2In order to explore the question of self-reflection in the literature of intimacy, I shall draw on a broad range of memoirs, diaries and autobiographies in an attempt to examine how women portray themselves, consciously and otherwise, and also to explore their relationship with self-portraiture, whether avowed or denied. I will consider a variety of cases: from physical to psychological portrayals, from direct to allusive depictions, and even examples of self-effacement. In the process, I shall suggest a possible typology. And, I will mention a certain number of analogies with painted portraiture along the way.

3Let me begin by pointing out that for most of the Eighteenth Century introspective writing was not produced with an eye to publication – a man or woman in the Age of Enlightenment would have been astonished by the space taken up by the “Autobiography” shelves in certain bookstores today or by the mere existence of the Association pour l’Autobiographie. When texts were intended for publication, they were meant to appear much later, either after the death of their author (as in the case of Marie-Jeanne de Staal-Delaunay), or as part of a self-justificatory or public relations enterprise (as in the case of Elisabeth Vigée-Lebrun, whose Souvenirs added further weight to a campaign she had been waging for many years by means of her painted self-portraits).

4Let us take another telling example, that of Mary Robinson, an actress celebrated for her talent, her immense beauty, but above all for her love affair with a very young Prince of Wales. While the caricatures dating from the period of her liaison were often unflattering, portraits that would be repeatedly exhibited or reproduced as engravings attempted to promote a more authentic likeness, as did descriptions of the highlights of Mary Robinson’s career in her autobiographical writings. Thus, the memoirs, unfinished at the time of her death in 1801 – completed and subsequently published by her daughter – aimed to set the record straight and to depict Mary Robinson as a virtuous woman, and a victim of circumstances. Aware of the importance of her image, the author went out of her way to describe herself repeatedly dressed in outfits that were widely imitated in her heyday. At the time when she was a fashionable young woman, Mary Robinson was eager to live in the limelight, to be at the centre of attention, making use of the experience she had gained on the stage. Revisiting her youth through writing, she repeated this tactic, but now the emphasis was how, though absent, she could influence others – a change from the clear and present impact she had wanted to make in her younger days. Here is an example of this:

• 2 Mary Darby Robinson, Memoirs of Mary Robinson (1801), Joseph Fitzgerald Molloy ed., Philadelphia, J (...)

A new face, a young person dressed with peculiar but simple elegance, was sure to attract attention at places of public entertainment. The first time I went to Ranelagh my habit was so singularly plain and Quaker-like  that all eyes were fixed upon me. I wore a gown of light brown lustring with close round cuffs (it was then the fashion to wear long ruffles); my hair was without powder, and my head adorned with a plain round cap and a white chip hat, without any ornaments whatever.2

5This allusion suggests a memory for appearances. It shows that Mary Robinson thought of herself as a fashionable character, and even as someone capable of setting trends. She shaped her identity by means of the attention she got from others. She presents herself as someone to watch, and thus to portray, pushing vanity so far as to shun extravagance in order to be better noticed. The subsequent paragraphs of the same passage – and I could have found many other examples – reinforce this point.

The second place of polite entertainment to which Mr. Robinson accompanied me was the Pantheon concert, then the most fashionable assemblage of the gay and the distinguished. At this place it was customary to appear much dressed; large hoops and high feathers were universally worn. My habit was composed of pale pink satin, trimmed with broad sable; my dear mother presented me a suit of rich and valuable point lace, which she had received from my father as a birthday gift, and I was at least some hours employed in decorating my person for this new sphere of fascination: I say some hours, because my shape at that period required some arrangement, owing to the visible increase of my domestic solicitudes. […] I observed two persons, evidently men of fashion speaking to her, till one of them, looking towards me, with an audible voice inquired of the other, “Who is she?”

• 3 Ibid., p. 64-65.

Their fixed stare disconcerted me; I rose, and, leaning on my husband's arm, again mingled in the brilliant circle. The inquiries followed us; stopping several friends, as we walked round the circle, and repeatedly demanding of them, “Who is that young lady in the pink dress trimmed with sable?”3

6Mary Robinson thus created a public persona for herself, one based on a visual identity. These written self-portraits of herself as a young woman were composed when she was prematurely aging and physically diminished. Just as engravings can be used to reproduce a painting, the text can offer the seemingly endless projection of a portrait designed to immortalise a beautiful woman, one who, as it happens, no longer exists. Here the word does the work of the engraver’s tool. Moreover, after being duped by several lovers, Mary Robinson, who had written poems and then novels in order to make a living, was skilled in wielding the instruments of self-promotion. The self-portrait in this case is a form of publicity. Its goal is to rehabilitate an image post-mortem, thus impressing a version of the truth on contemporary minds – as well as on posterity – from beyond the grave.

Rosalba Carriera, Self-portrait holding a portrait of her sister (1715 or 1709, pastel on paper)

10The artist’s eye was used to scrutinising models. We sometimes find the same merciless attitude in the texts. A case which is exceptional in many respects is that of Victoire Monnard, born in Creil in 1777, the daughter of farmers who spent much of their time living from hand to mouth. She went to Paris and, at the outbreak of the Revolution, was a quasi-illiterate apprentice to a seamstress. She would later learn to read and write. Reading Rousseau made her understand the power of books to open up new worlds and legitimated her own self-narration. Her physical description of herself as a girl is completely free of idealisation:

• 11 Jeanne-Marie Roland, Mémoires particuliers, in C. Seth, La Fabrique de l’intime, op. cit., p. 507.

Though I was five foot two, I was nothing to look at and I seemed much older than my age. I was thin and tall, with big fleshy hands and feet. I walked with a nonchalant spring in my step. My appearance was of the sort to which no one pays the slightest attention. I had small, regular features – not bad really –,black hair and brown, expressive eyes with a piercing and somewhat severe gaze. My teeth were small and regularly spaced, but not very white. I had a nice, sweet little mouth. When I talked, I was lively and expressive. What ruined everything I had going for me was a horrible complexion, not so much really brown as yellowish.11

11This physical portrait – unusual in the memoirs of eighteenth-century women – is tendered to justify an explication given by the author: with a little nest egg and a lot of ingenuity, she opened her first business – neatly wrapped bundles of straw made it look as though she was running a well-stocked store. She explains that suitors came to call. She claims they courted her as they were attracted by her business prospects, not by her looks, which explains her inclusion of the rather unforgiving description of her appearance. It seems to me that the two instances of word portraits, by Mary Robinson on the one hand, and by Victoire Monnard on the other, represent two diametrically opposed approaches, both because one of them is jotting down her memories for herself while the other has propagandistic motives, and also because one considers her physical appearance to have been her stock-in- trade while for the other it was the opposite. I should like to add a further self-portrait, which feigns not to exist, and would seem to indicate how difficult it was for a woman to legitimate self-representation. While in prison, in the shadow of the guillotine, Jeanne-Marie (“Manon”) Roland wrote her Mémoires particuliers (Private Memoirs) for her daughter, Eudora. She describes her (Manon’s) return from the wet nurse as a toddler:

• 12 Ibid.

No one expects me at this point to describe a little two-year-old brunette, whose dark hair went so well with a bright and lively face, and who was as happy and hearty as any child of her age. There will be a more appropriate time for me to paint my portrait, and I am not so careless as to get ahead of myself.12

12When other memoir writers and autobiographers mention their body, it is more often than not at moments when it has let them down: in other words, when they are sick. In these cases, we sense that the hesitation in speaking about such things, a reticence instilled by their education, is being set aside as their body takes over, interfering with their normal way of life. I shall offer two cases in point. The first is Adélaïde de Castellane, née Rohan-Chabot, an unhappily married woman. Her own mother had died in childbirth. She feared that her second pregnancy would cost her her life:

• 13 Adélaïde de Castellane, Notes sur l’éducation de mes enfants, in C. Seth, La Fabrique de l’intime, (...)

I am with child, and quite weak; the thousands of hardships I have endured in my life have diminished me. I may, therefore, expire while giving birth, and this is why I am writing these notes on the education of my son. If I am unlucky enough to not be able to bring him up myself, I wish at least to put down my ideas so that they can be of use to him.13

14So, let us take a look at the anonymous portrait we have of Adelaïde de Castellane, who is referred to by the nickname Adéla:

• 15 See Ibid., p. 909-910.

The man who sees Adéla for the first time will probably not find her pretty in a conventional way, but if he sees her regularly, if he manages to appeal to her or move her, he will soon prefer her to all those more beautiful than her. He will admire the fine grain and whiteness of her skin, her smallness of foot, her delicate fingers, her expressive eyes and above all her delightful physiognomy, which obeys the movements of her soul so faithfully that the most skilled painter would be incapable of showing it all or even of recording a mere hint of the overall effect. Perhaps he will never even get to experience Adéla’s charming physiognomy.15

15This example shows that most of the time we are forced to rely on a third party for a portrait of a woman during the Enlightenment. Self-portraits were rare and, when they do exist, they are mostly critical.

16Let us return to the idea of the body coming to the fore when it is not in its normal state. Françoise-Radegonde Le Noir, a mystic from Limoges, undertook to write about her life and experiences at the behest of her confessor. She refers on several occasions to her failing health, as in this short passage where she talks about her childhood:

• 16 Vie de la vénérable sœur Françoise-Radegonde Le Noir, in C. Seth, La Fabrique de l’intime, op. cit.(...)

The chronic poor health I suffered from even when I was still being nursed as a baby, played havoc with my temperament and indicated that my future held constant sickness, or even impending death in store for me. At the age of four or five, I could literally say to misery, like the saintly Job: You are my mother; and to the worms: You are my brothers; for the infection and putrefaction of my body had begotten them in the bed in which I slept.16

17The nun interpreted her health problems as messages from God. This seemed particularly clear to her, if we go by her account, once she had taken holy orders. Her physical trials are read by her as direct messages from the Lord. So as to render her commitment visible, she mutilated herself, making her body a witness to her faith–a literal martyr. She shaped her own stigmata in order to resemble the Christ of the Passion whom she held to be her Lord. Using a white hot piece of hewn brick, she branded the sacred heart of Jesus over her own heart, the instruments of the Passion on her arms. She did what she could to match her image of Christ or of a being entirely given over to God. Her body had become the communion host, a sacrifice. She wanted to be nothing more than the Lord’s servant. Her physical existence thus became a way for her to express her spirituality and was used by her to proclaim a way of being and thinking about herself.

18Psychological self-portraits occur more frequently than physical ones in female autobiographical texts. Let us return to Victoire Monnard who wrote disparagingly of her looks.

• 17 Victoire Monnard, Souvenirs, in C. Seth, La Fabrique de l’intime, op. cit., p. 1116.

I have a strong, determined character, and base my judgments on my feelings and what I see with my own eyes, not on words, but on actions. I consider and decide what I am going to say or do quite swiftly; when I make a promise, I keep it, and I am unswerving in my commitment to my feelings and projects. I am active, dynamic, hard-working, fearless and enterprising in everything I do; the more ambitious the plan, the better it suits my character and mindset. I feel sadness and pleasure keenly. I am not stubborn, but I am firm in my resolutions, and have the character of a man, more than of a woman. I prefer the conversation of men; that of women does not interest me except if it concerns feelings. I am not haughty, but I do have the pride of a peacock, an ardent and positive outlook. This ardent nature has occasionally led me to judgments I have been obliged later to revise; this can also be put down to the fact that I am a little extreme in my ways of feeling and expressing myself.17

19The assessment seems objective. It includes qualities and faults. And, it contains the author’s surprising statement that she has a character of a man, rather than of a woman. Could this be the flip side of the coin? like Dezallier d’Argenville writing about Rosalba Carriera, Victoire Monnard seems to be indicating that her natural way of being implicitly betrays her ugliness, even if she does not make the latter into a virtue.

20All the evidence is that these women compared themselves to the contemporary standards of beauty. Manon Roland is a case in point:

A broad forehead, with a little fringe at the time, supported by high eye sockets, and in the middle of it a ‘Y’ formed by two veins that swelled at the slightest emotion, meant that its presence was far from being as unremarkable as it is in so many faces. As for the chin, which is quite perky, it has precisely those characteristics that physiognomists associate with voluptuous natures. Insofar as I am concerned, I doubt that anyone so suited to such a passion ever indulged in it less. The brightness, rather than the whiteness, of my complexion, frequently heightened by sudden blushes caused by my blood boiling and my sensitive nerves being excited; soft skin, curvaceous arms, fair hands which are not too small because their long slender fingers reflect their dexterity and make them graceful, sound and regular teeth, and a healthy figure – these are the treasures that nature had bestowed upon me.

21Beyond normative æsthetic standards, the memoir writer brings scientific – or rather what were taken to be scientific – criteria to bear. She makes use of her unusually extensive education to analyse herself. The self-portrait thus betrays her knowledge. It extends over several lines. Age matters to Jeanne-Marie Roland. We recall that she had described herself as a two year-old while feigning no to do so. Here, she draws vanity, or perhaps consolation, from the discrepancy between appearances and expectations:

The charms, which I still retain, conceal, without any effort on my part, five to six of my years; and even people who see me every day need me to remind them of my real age, otherwise they assume I am thirty-two or thirty-three at most.

22In the case of this cultivated woman, the self-portrait provokes thought, a sort of self-questioning which paradoxically legitimises the various things she has to say about herself:

It is only since I lost what I had that I have come to appreciate it; I did not know the full value of what I had until I lost it, and perhaps that ignorance made it all the more valuable. Today, I do not miss what I had, because I never misused it; but if duty could accommodate desire in order to make what I still have less futile, I would not be displeased.

• 19 Suzanne Necker, Sur un nouveau genre de spectateur in La Fabrique de l’intime, op. cit., p. 259.

From childhood, we should keep a diary so as to train our mind to be our counsellor, and our conscience to be our tutor – two aids we shall need throughout our lives. In this diary, we would study ourselves constantly; we would compare our character with our principles, our religious beliefs with our faults, our sensibilities with our vanity; we would thus attempt to correct our faults using our qualities, and to avoid wrongdoing using our principles. We would apply the fruits of this experience to all sorts of useful objects, and would thus complete a work, which throughout our life would serve as our code of moral, religious, domestic, emotional and civil conduct; which would guide us, in a word, in all of our dealings, be they ones of affection, gratitude, fortune, health, or happiness. This book, to which we would add observations each day, would help to make us better and happier. We would never read it without profit; it would make any other work of morality and conduct superfluous, with the exception of the Gospels.19

24The daughter of pastor Curchod was obviously influenced by the protestant tradition. The members of reformed denominations, particularly in the English-speaking world, were encouraged to compose conversion narratives. Their preferred reading material was the same as Suzanne Necker’s: the Gospels. It is noteworthy how she turns the cult of appearance into a process of self-inspection and how she channels the worldly energies of the Spectator into a capacity for self-analysis aimed at self-improvement.

25In the case of Marie-Aimée Steck-Guichelin, a Frenchwoman who had a Swiss husband and spent the second half of her life in Berne, we get self-examinations that offer a real picture of her interior life. She converted to Protestantism when she married, and her Cahiers are probably a reflection not only of her character, but also of a whole social climate. They include remarks such as these:

In order always to act well, one must not scrupulously weigh each of one’s actions, but rather strive without respite to purify the source of all action: feelings and thought. It is the inner movements that one must survey with care. It is not exterior acts, but the habits of the soul that make for true virtue.

How many times have I found myself harbouring thoughts which, if not criminal, are at least unworthy of the dignity of my Nature! What terrible effects are wrought by such habits of pettiness, superficiality and frivolity, which I fall into without noticing, such careless abandonment to frequently reprehensible thoughts, to incoherent ideas that lead neither to truth, goodness or beauty?

• 20 Marie-Aimée Steck-Guichelin, Cahiers, in C. Seth, La Fabrique de l’intime, op. cit., p. 1004-1005.

When will I manage to train my soul to be constant in its pursuit of all that is noble and useful, to acquire that instinct for goodness and beauty which would cause me to avert my eyes and my thoughts, as if involuntarily, from everything that does not display these two qualities? I feel how necessary it is to be able to command one’s thoughts, forever to channel them towards a worthy end.20

26In writing where authors deal with their innermost being, there is a rejection of the stasis of the portrait. While painting focuses, by its very definition, on a single moment that encapsulates, as in the case of Nattier’s portraits, a certain perfection, which seems, at least superficially, immune to corruption or even evolution – in the process smoothing over the details in order to produce an unified ideal –, writing allows them to gauge change, to express regret about it, and to imagine further transformation in the future.

28When autobiographical texts offer a set appearance, as though frozen in time, they do so in the manner of the preterit referring to a bygone past. Manon Roland picks out what has changed and what has stayed the same. She conveys her current likeness, both relative to shared norms and to what she no longer is:

At fourteen, as now, I was about five feet tall, having already reached my full height. I had good legs, firm feet, well-rounded hips, a broad and gorgeously ample bosom, narrow shoulders, a firm and gracious demeanour, a lightness and fleetness of step – that was the overall picture. My face was in no way exceptional, apart from its great freshness, gentleness and expressivity. If one were to list its features, one might wonder where its beauty lies – none is regular, yet they are all appealing. The mouth is a little big, thousands are prettier, but none has a more tender or seductive smile. The eyes, on the other hand, are not very big, and the iris is brownish grey; however, with their openness, as well as the frankness, liveliness and gentleness of their gaze, which looks out from under well shaped eyebrows of the same brown as the hair, their expression varies in accordance with the affectionate soul which they reflect. Serious and proud, they sometimes surprise, but more often caress, and always stimulate. The nose was an annoyance; I found it a little big at the tip. However, all in all, and above all in profile, it did nothing to spoil the rest.

29Aware of the changes time had brought, the muse of the Girondins managed to see her younger self again – or rather to see herself in a way in which she could not see herself as an adolescent. She was now able to judge with the benefit of hindsight. She made this portrait knowing full well not only that she was no longer as fresh as in her youth, but also, I think, that her death was imminent. (It is worth remembering that prisoners in the Revolutionary gaols had their pictures drawn or painted – Suvée made portraits of Chénier and Roucher, for instance.) In these cases, it was a matter of saving something from the impending abyss. The instinct was that of preserving oneself from total oblivion.

30The idea of disappearance or erasure seems a useful one to understand further ramifications of the female self-portrait. Indeed, the presence of women of the Eighteenth Century often needs to be sought out as it is hidden in the shadows – we can make it out directly in financial accounts, as in the case of Rosalba Carriera, but also obliquely reflected elsewhere. Let me explain what I mean: the authors of memoirs more often than not give precedence to third-party depictions. As studies of Madame de Genlis among others have shown, one genre enjoyed an unprecedented success at the end of the Enlightenment: the educational diary. Numerous mothers wrote about their children. They only mentioned themselves in passing, when it was absolutely necessary to their depiction of their main protagonist – Adélaïde de Castellane, whom I mentioned above, or Charlotte-Nicole Coquebert de Montbret are good cases in point. They did not obey the rules of traditional memoirs, whose goal was to depict affairs of State about which the author might have some personal insights to offer, but, rather, they placed front and centre an individual in the process of being educated, not yet fully capable of expressing him or herself, a person who was still an infans, in the etymological sense of the term: even if the child had learned to speak, he or she still had growing up to do. In such works, more often than not conceived for a small private audience, the author only appears occasionally, mostly in the shadows or indirectly illuminated by the light emanating from the being who occupies centre stage. The pedagogical function of such works is sometimes clearly expressed, as in this case, where Charlotte-Nicole Coquebert de Montbret writes:

• 22 Charlotte-Nicole Coquebert de Montbret, Journal d’Ernest et de Cécile, in C. Seth, La Fabrique de l (...)

I imagine my Cécile aged between twelve and thirteen years of age, reading the notebook which is about her, noticing with interest the remarks I made about her when she was five or six, eager to reach the final page to see what I think of her now. I can see how moved she will be reading all the good things I have to say of her, and her distress if I criticise her. I can look into her heart in advance and read all the resolutions she will make, and if, a few months later, she makes the same mistakes, I will l only have to say: “What about the notebook?” I am sure she will not do a good deed just for it to be written down in the notebook, but if she does something good that she suspects I have failed to observe, and then reads about it in my handwriting, she will experience a warm feeling that is legitimate in addition to the reward that doing good already provides.22

31In this passage, we learn more about the educator than about her pupil. The fact that it is by proxy confers legitimacy on her self-depiction. She places the maternal role at the heart of female existence as a result of social pressures: denying women access to public freedom of expression and to many professions, leads to them indirectly to consider they are forbidden to think of themselves independently from the family.

32In a world which cultivated appearances but refused to idolise them, the female self-portrait was always treated with suspicion. It was acceptable only when in the service of something else: a practical goal, as in the case of Rosalba Carriera, who had professional interests to pursue; or an edifying one, as in Françoise-Radegonde Le Noir’s pursuit of self-improvement through the telling of her life. The self-portrait could constitute a stage in one’s personal development, as evidenced by the notion of Internal Spectator invented by Suzanne Necker. Indirect or implicit portraits show how it was often easier for a woman to envision herself through a role, particularly that of a mother. Let us leave the last word to Victoire Monnard, a woman who would have been amazed to learn that her memories had been preserved, but who felt herself reborn when she gave birth to her son:

• 23 Victoire Monnard, Souvenirs, in C. Seth, La Fabrique de l’intime, op. cit., p. 1118.

It is difficult to put into words what I felt upon seeing my first child. My heart and my eyes strove to uncover what was going on in those of my visitors. I feared they might not sufficiently appreciate the beauty of what I had produced, and I resented them if they failed to show a desire to contemplate him. If they paid him too much attention, holding on to him for too long, I became worried, jealous, and wanted him back close to me, all to myself. The pleasure at seeing myself reborn made me ecstatic for it is in the very nature of women to reach the pinnacle of happiness by reproducing.23