The Blog

On this day, as the United States celebrates the 250^th anniversary of its independence, it is tempting to invoke the great names and grand events: Independence, Revolution, Yorktown, Washington, Lafayette, Rochambeau… History with a capital H, resounding with drawn swords and rolling drums.

And yet, sometimes History hides inside a very small book.

This one fits comfortably in the palm of the hand. A modest duodecimo manuscript, unassuming in size yet remarkable in what it reveals. Its title is *La Santa Messa, e Preghiere*. It was written in 1767 by Jeanne-Thérèse d'Acosta, Countess of Rochambeau, wife of Jean-Baptiste Donatien de Vimeur, Count of Rochambeau—the future commander of the French expeditionary force sent to America, whose cooperation with George Washington would prove decisive in securing victory at Yorktown.

The scene takes place fourteen years before that famous battle. Rochambeau, then a *maréchal de camp* in the French army, had not yet become, in American eyes, the French hero of Independence. Here he is simply a husband.

And this little book is a gift.

The Countess, who was practising her Italian, carefully translated a Catholic missal and prayer book in her own hand. She then presented it to her husband with a dedication of disarming tenderness:

"A te, diletto mio Sposo, le primizie del mio studio nell'Itala favella offro de buon cuore in omagio (…). Gradisci, te ne suplico, il buon cuore della tua affezzionatissima Sposa…"

"To you, my beloved husband, I wholeheartedly offer the first fruits of my study of the Italian language (...) Accept, I beseech you, the devoted heart of your most affectionate wife…"

What do we see here? Diligence, affection, modesty - and perhaps even a smile. The manuscript was bound at the time in calf, with a gilt monogram "R" stamped at the centre of each cover. Not an emblem of military glory, but the discreet mark of conjugal intimacy.

That is precisely what makes this object so moving. It does not show Rochambeau on the battlefield, nor devising the strategies that would help secure American independence. Instead, it presents him in the privacy of domestic life, receiving from his wife a token of love, study, and fidelity.

National anniversaries naturally commemorate events, dates, battles and heroes. But heroes have lives before they become statues. They receive gifts. They keep books. They read inscriptions written for their eyes alone.

This little sentimental relic of one of America's liberators reminds us that behind History with a capital H there is always a smaller, more intimate story. It is precisely this constellation of seemingly minor details that lends depth and perspective to the narrative of great events.

Does such a manuscript truly belong in a collection devoted to the history of the United States?

At first glance, nothing would seem to connect it with that subject. It says nothing about America, the War of Independence, or even Rochambeau himself. It is simply a devotional book translated into Italian by his wife and presented to him as a token of affection. Yet is it not meaningful to know that the hero of Yorktown crossed the Atlantic to wage war, leaving behind a wife who had loved him so tenderly?

If a prayer book presented to George Washington by Martha Washington were discovered today, or a grammar manuscript written by Joséphine for Napoleon, or a domestic notebook given by Clementine Churchill to her husband, many of us would undoubtedly regard such documents as essential sources for understanding these historical figures.

The question, then, is worth asking: should a historical collection be limited to documents that recount events directly, or should it also embrace those that illuminate the private lives of the men and women who shaped them?

Whether you are a bibliophile, an antiquarian bookseller, or the curator of a special collections library, we invite you to share your thoughts.

And if one of these fascinating, unclassifiable books happens to be hiding in your own collection, we would be delighted if you introduced it to us. We have an irresistible fondness for works whose significance unfolds through many different facets.