Love for this father was the master passion of madame de Staël's life. She looked on him as the wisest and best of men; but, more than this, his kindness and sympathy gifted him with something angelic in her eyes. He was her dearest friend—the prop of her fortunes; her adviser, her shelter, her teacher, her approver—the seal of her prosperity and her glory. He was an old man, and this imparted unspeakable tenderness to her attachment. Her very love of Paris, and her consequent absences from him, added force to her feelings. While away she gathered anecdotes and knowledge for his amusement. Their correspondence was regular and full. It contained a thousand narrations and sallies, observations on events and persons full of piquancy, a gaiety adopted for the purpose of diverting him; and over all was spread a tone of tenderness and reverence, which accompanied the very idea of her father. When she returned to him, she checked a little the demonstrations of her delight, but it overflowed in her conversation. Things, men, and politics, the effect she had herself produced, were all related with an effusion of joy, accompanied by caresses, by tears of gladness, and laughter full of love. Necker listened with proud delight. He loved her fondly. Her very faults, her want of forethought, which made his cares necessary; her uncertainty and doubts with regard to all the minor affairs of life, which she joyfully submitted to his direction; her exuberant yet uncertain spirits; her imagination that often plunged her in gloom, were so many ties to unite father and daughter in bonds of the fondest affection.
Yet she could not contentedly remain with him long. She disliked Genevese society; she was wrapt up in that of Paris. Her parents had planted the seeds of this love of display and eager desire for the arena, where wit and all that is the salt of life is to be met in perfection, and it was but fair that her father should reap the fruits of the education he had bestowed. He felt for her, and was deeply grieved that his publication had augmented the annoyances of her position. 1803.
Ætat.
37. When the peace of Amiens was broken, and Bonaparte and all France were occupied by the meditated descent on England, she hoped to be forgotten. She drew near Paris, and established herself at the distance of thirty miles. The first consul was told that the road to her retreat was crowded by people paying her visits. This was not true, but it alarmed his jealousy; she heard that she should receive an order to depart. Hoping to escape by leaving her home, she went from house to house of her friends, but in vain. She was at that of madame Recamier when she received the fatal order to leave France in twenty-four hours. She would not at once yield; she asked for day after day of reprieve. Junot and Joseph Bonaparte interceded with the first consul for her; she pleaded as for life; but the petty resentment of the great man could not be mollified. He has done worse deeds during his reign, but take the worst said of madame de Staël, by his chief flatterers, and still no revenge could be meaner, no act of tyranny more flagrant, than that which exiled from his capital, and the country he ruled over, a woman, whatever offence she had committed against him, who promised silence; who asked but for the society of a few friends; whose crime was that she would not celebrate the liberticide in her writings.
Forced to go, she could not persuade herself to appear disgraced and driven away among the Genevese. She hoped, and her father hoped for her, that new scenes, and the welcome afforded her among strangers, would blunt the blow she had received, and revive her spirits. She determined to visit Germany, with the intention of seeing its great writers, studying their productions, and of afterwards presenting the French with an account of the, to them, sealed book of German literature. Joseph Bonaparte gave her letters of introduction for Berlin, and she set out. Benjamin Constant accompanied her; yet this very kindness was the source of pain, as he also was partial to a residence in Paris. "Every step of the horses," she writes, "was a pang; and, when the postilions boasted that they had driven fast, I could not help smiling at the sad service they did me. I travelled forty leagues before I recovered possession of myself. At length we stopt at Chalons, and Benjamin Constant rousing him self, through his wonderful powers of conversation, lightened, at least for a few moments, the burden that weighed me down."
Constant continued to accompany her. She was well received at Weimar and Berlin. She was at Berlin at the time of the assassination of the duke d'Enghien, and shared the horror that this unnecessary act of cruelty excited. This circumstance added to her detestation of Napoleon. Meanwhile she greatly enjoyed the kindness she found, and the vast field of knowledge opened before her. 1804.
Ætat.
38. A fatal event put an end to her pleasure. She received tidings of the dangerous illness of her father—the intelligence of his death quickly followed. She left Germany. She returned to Coppet overwhelmed with grief. Generally speaking, there is exaggeration and traces of false sentiment in her writings. Her best work for style and simplicity of narration is her "Dix Années d'Exil;" and the best portion of this book describes her feelings during her journey from Weimar to Coppet. All who have suffered the worst of sorrows—the death of one dearly loved—will find the echo of their inmost thoughts in that passage.
The death of Necker changed the course of her existence, as far as internal feelings operate on the exterior of life. Her father had looked on her as incorrigibly thoughtless in all worldly and pecuniary concerns; but she was no longer in the heyday of youth; experience taught her prudence; and, being thrown entirely on herself, her conscience bade her preserve the fortunes of her children. She was a good mother. Having obeyed and reverenced her father—she exacted the same towards herself from her offspring; nor did she ever regard them with the exuberant trembling tenderness she had lavished on her beloved parent. But was kind—ever ready to serve them, and eager for their well-being. Her notions on education were sensible and just: she did not give trust to extraordinary systems; she contented herself by inspiring them with piety and generous sentiments; and was perfectly open and true in her conduct. They sincerely loved, while they a little feared her.
The society of her children and her friends could not console her for the loss of her father and exile from the country she loved. Her first occupation was to publish the writings of Necker, accompanied by a biographical memoir, in which she pours forth, with touching earnestness, all the ardour of her filial affection. Her health sunk beneath her sorrow. 1805.
Ætat.
39. To revive her spirits and change the scene she visited Italy. There, as everywhere, her astonishing powers of conversation gathered an admiring audience round her. She enjoyed, with all the warmth of her disposition, the delights afforded by that enchanting country; and, impelled to express on paper the overflowing of her thoughts, she embodied her enthusiasm, her pleasure, and the knowledge she gained, in her novel of "Corinne." There is a charm in that work that stamps it as coming from the hand of genius. The personages live, breathe, and speak before you. We hope or fear for, admire or censure them, as if they were our friends. She speaks of love with heartfelt knowledge of the mighty powers of passion, and of all those delicate, so to speak, fibres and evanescent tints that foster and adorn it. The faults of such a book are a very secondary consideration. The Italians will not allow that it is by any means a true representation of society in their country; and any one who has lived there can perceive that she had but a superficial knowledge of Italy and the Italians; still she gives a true picture of the surface such as she saw it. Her account of Corinne's life in England is admirable. The English, with all their pride, are less vain than the Italians, and readily acknowledge their faults. Every English person is at once astonished and delighted with the wonderful truth of her sketch of county society in England. In this novel, as in "Delphine," the heroine dies broken-hearted. Her lover proving false, she lives miserably a few years, and then closes her eyes on a world grown dark and solitary. Madame de Staël was naturally led to portray death as the result of sorrow; for when we are miserable, we are apt to dwell on such as the dearest relief; yet we do not die. The authoress also might wish to impress on men an idea of the misery which their falsehood produces. That is a story as ancient as Dido, and told by Virgil more impressively and beautifully than by any other writer. For the dignity of womanhood, it were better to teach how one, as highly gifted as Corinne, could find resignation or fortitude enough to endure a too common lot, and rise wiser and better from the trial.
Madame de Staël was exiled to forty leagues from Paris; her love of France caused her to approach so near to its capital. She established herself first at Auxerre and afterwards at Rouen. Here she terminated and brought out "Corinne." She exercised the utmost caution in her conduct, saw but few friends, and observed that silence with regard to politics which Napoleon rigorously exacted throughout his empire. Fouché, who had no love of wanton mischief, allowed her to settle herself within twelve leagues of Paris. But the publication of her novel put an end to this indulgence, and redoubled the oppression in force against her. She continued to refuse to advert to Napoleon's victories and Napoleon's power; and the great man, than whom no hero was ever less a hero in all magnanimous sentiments, ordered her to quit the country. She returned to Coppet half broken-hearted.
1807.
Ætat.
41.
The visits she received from her friends and illustrious foreigners somewhat relieved the tedium of her life. She was occupied by her work on Germany, and visited Vienna to gather additional materials for it. On her return, she devoted two years to its completion. She tried to make an existence for herself at Coppet, but did not succeed. Alas! for her. Goldsmith's lines on French society are but too applicable to her state of mind:—
"For praise too warmly loved, or dearly sought,
Enfeebles all internal strength of thought;
And the weak soul, within itself unblest,
Leans for all pleasure on another's breast."