, and of her change of mind; takes care of what she says of
her neighbor, and when some unkind word escapes her, she stops
short, and cries out against her evil habit. As for me, I find her
more amiable than ever. People are willing to wager that the
Princesse d'Harcourt will not be dévote a year from now,—hav-
ing been made lady of the palace,- and that she will use rouge
again; for rouge is the law and the prophets,— Christianity itself
turns upon rouge.
As for the Duchesse d'Aumont, her fad is to
bury the dead: it is said that on the frontier, the Duchesse de
Charost killed people for her with her badly compounded rem-
edies, and that the other promptly buried them. The Marquise
d'Auxelles is very amusing in relating all that, but La Marans
is better still. I met Madame de Schomberg, who told me very
seriously that she was a dévote of the first rank, both as regards
retreats and penitence: going no longer into society, and even
declining religious amusements. This is what is called "worship-
ing God in spirit and in truth," with the simplicity of the Early
Church.
The ladies of the palace are under strict discipline. the King
has had an explanation with them, and desires that the Queen
should always have them in attendance. Madame de Richelieu,
although she no longer waits at table, is always present at the
Queen's dinner, with four ladies who serve in turn. The Com-
tesse d'Ayen, the sixth, is in dread of this office, and of not going
## p. 13166 (#610) ##########################################
13166
MADAME DE SÉVIGNÉ
•
every day to vespers, to the sermon, or to salut. Indeed, nothing
in this world is so saintly.
so saintly. As to the Marquise de Castelnau,
she is fair, fresh, and consoled. L'Eclair, people say, has only
changed apartments, at which the first floor is ill pleased. Ma-
dame de Louvigny does not seem sufficiently pleased with her
good fortune. She cannot be pardoned for not loving her husband
as much as she did at first,-which is certainly the first occasion
on which the public has been scandalized at such a fault. Madame
de Brissac is lovely, and dwells in the shadow of the late Prin-
cesse de Conti. Her affairs with her father are in arbitration;
and poor M. d'Arnusson says he has never seen a woman so
honest and so frank. Madame de Cresqueu is very much as you
have seen her. She has had made a skirt of black velvet, with
heavy embroidery of gold and silver, and a mantle of flame-
colored tissue, with gold and silver. This costume cost enor-
mous sums: but although she was really resplendent, people
thought her dressed like an actress; and she was so unmercifully
laughed at that she did not dare to wear it again.
La Manierosa is somewhat chagrined at not being lady of the
palace. Madame de Dura, who does not wish the honor, ridicules
her. La Troche is, as you have known her, passionately devoted
to your interests. The ladies of the palace have been slandered
in a way that made me laugh. I said, "Let us revenge our-
selves by abusing them. " Guilleragues said yesterday that Pelis-
son abused the privilege which men possess of being ugly.
## p. 13166 (#611) ##########################################
1
1
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Good FREND Toe less SAKE FOR BEARE
TO DICC HE DVST ENCLOASED HEARE
BLESE BE MAN SIRES THES STONES
AND EVRST BE HEY MOVES MY BONES
TOMB OF SHAKESPEARE
HOLY TRINITY CHURCH
STRATFORD-ON-AVON
48
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## p. 13166 (#613) ##########################################
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## p. 13167 (#615) ##########################################
13167
-
SHAKESPEARE
BY EDWARD DOWDEN
F AN Academy of Immortals chosen from all ages could be
formed, there is no doubt that a plébiscite of the English-
speaking peoples would send Shakespeare as their chief rep-
resentative to that august assembly. He alone could speak on their
behalf of life and its joys in the presence of Homer, of death and its
mysteries in Dante's presence; he alone could respond to the wis-
dom of Goethe with a broader and a sunnier wisdom; he alone could
match the laughter of Molière with a laughter as human and more
divine. There is a grace in literature which corresponds to the
theological grace of charity: he who loses his life in his vision of
the world shall save it; he who does not lamor, or assert himself,
or thrust forward his individuality, yet is forever operating over the
entire field of nature like light,-illuminating, interpreting, kindling,
fructifying, he it is who while remaining unknown is of all men.
best known. We are familiar with the thews and bulk of Shake-
speare's great contemporary Ben Jonson; we stand in his shadow
and are oppressed by his magnitude; we know him as a huge and
impressive, if somewhat ungainly, object. Shakespeare disappears
from view, because he plays around us like the intangible air and
sunshine, and has entered into us and become a portion of our own
life.
He came at a fortunate time, when it was possible to view the
world in a liberal spirit, free from the harshness of the ascetic and
the narrowness of the sectary. A mediæval Shakespeare might have
found that seriousness implied severity, or that mirth meant revolt
and mockery; he might have been forced to regard the mundane
and the supermundane as hostile powers; he might have staggered
under a burden of theology, or have thrown it off and become mili-
tant and aggressive in his vindication of the natural man. Had he
lived when Milton lived, he could hardly have stood neutral between
two parties which divided the people of England: yet transformed to
a political combatant, Shakespeare must have given to party some-
thing that was meant for mankind; the deep human problems which
interest him might have been replaced or obscured by temporary
questions urgent for the moment, by theories of government, of pop-
ular rights, of ecclesiastical organization, of ceremony and ordinance,
of Divine decrees, free-will, foreknowledge absolute, as formulated in
dogma. Born in the eighteenth century, Shakespeare would have
## p. 13168 (#616) ##########################################
13168
SHAKESPEARE
breathed with difficulty: for the higher enthusiasm of poetry, the
age of Addison was like an exhausted receiver; the nobler wisdom
of Elizabethan days had cooled and contracted into good sense. Even
as a contemporary of Byron and of Wordsworth he would have been
at a disadvantage: the poetry of social movement was turbid with
passion or doctrinaire in its theories of revolution; serenity was
attainable, as Wordsworth proved, but it was to be attained rather
through the spirit of contemplation than by dealing with the insur-
gent forces of modern life.
In the age of Bacon and Spenser and Shakespeare, three great
streams, afterwards to be parted, had united to form a broad and
exultant flood. The new ideals of the Renaissance, the new sense
of the worth of life on earth, the new delight in beauty, had been
deepened and enriched by the seriousness of the Reformation; the
sense of national power, the pride of country,-suddenly enhanced
by the overthrow of the naval might of Papal Spain,- had coalesced
with these. For the imagination, the glories of Italy and of ancient
Greece and Rome; for the conscience, the words of Hebrew prophets
and singers and Christian teachers; for the heart,
"This royal throne of kings, this sceptred isle,
This other Eden, demi-Paradise,
This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England. "
During one brief period, Englishmen discovered that gravity might
be gay and gayety might be serious, while both gayety and grav-
ity were supported by an energy of will which enabled them to do
great things; they could be stern without moroseness, and could
laugh aloud because such laughter was a part of strength, and of
their strenuous acceptance of the world as good.
It was
a fortunate moment for a dramatic artist.
The epic
breadth and the moral purport of the medieval religious drama had
not been lost; but they had submitted to the new and happier forms
of Renaissance literature. Italian and classical models had served
to make tragedy and comedy shapely, organic, vertebrate. But the
pedantry of scholars had not suppressed the instincts of popular
pleasure. The spectators of the theatre included both a cultured
minority, and the ruder mass that desired strong appeals to pity and
terror, and a frank invitation to mirth. The court favored but did
not dominate the theatre; the stage remained essentially popular, but
it showed how a common pleasure could be ennobled and refined.
Shakespeare's predecessors had prepared the way for him in tragedy,
comedy, and chronicle play. He received from Marlowe that majestic
instrument of poetic expression, blank verse; it was his triumph
to discover in time how to extend the keyboard, and to touch its
various stops. The years from 1590 to 1610 were the high midsum-
mer of the English drama, when the fruitage was maturing from its
## p. 13169 (#617) ##########################################
SHAKESPEARE
13169
early crudities, and was still untouched by that overripeness which
streaked and spotted the later Jacobean and Caroline drama, and
gave it the sick-sweet odor of decay. Nor as yet, in the struggle
for existence between literary species, had the novel entered into com-
petition with the drama. When it did so, in the eighteenth century,
the high tragedy of the age was Richardson's 'Pamela,' the most
genial comedy was Fielding's 'Tom Jones. '
These advantages Shakespeare gained from his environment and
from the moment when he appeared; all else that contributed to his
work may be assigned to his own genius. If he became the most
learned man of his generation, the most learned man of all genera-
tions, in one department,— the lore of the passions,-it was not
because he was born in this age or in that. It was because he
possessed the genius of discovery; he directed his prow across the
voyageable ocean of the human heart, and from a floating weed he
could infer America. Each man contains all humanity in his own
breast; the microcosm exhibits the macrocosm in little: but most
men cherish what is peculiar to themselves, what is individual; and
if they express themselves in song they are apt to tell of their
private joys and griefs: we capture from them what is theirs, and
appropriate it to our own uses. Shakespeare used his private expe-
rience as a chink through which he saw the world. Did he feel a
momentary pang of jealous affection? There was the opening, as of
an eyelet-hole, through which to discover the vast spasms of Othello's
anguish. An experience no larger than a mustard-seed, a sense for
all the obscure affinities of things, imagination with its dilating and
its divining powers-these were the sources of 'Hamlet' and 'King
Lear,' rather than Saxo Grammaticus and Holinshed. As Goethe
in a leaf could recognize the type of plant life and start upon his
research into all its metamorphoses, so Shakespeare, discovering in
what seems insignificant the type of a passion, could trace it through
its varieties by the divining power of the imagination. He observed
himself and he observed the world, and each served to interpret
the other. Not that which bulked largest in his external life was
necessarily of most significance for his art: that which contained a
vital germ, to be fostered by his imagination, was of capital import-
ance. The attempts that have been made to connect the creations
of such a man of genius as Shakespeare with incidents in his career
are often labor spent in vain: what looks considerable from an ex-
ternal point of view may have been an aggregation of insignificant
accidents-mere dross of life; the true career was invisible: some
momentary joy or pain, of which we shall never hear, may have
involved, as in a seed, the blossoms and the fruit of art. We all con-
tain within us the ova of a spiritual population,- philosophers, saints,
heroes, lovers, humorists, fantasticoes, traitors, cowards, assassins, - else
XXII-824
## p. 13170 (#618) ##########################################
13170
SHAKESPEARE
Shakespeare were unintelligible to us: but with us the germs remain
mere protoplasm; with the man of genius they may mature to a
Hamlet, a Jaques, a Romeo, a Rosalind, an Imogen, a Cleopatra.
Shakespeare's outward life-of which we know more than of the
life of any other Elizabethan dramatist, except perhaps Ben Jonson-
shows him to us as passionate and as eminently prudent. His mar-
riage at nineteen with a woman probably uneducated, several years
his elder and of inferior social position, was rash; he fled from Strat-
ford under a cloud, to avoid the consequences of a youthful escapade;
if we accept as historical the story outlined in the 'Sonnets,' we
must believe that he was capable of extravagant devotion to a dis-
loyal friend, and was for a time, against his better judgment, the
victim of feminine wiles and of his own intemperate heart. But
Shakespeare returned to Stratford, wealthy, honored, and beloved; he
did not wreck his life, like some of his fellow-dramatists, on the rocks
or quicksands of London; he never gave offense to the authorities as
Jonson and others did, by indiscreet references to public persons or
events; he had no part in the quarrels of authors; he neither lavished
praises on his contemporaries nor stung them with epigram and sat-
ire; he neither bribed nor bullied; his amiability and high breeding
earned him the epithet "gentle "; he desired the ease and freedom
which worldly substance brings, and by pursuing his own way with
steadfastness and good sense he attained his object. Below his bust
in Stratford Church he is characterized as "in judgment a Nestor, in
genius a Socrates. "
He lived in two worlds, -the extended world of the imagination,
and the contracted world of his individual material life. Which was
the more real? Perhaps the positive, material life was the dream:
"We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep. "
But he would dream the dream well. And is it after all a dream?
Was it not something to possess his soul in sanity, to dismiss his
airy spirits, to break his magic staff, and moving amid his fellow-
townsmen, by the side of his wife and daughters, to be only a man?
Only a man, but enjoying within himself the light and wisdom won
through his great adventures of the imagination. His book of magic,
not sunk like Prospero's below the waves deeper than ever plummet
sounded, was for all the world. His personal life was for himself
and those whom he loved. And even for his art, was it not well
that he should be attentive to the lesser things of worldly wisdom?
He had a vast burden of thoughts and visions to carry, and he must
needs carry it steadily. Were it better if he had confused his art
with the feverish and mean anxieties that attend on reckless living?
## p. 13171 (#619) ##########################################
SHAKESPEARE
13171
No: let the two lives aid each other; let his life as an imaginative
creator effect a secondary and subordinate purpose in rendering his
material life secure and substantial; let his life in the positive world
be such as to set free, rather than pull down or embarrass, his life
of the imagination. He might play the two games together, and
play both with success.
What moved within the great brain and the great heart of the
prosperous Stratford gentleman,- more deep and wise perhaps than
all his tragedies and comedies, - we shall never know: it was a mat-
ter for himself, and he kept his secret with the taciturnity of Nature.
But we can follow his adventures in the realms of fancy. In these
also there was a wise economy of power: he did not dash into deep
water, as has often been the way with youthful poets, before he had
learnt to swim. At first he was content to take lessons in his craft:
he put forth no ambitious manifestoes; he did not pose as a leader
of revolt, or belabor the public, in Ben Jonson's fashion, with a doc-
trine of dramatic reform; he did not read lessons in ethics to his
age: he began by trying to please, he ended by trying to please in a
nobler manner; he taught a generation which had laughed at 'The
Comedy of Errors' how to smile with Prospero in The Tempest';
he taught a generation which had snuffed up the reek of blood from
'Titus Andronicus' how, with pity lost in beautiful pride and sense
of victory, to gaze upon the dead body of Cordelia. The great work
of his life was to show how pleasure can be converted into a noble
exercise of the soul; how mirth can be enriched by wisdom; how the
primitive brute cry of pain may be transformed into a pure voice
bearing a part in the majestic symphony of the world's mourners;
how the terror that arises at the sight of violated law may be puri-
fied from gross alarms, and appear as one of the dread pillars of
order which sustain the fabric of God's world.
The English people need, perhaps in a special degree, wise school-
ing in the pleasures. They are not lacking in seriousness; but they
are prone to leave their pleasures pawing in the mire like Milton's
half-created beasts, or to avert their eyes sourly and walk past in
self-complacent respectability. Even Emerson, who uttered admira-
ble sentences in his discourse on Shakespeare as the representative
poet, laments the fact that he employed his lofty powers so meanly,
"leading an obscure and profane life, using his genius for the public
amusement; " "he converted the elements that waited on his com-
mand into entertainments; he was master of the revels to mankind. "
But what if Shakespeare proved that the revels may be sacred mys-
teries? The service of joy in such art as his, at its highest, is
something more than amusement. In Sandro Botticelli's 'Nativity'
the angels circle above the manger in the gracefulest of dances; but
are they only amusing themselves? In the old Italian pictures of
## p. 13172 (#620) ##########################################
13172
SHAKESPEARE
Paradise, the celestial company are not engaged in attending to a ser-
mon on theology or a lecture on ethics: they are better employed in
touching their harps or breathing through loud uplifted trumpets.
Shakespeare's highest work does not resemble this "undisturbed song
of pure concent" sung before "the sapphire-colored throne"; but it
expresses the music of the earth- with adagio and allegro, discords
resolved into harmony, imperious suspensions, rain of laughters, rain
of tears more adequately than the work of any other master. Does
it lessen his service to the world that such work is also a beautiful
play?
-
Shakespeare's attainment was not snatched in haste: it was won
through long and strenuous endeavor. In his early comedies he
moves brightly over the surface of life. 'Love's Labour's Lost' is
a young man's good-humored and confident satire of the follies and
affectations of the day. How are we to learn our lesson, he asks, in
the high-school of the world? Not through the pedantries of erudi-
tion, not through the fantastical subtleties of romance, not through
a high-flying philosophy which disdains the plain old lore of mother
Earth: such methods will only make ingenious fools. There is a
better way, simple in appearance, yet really needing all our strength
and skill: to accept the teaching of life itself in a manly spirit, to let
both head and heart task themselves in studying the book of nature;
to laugh and love; but also to temper the laughter and joy of youth
by acquaintance with the sorrows of the world. Biron, the courageous
jester, with seriousness beneath his mirth, is dismissed for a twelve-
month to try how mocks and flouts will sound among the speechless
sick and groaning wretches of a hospital. He will laugh at the end
of his period of probation, but it will be with a wiser, a braver, and
a kindlier laughter. He will love the better for a year's instruction
in the lessons of pain. "This side is Hiems, Winter, this Ver, the
Spring": the song of the cuckoo and the song of the owl are alike
songs of the earth; let us cheerfully attend to both.
Such was Shakespeare's starting-point. He was a scholar, in love
with the book of life, and in time he would understand its meaning.
But as he turned the pages he found obscure and awful things, and
it may be that for a while his vision grew perplexed. When 'Meas-
ure for Measure' was written, it seems as if he moved in some valley
of the shadow of sin and death, amid encompassing gloom, and could
sustain his courage only by the presence of strength, severe and vir-
ginal but not joyous, as seen in the person of Isabella. In Troilus
and Cressida,' - the comedy of disillusion,- he gazes on life with a
bitter irony, finding young love a fraud, and pretentious heroes
only vulgar egoists beneath their glittering armor: if there is virtue
anywhere, it must be sought in such worldly wisdom as that of Ulys-
ses; the penetration and insight of a Machiavelli is indeed a kind
## p. 13173 (#621) ##########################################
SHAKESPEARE
13173
of virtue amid sham splendors, mercenary wiles, and the deceits of
sensual passion.
(
But Shakespeare could not remain content with the poor philoso-
phy of disenchantment.
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. I'll give you three
guesses. Do you give it up? Well, then, I must tell you: M. de
Lauzun is to marry on Sunday, at the Louvre,- can you imagine
whom? I'll give you three guesses, I'll give you ten, I'll give
you a hundred! I know Madame de Coulanges will say, “That
is not difficult to imagine. It is Mademoiselle de La Vallière. "
Not at all, madame. "Is it then Mademoiselle de Retz? " By
no means; you are far astray. "Ah, yes; we are stupid: it must
be Mademoiselle Colbert! " you say. Still less. "It certainly
is then Mademoiselle de Créqui? " You are not right yet. I
shall have to tell you. He is to marry-on Sunday at the
Louvre, by permission of the King - Mademoiselle - Mademoi-
selle de Mademoiselle - now tell me her name! On my word—
on my sacred word-on my word of honor - MADEMOISELLE!
LA GRANDE MADEMOISELLE; Mademoiselle the daughter of the late
Monsieur; Mademoiselle the granddaughter of Henry the Fourth;
Mademoiselle d'Eu; Mademoiselle de Dombes; Mademoiselle de
Montpensier; Mademoiselle d'Orleans; Mademoiselle, first cousin
to the King; Mademoiselle, destined to a throne; Mademoiselle,
the only match in France who was worthy of Monsieur"! This
is a pretty subject for reflection! If you exclaim, if you are
beside yourself, if you say I am telling a lie, that it is all false,
that I am making fun of you, that it is a joke and rather a stu-
pid one too, we shall agree that you are right: we have said
the same thing. Adieu: the letters which go by this post will
show you whether we are telling the truth or not.
-
―
1 From seeing a royal lady marry below her rank as they had done.
2 The Duke of Lauzun.
3
Gaston, Duke of Orleans, uncle to Louis XIV.
Philippe, Duke of Orleans (brother of Louis XIV. ), whom she had refused.
## p. 13157 (#601) ##########################################
MADAME DE SÉVIGNÉ
13157
TO M. DE COULANGES
PARIS, Friday, December 19th, 1670.
WHAT
HAT happened yesterday evening at the Tuileries is what
one might call a fall from the clouds-but I must begin
at the beginning. You heard of the joy, of the trans-
ports, of the bliss, of the princess and her fortunate lover. It
was on Monday that the affair was announced as I wrote you.
Tuesday passed in talking-in wondering-in complimenting.
On Wednesday Mademoiselle made a donation to M. de Lauzun,
with the object of endowing him with the titles, names, and
necessary decorations, that they might be enumerated in the mar-
riage contract, which was made the same day. She gave him,
in preparation for something better, four duchies: the first was
the county of Eu, which is the first peerage in France; the
duchy of Montpensier, whose title he bore through that day; the
duchy of Saint Fargeau; the duchy of Châtellerault, the whole
valued at twenty-two millions. The contract was finally prepared,
in which he took the name of Montpensier. On Thursday morn-
ing-which was yesterday- Mademoiselle hoped that the King
would sign the contract, as he had agreed to do; but about seven
o'clock in the evening, the Queen, Monsieur, and some busy-
bodies convinced the King that this affair would injure his repu-
tation. Accordingly, having summoned Mademoiselle and M. de
Lauzun, his Majesty announced to them, before M. le Prince,
that he forbade them absolutely to think of the marriage. M. de
Lauzun received this order with all the respect and submission,
all the firmness and all the despair, which became so great a fall.
But Mademoiselle - characteristically-burst into tears, shrieks,
and groans, and bitter complaints. She kept her bed the whole
day, taking nothing but bouillons.
TO HER DAUGHTER, MADAME DE GRIGNAN
I
LIVRY, Holy Wednesday, March 25th, 1671.
HAVE been here three hours, my dear child. I left Paris with
the Abbé, Hélène, Hébert, and Marphise,* with the intention
of retiring from the world and its tumult until Thursday
evening. I am supposed to be in retreat. I am making a kind.
I
* Her pet dog.
## p. 13158 (#602) ##########################################
13158
MADAME DE SÉVIGNÉ
of little "La Trappe," where I may pray to God and indulge in
a thousand pious reflections. I have resolved to fast here, for
various reasons: to make up in walking for all the time that I
have been in my room; and chiefly, to be bored for the love of
God.
But what I shall do far better than all these, is to think
of you, my child. I have not ceased to do so since I arrived;
and not being able to restrain all my feelings, I have seated
myself to write to you, at the end of this little shady walk which
you love, upon a mossy bank where I have so often seen you
lying. But, mon Dieu! where have I not seen you here! and
how these memories grieve my heart! There is no place, no
spot, either in the house or in the church, in the country or
in the garden,- where I have not seen you. Everything brings
some memory to mind; and whatever it may be, it makes my heart.
ache. I see you; you are present to me. I think of everything
and think again. My brain and my heart grow confused. But
in vain I turn-in vain I seek: that dear child whom I passion-
ately love is two hundred leagues distant from me. I have her
no more; and then I weep, and cannot cease. My love, that is
weakness; but as for me, I do not know how to be strong against
a feeling so powerful and so natural.
―――
I cannot tell in what frame of mind you will be when
reading this letter: perhaps chance may bring it to you in-
opportunely, and it may not be read in the spirit in which it
is written, but for that there is no remedy. To write it, at
least, consoles me now; that is all I ask of it at present, for
the state into which this place has thrown me is inconceivable.
Do not speak of my weaknesses; but you must love and respect
my tears, since they proceed from a heart which is wholly yours.
―――――――――
II
FRIDAY EVENING, April 24th, 1671.
I
MEANT to tell you that the King arrived at Chantilly last
evening. He hunted the stag by moonlight; the lanterns
were very brilliant; and altogether the evening, the supper,
the play, - all went off marvelously well. The weather to-day
makes us anticipate a worthy close to such a beginning. But I
have just heard something as I came here from which I cannot
recover, and which makes me forget what I was about to write
you. Vatel - the great Vatel — maître d'hotel of M. Fouquet, and
who has recently been in the service of M. le Prince—the man
## p. 13159 (#603) ##########################################
MADAME DE SÉVIGNÉ
13159
above all others in ability, whose good head was capable of
carrying the affairs of a State - this man, such as I knew him,
finding that at eight o'clock the fish had not arrived, and unable
to sustain the humiliation which he foresaw, stabbed himself.
You can imagine the horrible disorder into which such a dread-
ful accident threw the fête.
PARIS, Sunday, April 26th, 1671.
T
HIS letter will not go before Wednesday; but this is not a
letter, only an account of what Moreuil has just told me
for your benefit, concerning Vatel. I wrote you on Friday
that he had stabbed himself: here is the story in detail.
―――――
The King arrived on Thursday evening; the promenade, the
collation, served on a lawn carpeted with jonquils,- all was
perfect. At supper there were a few tables where the roast was
wanting, on account of some guests whose arrival had not been
expected. This mortified Vatel, who said several times, "My
honor is gone: I can never survive this shame. " He also said to
Gourville, "My head swims. I have not slept for twelve nights.
Help me give the orders. " Gourville encouraged him as well as
he could. The roast had not been wanting at the King's table;
but he could not forget that there was none at the twenty-fifth.
Gourville told M. le Prince, who went immediately to Vatel's
room, and said to him, "Vatel, everything is going on well.
Nothing could be finer than the King's supper. " He replied,
"My lord, your goodness overwhelms me. I know that the roast
was missing at two tables. " "Not at all," said M. le Prince.
"Don't disturb yourself: everything is going on well. " Midnight
came; the fireworks, which cost sixteen thousand francs, did not
succeed, on account of the fog. At four o'clock in the morning,
Vatel, going through the château, found every one asleep. He
met a young steward, who had brought only two hampers of
fish: he asked, "Is that all? "-"Yes, sir. " The lad did not know
that Vatel had sent to all the seaports. Vatel waited some time;
the other purveyors did not arrive: his brain reeled; he believed
no more fish could be had: and finding Gourville, he said, "My
dear sir, I shall never survive this disgrace. " Gourville ridiculed
him. Vatel went up to his chamber, placed his sword against
the door, and stabbed himself to the heart; but only on the
third attempt - for he gave himself two thrusts which were not
## p. 13160 (#604) ##########################################
13160
MADAME DE SÉVIGNÉ
mortal did he fall dead.
Meanwhile the fish arrived from
every quarter; and seeking for Vatel to give it out, they went
to his room, knocked, burst in the door, and found him drowned
in his blood. They ran to M. le Prince, who was in despair.
M. le Duc wept; his father told the King in sorrow. It was said
that this occurred because Vatel had a high sense of honor. He
was praised; and his courage both praised and blamed. The
King said that he had deferred going to Chantilly for five years
because he knew how much trouble his visit would cause. He
told M. le Prince that he ought only to have two tables, and not
provide for everybody. He vowed that he would no longer
permit M. le Prince to do so; but it was too late for poor Vatel.
Gourville, however, tried to make up for his loss, in which
he succeeded. They all dined very well: had a collation and a
supper-walked-played-hunted. Everything was perfumed
with jonquils; all was enchantment.
-
III
LES ROCHERS, September 30th, 1671.
Α
S FOR La Mousse, he catechizes on holidays and Sundays; he
is determined to go to Paradise. I tell him it is only for
curiosity, that he may discover once for all whether the sun
is a mass of dust violently agitated, or a globe of fire. The other
day he was catechizing some little children; and after a few ques-
tions they got everything so mixed up that when he asked who
the Virgin was, they answered one after another, "The creator
of heaven and earth. " He was not convinced by the children;
but finding that the men, the women, and even the old people,
said the same thing, he was persuaded of the fact, and gave in
to the general opinion. At last he knew no longer what he was
about; and if I had not appeared on the scene, he would never
have recovered himself. This novel opinion would have created
quite another disturbance from the motion of the little atoms.
## p. 13161 (#605) ##########################################
MADAME DE SÉVIGNÉ
13161
IV
-
You
PARIS, Wednesday, March 16th, 1672.
ou ask me, my dear child, if I am as much in love with life
as ever. I confess it has many troubles; but I am still
more disinclined to die. Indeed, I am so unhappy because
everything must end in death, that I should ask nothing better
than to turn back if it were possible. I am involved in a per-
plexing engagement: entering upon life without my own con-
sent, I must at last leave it. The thought overwhelms me. How
shall I go? Where? By what gate? When will it be? In
what manner? Shall I suffer a thousand thousand griefs, and
die despairing? Shall I be delirious? Shall I perish by an acci-
dent? How shall I stand before God? What shall I have to
offer him? Will fear, will necessity, turn my heart to him?
Shall I feel no emotion save fear? What can I hope? Am I
worthy of Paradise? Am I fit for hell? What an alternative!
What a perplexity! Nothing is so foolish as to be uncertain
about one's salvation: but then, nothing is so natural; and the
careless life which I lead is the easiest thing in the world to
comprehend.
I am overpowered by these thoughts; and death appears to
me so horrible, that I hate life rather because it leads thither,
than for the thorns with which it is sown. You will say that
then I want to live forever. Not at all: but if I had been con-
sulted, I should have preferred to die in my nurse's arms,—it
would have saved me from so many annoyances, and secured
salvation very easily and very certainly. But let us talk of some-
thing else.
V
LAMBESC, Tuesday, December 20th, 1672.
WHE
HEN one reckons without Providence, one must reckon twice.
I was all dressed at eight o'clock; had taken my coffee,
heard mass, made all my adieus; the packs were loaded,
the bells of the mules reminded me that it was time to mount
my litter; my room was full of people, all of whom begged me
not to start because it had rained so much during the last few
days, since yesterday continually, and at this very moment.
more violently than ever. I resisted sturdily all this persuasion,
-
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MADAME DE SÉVIGNÉ
In
out of regard to the resolution I had taken, and because of all
that I wrote to you yesterday by the post, assuring you that I
should arrive on Thursday. Suddenly M. de Grignan appeared
in his dressing-gown and spoke seriously to me of the fool-
hardiness of my enterprise: saying that my muleteer could never
follow my litter, that my mules would fall into the ditches, that
my people would be too drenched to help me;- so that in a
moment I changed my mind, and yielded completely to these
wise remonstrances. Therefore, my child, boxes are being un-
loaded, mules unharnessed, lackeys and maids are drying their
clothes, after having merely crossed the court-yard, and I am
sending you a messenger,-knowing your goodness and your
anxiety, and wishing also to quiet my own uneasiness,- because
I am alarmed about your health; and this man will either return
and bring me news of you, or will meet me on the road.
a word, my dear child, he will arrive at Grignan on Thursday
instead of me; and I shall start whenever it pleases the heav-
ens and M. de Grignan. The latter governs me with good inten-
tions, and understands all the reasons which make me desire
so passionately to be at Grignan. If M. de La Garde could be
ignorant of all this, I should be glad; for he will exult in the
pleasure of having foretold the very embarrassment in which I
am placed. But let him beware of the vainglory which may
accompany the gift of prophecy on which he piques himself.
Finally, my child, here I am! don't expect me at all. I shall
surprise you, and take no risks, for fear of troubling you and
also myself. Adieu, my dearest and loveliest. I assure you
that I am greatly afflicted to be kept a prisoner at Lambesc; but
how could one foresee such rains as have not been known in
this country for a hundred years?
VI
MONTELIMART, Thursday, October 5th, 1673.
TH
HIS is a terrible day, my dear child. I confess to you I can
bear no more. I have left you in a state which increases
my grief. I think of all the steps you are taking away
from me, and those I take away from you, and how impossible
that walking in this manner we shall ever meet again. My heart
is at rest when it is near you; that is its natural state, and the
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MADAME DE SÉVIGNÉ
13163
only one which can give it peace. What happened this morning
gave me keen sorrow, and a pang of which your philosophy can
divine the reasons. I have felt and shall long feel them. My
heart and my imagination are filled with you. I cannot think
of you without weeping, and of you I am always thinking: so
that my present state is unendurable; as it is so extreme, I hope
its violence may not last. I am seeking for you everywhere,
and I find that all things are wanting since I have not you. My
eyes, which for fourteen months have gazed upon you, find you
no more. The happy time that is past makes the present un-
happy—at least until I am a little accustomed to it; but I shall
never be so wonted to it as not to wish ardently to see and
embrace you again. I cannot expect more of the future than of
the past. I know what your absence has made me suffer. I
am henceforth still more to be pitied, because I have made the
habit of seeing you necessary to me. It seems to me that I did
not embrace you enough when we parted: why should I have
refrained? I have never told you often enough what happiness
your tenderness gives me. I have never enough commended you
to M. de Grignan, nor thanked him enough for all his courtesy
and friendship towards me. In a word, I only live for you, my
child. God give me the grace some day to love him as I love
you. Adieu, my beloved child: love me always. Alas! we must
be content now with letters.
VII
PARIS, Friday, December 8th, 1673.
I
MUST begin, my dear child, with the death of the Comte de
Guiche, which is the interest of the day. The poor boy died
of disease and weakness, in M. de Turenne's army; the news
was received on Tuesday morning. Father Bourdaloue announced
it to the Maréchal de Gramont, who suspected it, knowing the
desperate condition of his son. He sent every one out of his
he was in a small apartment which he has in the Capu-
chin monastery. When he was alone with the Father, he threw
himself on his neck, saying that he well knew what he had
to tell him; that it was his death-blow; that he would receive
it as from the hand of God; that he had lost the only, sole, and
true object of his tenderness and of his natural affection; that
room
―
## p. 13164 (#608) ##########################################
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MADAME DE SÉVIGNÉ
he had never experienced real happiness or violent grief save
through this son, who had admirable qualities. He threw him-
self upon the bed, unable to say more, but not weeping; for in
that condition one cannot weep. The Father wept, and had as
yet said nothing; but at last he spoke of God, as you know he
can speak. They were six hours together; and then the Father,
to have him complete his sacrifice, led him to the church of
these good Capuchins, where vigils were being said for this dear
son. The Maréchal entered tottering, trembling, rather carried
and pushed than on his own limbs, his face no longer recogniza-
ble. M. le Duc saw him in this state, and wept in telling us
about it at Madame de La Fayette's house.
The poor Maréchal at last returned to his little room; he is
like a condemned man; the King has written to him; no one
sees him. Madame de Monaco is entirely inconsolable; as is also
Madame de Louvigny, but it is because she is not at all afflicted.
Do you not admire the happiness of the latter? Madame La
Chancelière is transported with joy. The Comtesse de Guiche
behaves very well. She weeps when told of the kind words and
the excuses uttered by her husband when dying.
She says:
"He was lovable; I should have loved him passionately, if he
could have loved me a little. I have endured his contempt with
regret; his death touches my heart and awakens my pity.
was always hoping that his feelings towards me would change. "
This is all true, and not a farce. Madame de Verneuil is genu-
inely touched by it.
The good D'Hacqueville has gone
to Frazé, thirty leagues distant, to announce the tidings to the
Maréchale de Gramont, and to deliver to her a letter from the
poor boy, in which he tries to make an honorable apology for
his past life,-repenting of it and asking pardon publicly. He
begged Vardes to forgive him; and told him many things which
may be useful to him. Finally, he ended the play very well, and
has left a rich and happy widow.
.
·
VERY
MONDAY, DECEMBER 25TH, 1673.
VERY well! very well! Lamentations over the Comte de Guiche!
Alas! my poor child, here we think no longer of him;
not even the Maréchal, who has returned to his occupation
as courtier. As for your princesse [de Monaco], as you cleverly
remark, “After all that she has forgotten, there need be no
anxiety as to the effects of her emotion. " Madame de Louvigny
## p. 13165 (#609) ##########################################
MADAME DE SÉVIGNÉ
13165
and her husband are beside themselves with joy. The Comtesse
de Guiche is not disposed to remarry, but a tabouret may tempt
her. There is nobody but the Maréchale who is dying of grief.
VIII
PARIS, Friday, January 5th, 1674.
M.
tain.
DE GRIGNAN is right in saying that Madame de Thiange
no longer wears rouge or low dresses. You would hardly
recognize her in this disguise, but nothing is more cer-
She is often with Madame de Longueville, and quite on
the higher plane of devotion. She is always very good company,
and not at all a recluse. The other day I was near her at din-
ner: a servant handed her a large glass of wine; she said to me,
"Madame, this man does not know that I am religious," — which
made us all laugh. She speaks very naturally of her good inten-
tions, and of her change of mind; takes care of what she says of
her neighbor, and when some unkind word escapes her, she stops
short, and cries out against her evil habit. As for me, I find her
more amiable than ever. People are willing to wager that the
Princesse d'Harcourt will not be dévote a year from now,—hav-
ing been made lady of the palace,- and that she will use rouge
again; for rouge is the law and the prophets,— Christianity itself
turns upon rouge.
As for the Duchesse d'Aumont, her fad is to
bury the dead: it is said that on the frontier, the Duchesse de
Charost killed people for her with her badly compounded rem-
edies, and that the other promptly buried them. The Marquise
d'Auxelles is very amusing in relating all that, but La Marans
is better still. I met Madame de Schomberg, who told me very
seriously that she was a dévote of the first rank, both as regards
retreats and penitence: going no longer into society, and even
declining religious amusements. This is what is called "worship-
ing God in spirit and in truth," with the simplicity of the Early
Church.
The ladies of the palace are under strict discipline. the King
has had an explanation with them, and desires that the Queen
should always have them in attendance. Madame de Richelieu,
although she no longer waits at table, is always present at the
Queen's dinner, with four ladies who serve in turn. The Com-
tesse d'Ayen, the sixth, is in dread of this office, and of not going
## p. 13166 (#610) ##########################################
13166
MADAME DE SÉVIGNÉ
•
every day to vespers, to the sermon, or to salut. Indeed, nothing
in this world is so saintly.
so saintly. As to the Marquise de Castelnau,
she is fair, fresh, and consoled. L'Eclair, people say, has only
changed apartments, at which the first floor is ill pleased. Ma-
dame de Louvigny does not seem sufficiently pleased with her
good fortune. She cannot be pardoned for not loving her husband
as much as she did at first,-which is certainly the first occasion
on which the public has been scandalized at such a fault. Madame
de Brissac is lovely, and dwells in the shadow of the late Prin-
cesse de Conti. Her affairs with her father are in arbitration;
and poor M. d'Arnusson says he has never seen a woman so
honest and so frank. Madame de Cresqueu is very much as you
have seen her. She has had made a skirt of black velvet, with
heavy embroidery of gold and silver, and a mantle of flame-
colored tissue, with gold and silver. This costume cost enor-
mous sums: but although she was really resplendent, people
thought her dressed like an actress; and she was so unmercifully
laughed at that she did not dare to wear it again.
La Manierosa is somewhat chagrined at not being lady of the
palace. Madame de Dura, who does not wish the honor, ridicules
her. La Troche is, as you have known her, passionately devoted
to your interests. The ladies of the palace have been slandered
in a way that made me laugh. I said, "Let us revenge our-
selves by abusing them. " Guilleragues said yesterday that Pelis-
son abused the privilege which men possess of being ugly.
## p. 13166 (#611) ##########################################
1
1
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Good FREND Toe less SAKE FOR BEARE
TO DICC HE DVST ENCLOASED HEARE
BLESE BE MAN SIRES THES STONES
AND EVRST BE HEY MOVES MY BONES
TOMB OF SHAKESPEARE
HOLY TRINITY CHURCH
STRATFORD-ON-AVON
48
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## p. 13166 (#613) ##########################################
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## p. 13167 (#615) ##########################################
13167
-
SHAKESPEARE
BY EDWARD DOWDEN
F AN Academy of Immortals chosen from all ages could be
formed, there is no doubt that a plébiscite of the English-
speaking peoples would send Shakespeare as their chief rep-
resentative to that august assembly. He alone could speak on their
behalf of life and its joys in the presence of Homer, of death and its
mysteries in Dante's presence; he alone could respond to the wis-
dom of Goethe with a broader and a sunnier wisdom; he alone could
match the laughter of Molière with a laughter as human and more
divine. There is a grace in literature which corresponds to the
theological grace of charity: he who loses his life in his vision of
the world shall save it; he who does not lamor, or assert himself,
or thrust forward his individuality, yet is forever operating over the
entire field of nature like light,-illuminating, interpreting, kindling,
fructifying, he it is who while remaining unknown is of all men.
best known. We are familiar with the thews and bulk of Shake-
speare's great contemporary Ben Jonson; we stand in his shadow
and are oppressed by his magnitude; we know him as a huge and
impressive, if somewhat ungainly, object. Shakespeare disappears
from view, because he plays around us like the intangible air and
sunshine, and has entered into us and become a portion of our own
life.
He came at a fortunate time, when it was possible to view the
world in a liberal spirit, free from the harshness of the ascetic and
the narrowness of the sectary. A mediæval Shakespeare might have
found that seriousness implied severity, or that mirth meant revolt
and mockery; he might have been forced to regard the mundane
and the supermundane as hostile powers; he might have staggered
under a burden of theology, or have thrown it off and become mili-
tant and aggressive in his vindication of the natural man. Had he
lived when Milton lived, he could hardly have stood neutral between
two parties which divided the people of England: yet transformed to
a political combatant, Shakespeare must have given to party some-
thing that was meant for mankind; the deep human problems which
interest him might have been replaced or obscured by temporary
questions urgent for the moment, by theories of government, of pop-
ular rights, of ecclesiastical organization, of ceremony and ordinance,
of Divine decrees, free-will, foreknowledge absolute, as formulated in
dogma. Born in the eighteenth century, Shakespeare would have
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SHAKESPEARE
breathed with difficulty: for the higher enthusiasm of poetry, the
age of Addison was like an exhausted receiver; the nobler wisdom
of Elizabethan days had cooled and contracted into good sense. Even
as a contemporary of Byron and of Wordsworth he would have been
at a disadvantage: the poetry of social movement was turbid with
passion or doctrinaire in its theories of revolution; serenity was
attainable, as Wordsworth proved, but it was to be attained rather
through the spirit of contemplation than by dealing with the insur-
gent forces of modern life.
In the age of Bacon and Spenser and Shakespeare, three great
streams, afterwards to be parted, had united to form a broad and
exultant flood. The new ideals of the Renaissance, the new sense
of the worth of life on earth, the new delight in beauty, had been
deepened and enriched by the seriousness of the Reformation; the
sense of national power, the pride of country,-suddenly enhanced
by the overthrow of the naval might of Papal Spain,- had coalesced
with these. For the imagination, the glories of Italy and of ancient
Greece and Rome; for the conscience, the words of Hebrew prophets
and singers and Christian teachers; for the heart,
"This royal throne of kings, this sceptred isle,
This other Eden, demi-Paradise,
This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England. "
During one brief period, Englishmen discovered that gravity might
be gay and gayety might be serious, while both gayety and grav-
ity were supported by an energy of will which enabled them to do
great things; they could be stern without moroseness, and could
laugh aloud because such laughter was a part of strength, and of
their strenuous acceptance of the world as good.
It was
a fortunate moment for a dramatic artist.
The epic
breadth and the moral purport of the medieval religious drama had
not been lost; but they had submitted to the new and happier forms
of Renaissance literature. Italian and classical models had served
to make tragedy and comedy shapely, organic, vertebrate. But the
pedantry of scholars had not suppressed the instincts of popular
pleasure. The spectators of the theatre included both a cultured
minority, and the ruder mass that desired strong appeals to pity and
terror, and a frank invitation to mirth. The court favored but did
not dominate the theatre; the stage remained essentially popular, but
it showed how a common pleasure could be ennobled and refined.
Shakespeare's predecessors had prepared the way for him in tragedy,
comedy, and chronicle play. He received from Marlowe that majestic
instrument of poetic expression, blank verse; it was his triumph
to discover in time how to extend the keyboard, and to touch its
various stops. The years from 1590 to 1610 were the high midsum-
mer of the English drama, when the fruitage was maturing from its
## p. 13169 (#617) ##########################################
SHAKESPEARE
13169
early crudities, and was still untouched by that overripeness which
streaked and spotted the later Jacobean and Caroline drama, and
gave it the sick-sweet odor of decay. Nor as yet, in the struggle
for existence between literary species, had the novel entered into com-
petition with the drama. When it did so, in the eighteenth century,
the high tragedy of the age was Richardson's 'Pamela,' the most
genial comedy was Fielding's 'Tom Jones. '
These advantages Shakespeare gained from his environment and
from the moment when he appeared; all else that contributed to his
work may be assigned to his own genius. If he became the most
learned man of his generation, the most learned man of all genera-
tions, in one department,— the lore of the passions,-it was not
because he was born in this age or in that. It was because he
possessed the genius of discovery; he directed his prow across the
voyageable ocean of the human heart, and from a floating weed he
could infer America. Each man contains all humanity in his own
breast; the microcosm exhibits the macrocosm in little: but most
men cherish what is peculiar to themselves, what is individual; and
if they express themselves in song they are apt to tell of their
private joys and griefs: we capture from them what is theirs, and
appropriate it to our own uses. Shakespeare used his private expe-
rience as a chink through which he saw the world. Did he feel a
momentary pang of jealous affection? There was the opening, as of
an eyelet-hole, through which to discover the vast spasms of Othello's
anguish. An experience no larger than a mustard-seed, a sense for
all the obscure affinities of things, imagination with its dilating and
its divining powers-these were the sources of 'Hamlet' and 'King
Lear,' rather than Saxo Grammaticus and Holinshed. As Goethe
in a leaf could recognize the type of plant life and start upon his
research into all its metamorphoses, so Shakespeare, discovering in
what seems insignificant the type of a passion, could trace it through
its varieties by the divining power of the imagination. He observed
himself and he observed the world, and each served to interpret
the other. Not that which bulked largest in his external life was
necessarily of most significance for his art: that which contained a
vital germ, to be fostered by his imagination, was of capital import-
ance. The attempts that have been made to connect the creations
of such a man of genius as Shakespeare with incidents in his career
are often labor spent in vain: what looks considerable from an ex-
ternal point of view may have been an aggregation of insignificant
accidents-mere dross of life; the true career was invisible: some
momentary joy or pain, of which we shall never hear, may have
involved, as in a seed, the blossoms and the fruit of art. We all con-
tain within us the ova of a spiritual population,- philosophers, saints,
heroes, lovers, humorists, fantasticoes, traitors, cowards, assassins, - else
XXII-824
## p. 13170 (#618) ##########################################
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SHAKESPEARE
Shakespeare were unintelligible to us: but with us the germs remain
mere protoplasm; with the man of genius they may mature to a
Hamlet, a Jaques, a Romeo, a Rosalind, an Imogen, a Cleopatra.
Shakespeare's outward life-of which we know more than of the
life of any other Elizabethan dramatist, except perhaps Ben Jonson-
shows him to us as passionate and as eminently prudent. His mar-
riage at nineteen with a woman probably uneducated, several years
his elder and of inferior social position, was rash; he fled from Strat-
ford under a cloud, to avoid the consequences of a youthful escapade;
if we accept as historical the story outlined in the 'Sonnets,' we
must believe that he was capable of extravagant devotion to a dis-
loyal friend, and was for a time, against his better judgment, the
victim of feminine wiles and of his own intemperate heart. But
Shakespeare returned to Stratford, wealthy, honored, and beloved; he
did not wreck his life, like some of his fellow-dramatists, on the rocks
or quicksands of London; he never gave offense to the authorities as
Jonson and others did, by indiscreet references to public persons or
events; he had no part in the quarrels of authors; he neither lavished
praises on his contemporaries nor stung them with epigram and sat-
ire; he neither bribed nor bullied; his amiability and high breeding
earned him the epithet "gentle "; he desired the ease and freedom
which worldly substance brings, and by pursuing his own way with
steadfastness and good sense he attained his object. Below his bust
in Stratford Church he is characterized as "in judgment a Nestor, in
genius a Socrates. "
He lived in two worlds, -the extended world of the imagination,
and the contracted world of his individual material life. Which was
the more real? Perhaps the positive, material life was the dream:
"We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep. "
But he would dream the dream well. And is it after all a dream?
Was it not something to possess his soul in sanity, to dismiss his
airy spirits, to break his magic staff, and moving amid his fellow-
townsmen, by the side of his wife and daughters, to be only a man?
Only a man, but enjoying within himself the light and wisdom won
through his great adventures of the imagination. His book of magic,
not sunk like Prospero's below the waves deeper than ever plummet
sounded, was for all the world. His personal life was for himself
and those whom he loved. And even for his art, was it not well
that he should be attentive to the lesser things of worldly wisdom?
He had a vast burden of thoughts and visions to carry, and he must
needs carry it steadily. Were it better if he had confused his art
with the feverish and mean anxieties that attend on reckless living?
## p. 13171 (#619) ##########################################
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13171
No: let the two lives aid each other; let his life as an imaginative
creator effect a secondary and subordinate purpose in rendering his
material life secure and substantial; let his life in the positive world
be such as to set free, rather than pull down or embarrass, his life
of the imagination. He might play the two games together, and
play both with success.
What moved within the great brain and the great heart of the
prosperous Stratford gentleman,- more deep and wise perhaps than
all his tragedies and comedies, - we shall never know: it was a mat-
ter for himself, and he kept his secret with the taciturnity of Nature.
But we can follow his adventures in the realms of fancy. In these
also there was a wise economy of power: he did not dash into deep
water, as has often been the way with youthful poets, before he had
learnt to swim. At first he was content to take lessons in his craft:
he put forth no ambitious manifestoes; he did not pose as a leader
of revolt, or belabor the public, in Ben Jonson's fashion, with a doc-
trine of dramatic reform; he did not read lessons in ethics to his
age: he began by trying to please, he ended by trying to please in a
nobler manner; he taught a generation which had laughed at 'The
Comedy of Errors' how to smile with Prospero in The Tempest';
he taught a generation which had snuffed up the reek of blood from
'Titus Andronicus' how, with pity lost in beautiful pride and sense
of victory, to gaze upon the dead body of Cordelia. The great work
of his life was to show how pleasure can be converted into a noble
exercise of the soul; how mirth can be enriched by wisdom; how the
primitive brute cry of pain may be transformed into a pure voice
bearing a part in the majestic symphony of the world's mourners;
how the terror that arises at the sight of violated law may be puri-
fied from gross alarms, and appear as one of the dread pillars of
order which sustain the fabric of God's world.
The English people need, perhaps in a special degree, wise school-
ing in the pleasures. They are not lacking in seriousness; but they
are prone to leave their pleasures pawing in the mire like Milton's
half-created beasts, or to avert their eyes sourly and walk past in
self-complacent respectability. Even Emerson, who uttered admira-
ble sentences in his discourse on Shakespeare as the representative
poet, laments the fact that he employed his lofty powers so meanly,
"leading an obscure and profane life, using his genius for the public
amusement; " "he converted the elements that waited on his com-
mand into entertainments; he was master of the revels to mankind. "
But what if Shakespeare proved that the revels may be sacred mys-
teries? The service of joy in such art as his, at its highest, is
something more than amusement. In Sandro Botticelli's 'Nativity'
the angels circle above the manger in the gracefulest of dances; but
are they only amusing themselves? In the old Italian pictures of
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SHAKESPEARE
Paradise, the celestial company are not engaged in attending to a ser-
mon on theology or a lecture on ethics: they are better employed in
touching their harps or breathing through loud uplifted trumpets.
Shakespeare's highest work does not resemble this "undisturbed song
of pure concent" sung before "the sapphire-colored throne"; but it
expresses the music of the earth- with adagio and allegro, discords
resolved into harmony, imperious suspensions, rain of laughters, rain
of tears more adequately than the work of any other master. Does
it lessen his service to the world that such work is also a beautiful
play?
-
Shakespeare's attainment was not snatched in haste: it was won
through long and strenuous endeavor. In his early comedies he
moves brightly over the surface of life. 'Love's Labour's Lost' is
a young man's good-humored and confident satire of the follies and
affectations of the day. How are we to learn our lesson, he asks, in
the high-school of the world? Not through the pedantries of erudi-
tion, not through the fantastical subtleties of romance, not through
a high-flying philosophy which disdains the plain old lore of mother
Earth: such methods will only make ingenious fools. There is a
better way, simple in appearance, yet really needing all our strength
and skill: to accept the teaching of life itself in a manly spirit, to let
both head and heart task themselves in studying the book of nature;
to laugh and love; but also to temper the laughter and joy of youth
by acquaintance with the sorrows of the world. Biron, the courageous
jester, with seriousness beneath his mirth, is dismissed for a twelve-
month to try how mocks and flouts will sound among the speechless
sick and groaning wretches of a hospital. He will laugh at the end
of his period of probation, but it will be with a wiser, a braver, and
a kindlier laughter. He will love the better for a year's instruction
in the lessons of pain. "This side is Hiems, Winter, this Ver, the
Spring": the song of the cuckoo and the song of the owl are alike
songs of the earth; let us cheerfully attend to both.
Such was Shakespeare's starting-point. He was a scholar, in love
with the book of life, and in time he would understand its meaning.
But as he turned the pages he found obscure and awful things, and
it may be that for a while his vision grew perplexed. When 'Meas-
ure for Measure' was written, it seems as if he moved in some valley
of the shadow of sin and death, amid encompassing gloom, and could
sustain his courage only by the presence of strength, severe and vir-
ginal but not joyous, as seen in the person of Isabella. In Troilus
and Cressida,' - the comedy of disillusion,- he gazes on life with a
bitter irony, finding young love a fraud, and pretentious heroes
only vulgar egoists beneath their glittering armor: if there is virtue
anywhere, it must be sought in such worldly wisdom as that of Ulys-
ses; the penetration and insight of a Machiavelli is indeed a kind
## p. 13173 (#621) ##########################################
SHAKESPEARE
13173
of virtue amid sham splendors, mercenary wiles, and the deceits of
sensual passion.
(
But Shakespeare could not remain content with the poor philoso-
phy of disenchantment.
