I love this blog!

Through LinkedIn.com, I've been introduced to Holly Tucker, a 17th century historian with a speciality in medicine. Sing ye! Her blog — Wonders and Marvels — is both a wonder and a marvel. I will be learning a lot there.

A portrait of Louise?

I recently got an email from someone whose grandmother owns an old painting which is inscribed, on the back, Mlle de Lavallière.



I compared it to others of Louise, and frankly — comparing the eyes, the nose, the mouth — I think it might well be her.


There aren't very many known portraits of Louise, and it's exciting to find what might well be a new image.

The Princess de Clèves and other stories

I read three (very short) novels by Madame de Lafayette while in Europe — or rather, three novels suspected to have been written by her, since a woman dared not put her name on a work. They were: Princess de Clèves, The Princess de Montpensier, and The Comtesse de Tende. All were illuminating about court life — to a point. The complete absence of children was curious. Overall, I was annoyed with the obsessive romantic interest — it reminded me of Grade Nine. The intense need to conceal emotions as well as the intensity of these "affairs of the heart," these "involuntary passions," was interesting, however.

"... there reigned at court a kind of orderly unrest which made life very enjoyable, but also very dangerous for a young girl."
—The Princess de Clèves

Did love exist within a noble marriage? There seemed to be some contradiction on this point. A mother arranges a marriage for her daughter, believing that she is giving her a husband she could love. Passionate romantic love is assumed to be the province of an extramarital affair, yet sometimes a husband truly loves his wife. (Curiously, the reverse is not the case in any of these stories.)

These are historical novels, and often the known historical record was altered to suit the fiction: time shortened or lengthened, characters changed.

I would not call these works "novels" personally — there were few scenes, and very little dialogue. Rather, they seemed a told account, in the manner of a fable. I was surprised to read in the introduction that The Princess de Clèves is considered the first novel written in Europe. It was published in France in 1678. This must be a very narrow definition of what constitutes a "novel," for the comic novel Don Quixote (Part 1) was published in 1605.

This, from Wikipedia:

La Princesse de Clèves proved that France could actually produce novels of a particularly French taste. The Spanish enjoyed stories of proud Spaniards who fought duels to avenge their reputations. The French had a more refined taste with minute observation of human motives and behavior. The story was firmly a "novel" and not a "romance": a story of unparalleled female virtue, with a heroine who had had the chance to risk an illicit amour and not only withstood the temptation but made herself more unhappy by confessing her feelings to her husband. The gloom her story created was entirely new and sensational.

As an aside, it is said to be possible that The Princess de Clèves was possibly written by Ségrais (a man) or was a group project. My feeling is that the parts of the novel that concern emotions are very much the same voice of the other two novels — that of Madame de Lafayette, in short. Now and then there is a chunk of text inserted that is entirely not in keeping with that voice: long, factual, historical accounts. For these, I suspect a man's hand.

La Grande Mademoiselle

I'm currently researching the life of La Grande Mademoiselle — it's dramatic, brave, and sad. Today, I found this wonderful summary of her life on the net, along with a number of excellent links.

This is an etching from La Grande Mademoiselle by Barine (in translation). The transparent clothing, the naked breast, the military helmet over the ringlets — all very curious.



And here's another image, displaying her proud "royal" nose, so similar to that of the king:

Paper dolls

I love this: Louis XIV and his Court: Paper Dolls, by Tom Tierney.

The new face of Gallica

Gallica, the on-line French national library, has been offering digitized books on-line long before Google Books did. It was astonishing to me what I could find there, but the site tended to be somewhat quirky. (At one point I was under the impression that the downloads were not available on the weekends.) And it was always entirely in French. Now they have a new, slick interface and an English version: I'm amazed. I had read some time back that they protested Google Books, and perhaps this overhaul is their way of getting a competitive edge. Whatever the reason: bravo!

The Hour of our Death

I have a number of new research books, and a few nights ago I began reading The Hour of Our Death; the Classic History of Western Attitudes Toward Death Over the Last One Thousand Years by Philippe Ariès. [Trans. From the French by Helen Weaver. Barnes & Noble; New York; 1981] Immediately I got up to look for a highlighter and pencil. This book is going to be fruitful.

One thing I found of interest was this statement:

“People lost consciousness frequently in those days, and even rough warriors, fearless and brave, swooned on every occasion. This emotional susceptibility on the part of men lasted until the baroque period. It was not until the seventeenth century that it became important for the male to master his emotions.” (page 6)

However, I’ve noticed that even in the baroque and even into the late 18th century, men were a lot more emotional than we’re accustomed to seeing them today. Louis XIV wept publically on a number of occassions. Politicians in debates during the French Revolution would break into tears (while declaiming that women were too emotional to vote).

Why was it different then? Why has it changed today? It’s a subject that puzzles me.

One simplistic theory I have is that history progresses as a human being progresses. The Middle Ages, for example, strike me as child-like. There was little self-consciousness about nudity, for example, in the way that very young children can be indifferent. Sometimes the way people acted during the baroque period reminds me of Grade Nine: cliques, petty squabbles. I want to say, “Oh, grow up!” The Napoleonic Era is more like a twenty-year-old, passionate and self-righteous.

And, given all that, what are we now?

Beliefs: that the dead are always present, but that they are only visible to those about to die. (page 7)

I find this sweet and comforting.

Signals of death:
The tolling of a bell that rang all by itself.
Three knocks on the floor.

Then, as now, there was a difference between what the literati believed, and the beliefs of the common people.

Unlike today, where we take great pains to deny that death is imminent, in the past it was considered important for someone to know that he or she was about to die. Sometimes a warning or premonition was taken to an extreme, and the dying person would hasten to arrange a funeral, have the house draped in black, Masses said ahead. And then die on the day and at the hour indicated! (page 9)

Unlike today, to avoid death’s warning was to make oneself ridiculous.

It was considered natural for Death to announce his arrival, so Death should not be sudden: mors repentina. If there was no warning, the natural order of things had been violated (and perhaps considered the wrath of God). Therefore, a sudden death was regarded as shameful. “A vile and ugly death.” Frightening, “a strange and monstrous thing that nobody dared talk about.” There was even debate about whether someone dying alone and suddenly should even be buried in a cemetery.

Another twist: if killed by a criminal: the victim was dishonored, compared to someone who died while committing adultery or playing a pagan game (i.e. any game other than a knightly tournament). The victims of a murder might receive a Christian burial, but would be fined. Even King Henri IV, who died as a result of a knife attack, was not exempt:

“In their funeral orations for Henri IV, preachers felt obliged to exonerate the king from the ignominious circumstances of his death under Ravaillac’s knife.” [page 12]

This is a long, detailed book, and endlessly fascinating. I'll be with it for some time.