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MADAME DE SEVIGNE

Letters

Marie de Rabutin-Chantal, who became Madame de Sevigne, was born at Paris on February 6, 1626.  Her father and mother died during her childhood and Marie was left to the care of her uncle, priest of Coulanges; she received an admirable education and became a great lover of history and of classical literature.  At eighteen years of age she married the Marquis Henri de Sevigne, who was killed in a duel in 1651, and thenceforth Madame de Sevigne gave herself up altogether to the care of her two children.  Her wit, her kindliness, and happiness, her charity and fidelity, and especially a certain rare genius for friendship, won for her the warm devotion of many great people of that brilliant age.  Her daughter was married in 1669 to the Comte de Grignan, a great official, lieutenant-general of Languedoc and then of Provence, a man of honour, but accustomed to the most lavish expenditure, which burdened his life with enormous debts.  The famous “Letters” of Madame de Sevigne numbering over 1,000 were written over a period of twenty-five years, chiefly to this daughter, Madame de Grignan.  They are valued for their vivacious and graceful style, the light which they throw upon the thoughts and movements of her time, but especially for their revelation of a wonderfully sweet and gracious personality.  Madame de Sevigne died on April 18, 169696.

Love for her Daughter

My dear child:  I have been here but three hours, and already take my pen to talk to you.  I left Paris with the Abbe, Helene, Hebert and Marphise, so that I might get away from the noise and bustle of the town until Thursday evening.  I want to have perfect quietness, in which to reflect.  I intend to fast for many good reasons, and to walk much to make up for the long time I have spent in my room; and above all, I want to discipline myself for the love of God.

But, my dear daughter, what I shall do more than all this, will be to think of you.  I have not ceased to do so since I arrived here; and being quite unable to restrain my feelings, I have betaken myself to the little shady walk you so loved, to write to you, and am sitting on the mossy bank where you so often used to lie.  But, my dear, where in this place have I not seen you?  Do not thoughts of you haunt my heart everywhere I turn?—­in the house, in the church, in the field, in the garden—­every spot speaks to me of you.  You are in my thoughts all the time, and my heart cries out for you again and again.  I search in vain for the dear, dear child I love so passionately; but she is 600 miles away, and I cannot call her to my side.  My tears fall, and I cannot stop them.  I know it is weak, but this tenderness for you is right and natural and I cannot be strong.

I wonder what your mood will be when you receive this letter; perhaps at that moment you will not be touched with the emotions I now feel so poignantly, and then you may not read it in the spirit in which it was written.  But against that I cannot guard, and the act of writing relieves my feelings at the moment—­that is at least what I ask of it.  You would not believe the condition into which this place has thrown me.