Thus we live in her presence, and often fall, as with living people, into unconsciousness. She goes on talking, we half listen. And then something she says rouses us. We add it to her character, so that the character grows and changes, and she seems like a living person, inexhaustible.
This of course is one of the qualities that all letter writers possess, and she, because of her unconscious naturalness, her flow and abundance, possesses it far more than the brilliant Walpole, for example, or the reserved and self-conscious Gray. Perhaps in the long run we know her more instinctively5, more profoundly, than we know them. We sink deeper down into her, and know by instinct rather than by reason how she will feel; this she will be amused by; that will take her fancy; now she will plunge6 into melancholy7. Her range too is larger than theirs; there is more scope and more diversity. Everything seems to yield its juice — its fun, its enjoyment8; or to feed her meditations9. She has a robust appetite; nothing shocks her; she gets nourishment10 from whatever is set before her. She is an intellectual, quick to enjoy the wit of La Rochefoucauld, to relish11 the fine discrimination of Madame de La Fayette. She has a natural dwelling12 place in books, so that Josephus or Pascal or the absurd long romances of the time are not read by her so much as embedded13 in her mind. Their verses, their stories rise to her lips along with her own thoughts. But there is a sensibility in her which intensifies14 this great appetite for many things. It is of course shown at its most extreme, its most irrational15, in her love for her daughter. She loves her as an elderly man loves a young mistress who tortures him. It was a passion that was twisted and morbid16; it caused her many humiliations; sometimes it made her ashamed of herself. For, from the daughter’s point of view it was exhausting, was embarrassing to be the object of such intense emotion; and she could not always respond. She feared that her mother was making her ridiculous in the eyes of her friends. Also she felt that she was not like that. She was different; colder, more fastidious, less robust. Her mother was ignoring the real daughter in this flood of adoration17 for a daughter who did not exist. She was forced to curb18 her; to assert her own identity. It was inevitable19 that Madame de Sévigné, with her exacerbated20 sensibility, should feel hurt.
Sometimes, therefore, Madame de Sévigné weeps. The daughter does not love her. That is a thought so bitter, and a fear so perpetual and so profound, that life loses its savour; she has recourse to sages21, to poets to console her; and reflects with sadness upon the vanity of life; and how death will come. Then, too, she is agitated22 beyond what is right or reasonable, because a letter has not reached her. Then she knows that she has been absurd; and realizes that she is boring her friends with this obsession23. What is worse, she has bored her daughter. And then when the bitter drop has fallen, up bubbles quicker and quicker the ebullition of that robust vitality24, of that irrepressible quick enjoyment, that natural relish for life, as if she instinctively repaired her failure by fluttering all her feathers; by making every facet25 glitter. She shakes herself out of her glooms; makes fun of “les D’Hacquevilles”; collects a handful of gossip; the latest news of the King and Madame de Maintenon; how Charles has fallen in love; how the ridiculous Mademoiselle de Plessis has been foolish again; when she wanted a handkerchief to spit into, the silly woman tweaked her nose; or describes how she has been amusing herself by amazing the simple little girl who lives at the end of the park — la petite personne — with stories of kings and countries, of all that great world that she who has lived in the thick of it knows so well. At last, comforted, assured for the time being at least of her daughter’s love, she lets herself relax; and throwing off all disguises, tells her daughter how nothing in the world pleases her so well as solitude27. She is happiest alone in the country. She loves rambling28 alone in her woods. She loves going out by herself at night. She loves hiding from callers. She loves walking among her trees and musing26. She loves the gardener’s chatter29; she loves planting. She loves the gipsy girl who dances, as her own daughter used to dance, but not of course so exquisitely30.
It is natural to use the present tense, because we live in her presence. We are very little conscious of a disturbing medium between us — that she is living, after all, by means of written words. But now and then with the sound of her voice in our ears and its rhythm rising and falling within us, we become aware, with some sudden phrase, about spring, about a country neighbour, something struck off in a flash, that we are, of course, being addressed by one of the great mistresses of the art of speech.
Then we listen for a time, consciously. How, we wonder, does she contrive31 to make us follow every word of the story of the cook who killed himself because the fish failed to come in time for the royal dinner party; or the scene of the haymaking; or the anecdote32 of the servant whom she dismissed in a sudden rage; how does she achieve this order, this perfection of composition? Did she practise her art? It seems not. Did she tear up and correct? There is no record of any painstaking33 or effort. She says again and again that she writes her letters as she speaks. She begins one as she sends off another; there is the page on her desk and she fills it, in the intervals34 of all her other avocations35. People are interrupting; servants are coming for orders. She entertains; she is at the beck and call of her friends. It seems then that she must have been so imbued36 with good sense, by the age she lived in, by the company she kept — La Rochefoucauld’s wisdom, Madame de La Fayette’s conversation, by hearing now a play by Racine, by reading Montaigne, Rabelais, or Pascal; perhaps by sermons, perhaps by some of those songs that Coulanges was always singing — she must have imbibed37 so much that was sane38 and wholesome39 unconsciously that, when she took up her pen, it followed unconsciously the laws she had learnt by heart. Marie de Rabutin it seems was born into a group where the elements were so richly and happily mixed that it drew out her virtue40 instead of opposing it. She was helped, not thwarted41. Nothing baffled or contracted or withered42 her. What opposition43 she encountered was only enough to confirm her judgment44. For she was highly conscious of folly45, of vice46, of pretention. She was a born critic, and a critic whose judgments47 were inborn48, unhesitating. She is always referring her impressions to a standard — hence the incisiveness49, the depth and the comedy that make those spontaneous statements so illuminating50. There is nothing naive51 about her. She is by no means a simple spectator. Maxims52 fall from her pen. She sums up; she judges. But it is done effortlessly. She has inherited the standard and accepts it without effort. She is heir to a tradition, which stands guardian53 and gives proportion. The gaiety, the colour, the chatter, the many movements of the figures in the foreground have a background. At Les Rochers there is always Paris and the court; at Paris there is Les Rochers, with its solitude, its trees, its peasants. And behind them all again there is virtue, faith, death itself. But this background, while it gives its scale to the moment, is so well established that she is secure. She is free, thus anchored, to explore; to enjoy; to plunge this way and that; to enter wholeheartedly into the myriad54 humours, pleasures, oddities, and savours of her well nourished, prosperous, delightful55 present moment.
So she passes with free and stately step from Paris to Brittany from Brittany in her coach and six all across France. She stays with friends on the road; she is attended by a cheerful company of familiars. Wherever she alights she attracts at once the love of some boy or girl; or the exacting56 admiration57 of a man of the world like her disagreeable cousin Bussy Rabutin, who cannot rest under her disapproval58, but must be assured of her good opinion in spite of all his treachery. The famous and the brilliant also wish to have her company, for she is part of their world; and can take her share in their sophisticated conversations. There is something wise and large and sane about her which draws the confidences of her own son. Feckless and impulsive59, the prey60 of his own weak and charming nature as he is, Charles nurses her with the utmost patience through her rheumatic fever. She laughs at his foibles; knows his failings. She is tolerant and outspoken61; nothing need be hidden from her; she knows all that there is to be known of man and his passions.
So she takes her way through the world, and sends her letters, radiant and glowing with all this various traffic from one end of France to the other, twice weekly. As the fourteen volumes so spaciously62 unfold their story of twenty years it seems that this world is large enough to enclose everything. Here is the garden that Europe has been digging for many centuries; into which so many generations have poured their blood; here it is at last fertilized63, bearing flowers. And the flowers are not those rare and solitary64 blossoms — great men, with their poems, and their conquests. The flowers in this garden are a whole society of full grown men and women from whom want and struggle have been removed; growing together in harmony, each contributing something that the other lacks. By way of proving it, the letters of Madame de Sévigné are often shared by other pens; now her son takes up the pen; the Abbé adds his paragraph; even the simple girl — la petite personne — is not afraid to pipe up on the same page. The month of May, 1678, at Les Rochers in Brittany, thus echoes with different voices. There are the birds singing; Pilois is planting; Madame de Sévigné roams the woods alone; her daughter is entertaining politicians in Provence; not very far away Monsieur de Rochefoucauld is engaged in telling the truth with Madame de La Fayette to prune65 his words; Racine is finishing the play which soon they will all be hearing together; and discussing afterwards with the King and that lady whom in the private language of their set they call Quanto. The voices mingle66; they are all talking together in the garden in 1678. But what was happening outside?
点击收听单词发音
1 robust | |
adj.强壮的,强健的,粗野的,需要体力的,浓的 | |
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2 amassing | |
v.积累,积聚( amass的现在分词 ) | |
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3 glades | |
n.林中空地( glade的名词复数 ) | |
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4 fixed | |
adj.固定的,不变的,准备好的;(计算机)固定的 | |
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5 instinctively | |
adv.本能地 | |
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6 plunge | |
v.跳入,(使)投入,(使)陷入;猛冲 | |
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7 melancholy | |
n.忧郁,愁思;adj.令人感伤(沮丧)的,忧郁的 | |
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8 enjoyment | |
n.乐趣;享有;享用 | |
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9 meditations | |
默想( meditation的名词复数 ); 默念; 沉思; 冥想 | |
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10 nourishment | |
n.食物,营养品;营养情况 | |
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11 relish | |
n.滋味,享受,爱好,调味品;vt.加调味料,享受,品味;vi.有滋味 | |
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12 dwelling | |
n.住宅,住所,寓所 | |
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13 embedded | |
a.扎牢的 | |
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14 intensifies | |
n.(使)增强, (使)加剧( intensify的名词复数 )v.(使)增强, (使)加剧( intensify的第三人称单数 ) | |
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15 irrational | |
adj.无理性的,失去理性的 | |
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16 morbid | |
adj.病的;致病的;病态的;可怕的 | |
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17 adoration | |
n.爱慕,崇拜 | |
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18 curb | |
n.场外证券市场,场外交易;vt.制止,抑制 | |
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19 inevitable | |
adj.不可避免的,必然发生的 | |
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20 exacerbated | |
v.使恶化,使加重( exacerbate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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21 sages | |
n.圣人( sage的名词复数 );智者;哲人;鼠尾草(可用作调料) | |
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22 agitated | |
adj.被鼓动的,不安的 | |
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23 obsession | |
n.困扰,无法摆脱的思想(或情感) | |
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24 vitality | |
n.活力,生命力,效力 | |
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25 facet | |
n.(问题等的)一个方面;(多面体的)面 | |
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26 musing | |
n. 沉思,冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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27 solitude | |
n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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28 rambling | |
adj.[建]凌乱的,杂乱的 | |
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29 chatter | |
vi./n.喋喋不休;短促尖叫;(牙齿)打战 | |
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30 exquisitely | |
adv.精致地;强烈地;剧烈地;异常地 | |
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31 contrive | |
vt.谋划,策划;设法做到;设计,想出 | |
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32 anecdote | |
n.轶事,趣闻,短故事 | |
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33 painstaking | |
adj.苦干的;艰苦的,费力的,刻苦的 | |
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34 intervals | |
n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 );间隔时间;[数学]区间;(戏剧、电影或音乐会的)幕间休息 | |
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35 avocations | |
n.业余爱好,嗜好( avocation的名词复数 );职业 | |
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36 imbued | |
v.使(某人/某事)充满或激起(感情等)( imbue的过去式和过去分词 );使充满;灌输;激发(强烈感情或品质等) | |
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37 imbibed | |
v.吸收( imbibe的过去式和过去分词 );喝;吸取;吸气 | |
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38 sane | |
adj.心智健全的,神志清醒的,明智的,稳健的 | |
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39 wholesome | |
adj.适合;卫生的;有益健康的;显示身心健康的 | |
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40 virtue | |
n.德行,美德;贞操;优点;功效,效力 | |
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41 thwarted | |
阻挠( thwart的过去式和过去分词 ); 使受挫折; 挫败; 横过 | |
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42 withered | |
adj. 枯萎的,干瘪的,(人身体的部分器官)因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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43 opposition | |
n.反对,敌对 | |
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44 judgment | |
n.审判;判断力,识别力,看法,意见 | |
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45 folly | |
n.愚笨,愚蠢,蠢事,蠢行,傻话 | |
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46 vice | |
n.坏事;恶习;[pl.]台钳,老虎钳;adj.副的 | |
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47 judgments | |
判断( judgment的名词复数 ); 鉴定; 评价; 审判 | |
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48 inborn | |
adj.天生的,生来的,先天的 | |
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49 incisiveness | |
n.敏锐,深刻 | |
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50 illuminating | |
a.富于启发性的,有助阐明的 | |
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51 naive | |
adj.幼稚的,轻信的;天真的 | |
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52 maxims | |
n.格言,座右铭( maxim的名词复数 ) | |
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53 guardian | |
n.监护人;守卫者,保护者 | |
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54 myriad | |
adj.无数的;n.无数,极大数量 | |
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55 delightful | |
adj.令人高兴的,使人快乐的 | |
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56 exacting | |
adj.苛求的,要求严格的 | |
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57 admiration | |
n.钦佩,赞美,羡慕 | |
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58 disapproval | |
n.反对,不赞成 | |
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59 impulsive | |
adj.冲动的,刺激的;有推动力的 | |
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60 prey | |
n.被掠食者,牺牲者,掠食;v.捕食,掠夺,折磨 | |
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61 outspoken | |
adj.直言无讳的,坦率的,坦白无隐的 | |
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62 spaciously | |
adv.宽敞地;广博地 | |
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63 Fertilized | |
v.施肥( fertilize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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64 solitary | |
adj.孤独的,独立的,荒凉的;n.隐士 | |
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65 prune | |
n.酶干;vt.修剪,砍掉,削减;vi.删除 | |
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66 mingle | |
vt.使混合,使相混;vi.混合起来;相交往 | |
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