La Princesse De Clèves | Page 4

grief of Mme. de La Fayette for
the loss of the man with whose life her own had been so long and so
closely united. On March 17th, 1680, Mme. de Sévigné writes: "M. de
La Rochefoucauld died last night. When again will poor Mme. de La
Fayette find such a friend, such kindness, such consideration for her
and her son? So great a loss is not to be repaired or obliterated by
time." And again: "Poor Mme. de La Fayette is now wholly at a loss
what to do with herself. The death of M. de La Rochefoucauld has
made so terrible a void in her life that she has come to judge better of
the value of such a friendship. Every one else will be comforted in the
course of time, but she, alas, has nothing to occupy her mind."
Apart from M. de La Rochefoucauld, La Fontaine was the only one of
the many great men of her time with whom Mme. de La Fayette was on
terms of friendship. Boileau has left his opinion of our author in a pithy
sentence. "Mme. de La Fayette," said he, "est la femme qui écrit le
mieux et qui a le plus d'esprit." But this is all.
Mme. de La Fayette's first published work was La Princesse de
Montpensier in 1660 or 1662. This was followed by Zaïde, in 1670,
which bore the name of Segrais, but which is by Mme. de La Fayette.

The latter of these (for we confess not to have read the former) has
indeed some merit, though written in the style of the old heroic
romance, "with its abductions, its shipwrecks, its pirates, its gloomy
solitudes, where flawless lovers breathe forth their sighs in palaces
adorned with allegorical paintings."
La Princesse de Clèves was published in 1677 from the house of
Claude Barbin. It was in four volumes, and bore no name. The little
work (for it is scarcely longer than our own Vicar of Wakefield) at once
took its place among the immortal productions of French literature. It is
needless for us to discuss the unprofitable question of why Mme. de La
Fayette withheld her name from the titlepage, and would never own to
the authorship. That La Princesse de Clèves was written by her, and her
alone, the world is well agreed; and this is enough for us to know. It is
interesting, however, to read a letter of hers touching this point, for it
shows, apart from other things, what opinion her contemporaries had of
her masterpiece. This letter, bearing the date April 13th, 1678, we
translate in part:
"A little book [La Princesse de Montpensier] which had some vogue
fifteen years ago, and which the public was pleased to ascribe to me,
has earned me the title of author of La Princesse de Clèves; but I assure
you that I have had no part in it, and that M. de Rochefoucauld, who
has also been mentioned, has had as little as I. He denies it so
strenuously that it is impossible not to believe him, especially in a
matter which can be confessed without shame. As for me, I am flattered
at being suspected, and I think I should acknowledge the book if I were
sure that the author would never claim it of me. I find it very agreeable,
well written, without being extremely polished, full of very delicate
touches, and well worth more than a single reading; and what I
especially notice is an exact representation of the persons composing
the court and of their manner of life. It is without romanticism and
exaggeration, and so it is not a romance; it is more like a book of
memoirs,--and I hear this was the first title of the book,--but it was
changed. There you have my opinion of the La Princesse de Clèves; let
me ask you for yours, for people have almost come to blows over it.
Many blame what others praise, so, whatever you say, you will not find

yourself alone in your views."
With La Princesse de Clèves, Mme. de La Fayette created a new kind
of fiction,--"substituting," says Saintsbury, "for mere romance of
adventure on the one hand, and stilted heroic work on the other, fiction
in which the display of character is held of chief account." The very
briefness of the work, its sober language and simple incident,
contrasted with the appalling length, the mighty catastrophes, and
grand phrases of the old romances, may have indeed contributed much
to its immediate popularity, but its abiding interest rests upon the
truthfulness with which character is drawn, and emotions and motives
are analyzed. The old order of fiction had indeed already fallen into
contempt; Boileau and others had dealt it fatal blows, but the finishing
stroke was