1708.
A mistress having said to Madame that some of the young ladies had shown publicly before their companions their delight in being well-dressed, and had said they could not conceive of a greater pleasure and that nuns withered with grief at seeing persons who were thus dressed, ... Madame said: “I cannot sufficiently tell you, my children, what pettiness there is in this desire for adornment, though it is natural in persons of our sex. It is, however, so humiliating that those who care for their reputation, even in the great world, should be careful not to show that weakness if they have it, for it makes them despised by all; the most worldly persons, on the contrary, esteem young ladies who despise their beauty and do not affect to improve it by dress.
“When I exhort you sometimes to endeavour to please, I mean that it shall be by good conduct, and not by fine clothes; sorrow to those who seek to distinguish themselves in that way! If they are not sensitive to the distress of offending God, a love of their own honour should put them above this foible; for the world turns to ridicule those in whom it sees the desire to appear beautiful, especially when they are not so really. Those who have beauty and seem to disregard it are, on the contrary, much esteemed. I wish,” added Madame, sighing, “I had done as much for God as I have for the world to preserve my reputation. In my youth I persisted, in the midst of the highest society, in wearing nothing but simple serge, at a period when no one wore it; I was more singular in my dress than a young lady of Saint-Cyr would be now in the midst of the Court.” Mme. de Champigny asked her if it was from fear of pleasing that she dressed so modestly. “I was not happy enough,” she replied, “to act in that way from piety; I did it from reason and for the sake of my reputation. I had not means enough to equal others in the magnificence of their clothing; so I preferred to throw myself into the other extreme and prove that I was above all desire to make a show by apparel and adornment, rather than let it be thought I snatched at what I could, and did my best to equal them. I could not tell you what esteem such conduct won me; people never tired of admiring a pretty young woman who had the courage, in the midst of society, to keep to such modest apparel; that is just what it was; but there was nothing vulgar or repulsive about it; if the stuff itself was simple, the gown was well-fitting and very ample, the linen was white and fine, nothing was shabby. I made more of an appearance in that way than if I had worn a gown of faded silk, like most of the poor young ladies who try to be in the fashion and who have not the means to pay for it.
“I also maintained with inviolable firmness a disinterested determination to receive no presents; I was so well known for that characteristic that no man ever presumed to offer me any, except one, who was foolish. I do not know what made him do the thing I will now tell you: I had an amber fan, very pretty; I laid it for a moment on a table; and this man, whether as a joke or from design, took it up and broke it in two. I was surprised and angry; I liked my fan very much, and to lose it was a great regret to me. The next day the man sent me a dozen fans the equals of the one he had broken. I sent him word it was not worth while to break mine in order to send me a dozen others, for I should have liked thirteen fans better than twelve, which I returned to him, and remained without any fan at all. I turned the man to ridicule in company for having sent me a present, so that no one after that ever offered me one. You cannot think what a reputation this proceeding gave me; and I was so jealous of maintaining it that I would gladly have done without everything rather than act otherwise. Such love of reputation, though it may be mixed with pride and arrogance, and should consequently be corrected by piety, is nevertheless of great utility to young ladies; it is a supplement to piety, which protects them from many disorders.”
What pains and ennui there are in all states of life.
1710.
Mme. de Maintenon, having had fever all night, and having it still, went up to class Blue and said to them: “I have dragged myself here to see you, my children, in order that you may tell me what you have remembered of the fine conference you had yesterday with M. l’Abbé Tiberge” [one of the confessors of Saint-Cyr]. The young ladies repeated it, and when they came to the part where he told them there were troubles in every state of life she took up the subject and enlarged upon it, saying: “That is true indeed, beginning first with the Court people, whom the world considers so fortunate. There is nothing more burdensome than the life they lead; it costs them infinite trouble, constraint, expense, and ennui to pay their court; and at the end of it all you will hear them say: ‘Ah! how vexed I am; I have stood about since morning and I think the king has not even seen me.’ And, in truth,” continued Mme. de Maintenon, “they get up very early in the morning, dress with care, and are on their feet all day, watching for a favourable moment to make themselves seen and be presented; and often they come back as they went, except that they are in despair at having wasted both time and trouble. But I wish you could see the state of the fortunate ones; that is to say, those who see the king and have the honour to be in his intimacy; there is nothing to equal the ennui that consumes them. We are now at Meudon, a magnificent palace. Well! every one must go to walk, without liking to do so, in a dreadful wind perhaps, out of respect to the king. They come back very tired, and you will see a number of women complaining and saying: ‘How weary I am! this place will kill us all.’ ‘I cannot bear it,’ says another; ‘if I could only walk with some one whom I like, but no! I find myself in file with some one who makes me die of weariness.’ For no one can choose her companion any more than you can here; she must go with whoever presents himself. The fact is,” said Mme. de Maintenon, “they do not really know what to do, and nothing gives them any pleasure. Fête-days are the most wearisome of all for those who are not pious; they do not know how to while away the time. A few ladies are fortunate enough to like to spend those days, as they should, in church; others who like to work are vexed not to dare to do so; others again, who like neither church nor work, find those days intolerably wearisome. You see, my dear girls, how it is with the greatest of the earth; for I am speaking now of princes and princesses, the very first persons of the Court, and those who are the envy of the rest of the world. They are usually not contented anywhere; they are bored by dint of seeking pleasure; they go from palace to palace, Meudon, Marly, Rambouillet, Fontainebleau, in hopes of amusing themselves. All these are delightful places, where you, my children, would be enchanted if you saw them; but these people are bored because they are used to it all. In the long run the finest things cease to give pleasure and become indifferent; besides, such things do not make us happy; happiness must come from within.... As for me, whose favour every one envies because I pass a part of my day with the king,—they think me the most fortunate person in the world; and they are right, so far as the goodness with which his Majesty honours me; and yet there is no one more restrained. When the king is in my room I often sit apart from him because he is writing; no one speaks, unless very low, in order not to disturb him. Before I came to Court, at thirty-two years of age, I can truly say that I never knew ennui; but I have known it enough since, and I believe that I could not bear it, in spite of my reason, if I did not feel that it is God who wills it. If you had to sit in my chamber and never say a word for a portion of your lives you would quiver with impatience, would you not? And yet, in spite of all I tell you, my post is envied. There is no true happiness my children, except in serving God; piety alone can sustain us and give us an equable behaviour, in the midst of pains and tedium as well as in the midst of prosperity, which is a state no less dangerous to our salvation.”