prosperity. Highly favoured by the king, the cabals formed against him,
and the enemies that his wit excited, were powerless to injure. He was
the favorite of the best society in Paris; to have him to read a play,
was giving to any assembly the stamp of fashion as well as wit and
intellect. He numbered among his chosen and dearest friends the wits of
the age. Disappointment and vexation had followed him at home; and his
wife's misconduct and heartlessness having led him at last to separate
from her, he endeavoured to secure to himself such peace as celibacy
permitted. As much time as his avocations as actor and manager permitted
he spent at his country house at Auteuil: here he reserved an apartment
for his old schoolfellow, the gay, thoughtless Chapelle; here Boileau
also had a house; and at one or the other the common friends of both
assembled, and repasts were held where wit and gaiety reigned. Molière
himself was too often the least animated of the party: he was apt to be
silent and reserved in society[44], more intent on observing and
listening than in endeavouring to shine. There was a vein of melancholy
in his character, which his domestic infelicity caused to increase. He
loved order in his household, and was annoyed by want of neatness and
regularity: in this respect the heedless Chapelle was ill suited to be
his friend; and often Molière shut himself up in solitude.
There are many anecdotes connected with this knot of friends: the famous
supper, which Voltaire tries to bring into discredit, but which Louis
Racine vouches for as being frequently related by Boileau himself
occurred at Molière's house at Auteuil. Almost all the wits were there
except Racine, who was excluded by his quarrel with Molière. There were
Lulli, Jonsac, Boileau, Chapelle, the young actor Barron, and others.
Molière was indisposed--he had renounced animal food and wine, and was
in no humour to join his friends, so went to bed, leaving them to the
enjoyment of their supper. No one was more ready to make the most of
good cheer than Chapelle, whose too habitual inebriety was in vain
combatted, and sometimes imitated by his associates. On this occasion
they drank till their good spirits turned to maudlin sensibility.
Chapelle, the reckless and the gay, began to descant on the emptiness of
life--the vain nature of its pleasures--the ennui of its tedious hours:
the other guests agreed with him. Why live on then, to endure
disappointment after disappointment? how much more heroic to die at
once! The party had arrived at a pitch of excitement that rendered them
ready to adopt any ridiculous or senseless idea; they all agreed that
life was contemptible, death desirable: Why then not die? the act would
be heroic; and, dying all together, they would obtain the praise that
ancient heroes acquired by self-immolation. They all rose to walk down
to the river, and throw themselves in. The young Barron, an actor and
protégé of Molière, had more of his senses about him: he ran to awake
Molière, who, hearing that they had already left the house, and were
proceeding towards the river, hurried after them: already the stream was
in sight. When he came up, they hailed him as a companion in their
heroic act, and he agreed to join them: "But not to-night:" he said "so
great a deed should not be shrouded in darkness; it deserves daylight to
illustrate it: let us wait till morning." His friends considered this
new argument as conclusive: they returned to the house; and, going to
bed, rose on the morrow sober, and content to live.
[Sidenote: 1570.
Ætat.
40.]
Among such friends--wild, gay, and witty--Molière might easily have his
attention directed to farcical and amusing subjects. Some say that
"Monsieur Porceaugnac" was founded on the adventure of a poor rustic,
who fled from pursuing doctors through the streets of Paris: it is one
of the most ridiculous as well as lively of his smaller pieces; but so
excellent is the comic dialogue, that Diderot well remarks, that the
critic would be much mistaken who should think that there were more men
capable of writing "Monsieur Porceaugnac" than of composing the
"Misanthrope." This piece has of course been adapted to the English
stage; and an Irishman is burdened with all the follies, blunders, and
discomfitures of the French provincial; with this difference, that the
"brave Irishman" breaks through all the evils spread to catch him, and,
triumphing over his rival, carries off the lady. The "Bourgeois
Gentilhomme" deserves higher praise; and _M. Jourdain_, qualifying
himself for nobility, has been the type of a series of characters,
imitating, but never surpassing, the illustrious original. This play was
brought out at Chambord, before the king. Louis listened to it in
silence; and no voice dared applaud: as absence of praise denoted
censure to the courtiers, so none of them could be amused; they
ridiculed the very idea of the piece, and pronounced the author's vein
worn out. They scouted the fanciful nonsense of the ballet, in which the
_Bourgeois_ is created Mamamouchi by the agents of the grand signor, and
invested with a fantastic order of knighthood. The truth is, that
Molière nowhere displayed a truer sense of fanciful comedy than in
varying and animating with laughable doggrel and incidents the ballets
that accompanied his comedies; the very nonsense of the choruses, being
in accordance with the dresses and scenes, becomes wit. The courtiers
found this on other occasions, but now their faces elongated as Louis
looked grave: the king was mute; they fancied by sarcasm to echo a voice
they could not hear. Molière was mortified; while the royal listener
probably was not at all alive to the damning consequences of his
hesitation. On the second representation, the reverse of the medal was
presented. "I did not speak of your play the first day," said Louis,
"for I fancied I was carried away by the admirable acting; but indeed,
Molière, you never have written any thing that diverted me so much:
your piece is excellent." And now the courtiers found the point of the
dialogue, the wit of the situations, the admirable truth of the
characters. They could remember that M. Jourdain's surprise at the
discovery that he had been talking prose all his life, was a witty
plagiarism from the count de Soissons' own lips--they could even enjoy
the fun of the unintelligible mummery of the dancing Turks; and one of
the noblest among them, who had looked censure itself on the preceding
evening, could exclaim in a smiling ecstasy of praise: "Molière is
inimitable--he has reached a point of perfection to which none of the
ancients ever attained."
The "Fourberies de Scapin" followed--the play that could excite Boileau's
bile; so that not all his admiration of its author could prevent his
exclaiming:--
"Dans ce sac ridicule où Scapin s'envelope,
Je ne reconnais plus l'auteur du Misanthrope."
Still the comedy of tricks and hustle is still comedy, and will amuse;
and there crept into the dialogue also the true spirit of Molière; the
humour of the father's frequent question: "_Que diable alla-t-il faire
dans cette galère_," has rendered the expression a proverb.
_The Countess d'Escarbagnas_ is very amusing. The old dowager, teaching
country bumpkins to behave like powdered gold-caned footmen; her disdain
for her country neighbours, and glory in her title, are truly French,
and give us an insight into the deep-seated prejudices that separated
noble and ignoble, and Parisians from provincials, in that country
before the revolution.
The "Femmes Savantes" followed, and was an additional proof that his
vein not only was not exhausted, but that it was richer and purer than
ever; and that while human nature displayed follies, he could put into
the framework of comedy, pictures, that by the grouping and the vivid
colouring showed him to be master of his art. The pedantic spirit that
had succeeded to the sentimentality of _les Précieuses_, the authors of
society, whose impromptus and sonnets were smiled on in place of the
exiled Platonists of the _ruelle_, lent a rich harvest. "Les Femme
Savantes" echoed the conversations of the select coteries of female
pretension. The same spirit of pedantry existed some five and twenty
years ago, when the blues reigned; and there was many a
"Bustling Botherby to show 'em
That charming passage in the last new poem."
That day is over: whether the present taste for mingled politics and
inanity is to be preferred is a question; but we may imagine how far
posterity will prefer it, when we compare the many great names of those
days with the "small and far between" of the present. Bluism and
pedantry may be the poppies of a wheat-field, but they show the
prodigality of the Ceres which produces both. We are tempted, as a last
extract, to quote portions of the scene in which the learned ladies
receive their favourite, _Trissotin_, with enthusiasm, and he recites
his poetry for their delight.
"PHILAMINTE.
Servez nous promptement votre aimable repas.
TRISSOTIN.
Pour cette grande faim qu'à mes yeux on expose,
Un plat seul de huit vers me semble peu de chose;
Et je pense qu'ici je ne ferai pas mal
De joindre à l'épigramme, ou bien au madrigal,
Le ragoût d'un sonnet qui, chez une princesse,
Est passé pour avoir quelque délicatesse.
Il est de sel attique assaisonné partout,
Et vous le trouverez, je crois, d'assez bon goût.
ARMANDE.
Ah! je n'en doute point.
PHILAMINTE.
Donnons vite audience.
BÉLISE (_interrompant Trissotin chaque fois qu'il se dispose à lire_).
Je sens d'aise mon cœur tressaillir par avance.
J'aime la poésie avec entêtement,
Et surtout quand les vers sont tournés galamment.
PHILAMINTE.
Si nous parlons toujours, il ne pourra rien dire.
TRISSOTIN.
So----
BÉLISE.
Silence, ma nièce.
ARMANDE.
Ah! laissez-le donc lire!
TRISSOTIN.
_Sonnet à la Princesse Uranie, sur sa fièvre._
Votre prudence est endormie,
De traiter magnifiquement,
Et de loger superbement,
Votre plus cruelle ennemie.
BÉLISE.
Ah! le joli début.
ARMANDE.
Qu'il a le tour galant!
PHILAMINTE.
Lui seul des vers aisés possède le talent.
ARMANDE.
A _prudence endormie_ il faut rendre les armes.
BÉLISE.
_Loger son ennemie_ est pour moi plein de charmes.
PHILAMINTE.
J'aime _superbement_ et _magnifiquement_:
Ces deux adverbes joints font admirablement.
BÉLISE.
Prêtons l'oreille au reste.
TRISSOTIN.
Faites-la sortir, quoi qu'on die.
De votre riche appartement,
Où cette ingrate insolemment
Attaque votre belle vie.
BÉLISE.
Ah! tout doux, laissez-moi, de grace, respirer.
ARMANDE.
Donnez-nous, s'il vous plait, le loisir d'admirer.
PHILAMINTE.
On se sent, à ces vers, jusqu'au fond de l'âme
Couler je ne sais quoi, qui fait que l'on se pâme.
ARMANDE.
'Faites-la sortir, quoi qu'on die.
De votre riche appartement.'
Que _riche appartement_ est là joliment dit!
Et que la métaphore est mise avec esprit!
PHILAMINTE.
'Faites-la sortir, quoi qu'on die.'
Ah! que ce _quoi qu'on die_ est d'un goût admirable,
C'est, à mon sentiment, un endroit impayable.
ARMANDE.
De _quoi qu'on die_ aussi mon cœur est amoureux.
BÉLISE.
Je suis de votre avis, _quoi qu'on die_ est heureux.
ARMANDE.
Je voudrois l'avoir fait.
BÉLISE.
Il vaut toute une pièce.
PHILAMINTE.
Mais en comprend-on bien, comme moi, la finesse?
ARMANDE _et_ BÉLISE.
Oh, oh!
PHILAMINTE.
'Faites-la sortir, quoi qu'on die.'
Que de la fièvre on prenne ici les intérêts;
N'ayez aucun égard, moquez-vous des caquets:
'Faites-la sortir, quoi qu'on die.
Quoi qu'on die, quoi qu'on die.'
Ce _quoi qu'on die_ en dit beaucoup plus qu'il ne semble.
Je ne sais pas, pour moi, si chacun me ressemble;
Mais j'entends là-dessous un million de mots.
BÉLISE.
Il est vrai qu'il dit plus de choses qu'il n'est gros.
PHILAMINTE, _à Trissotin._
Mais quand vous avez fait ce charmant _quoi qu'on die._
Avez-vous compris, vous, toute son énergie?
Songiez-vous bien vous-mème à tout ce qu'il nous dit,
Et pensiez-vous alors y mettre tant d'esprit?
TRISSOTIN.
Hai! hai!"
This scene proceeds a long time; and at length the pedant, _Vadius_,
enters, and _Trissotin_ presents him to the ladies.
TRISSOTIN.
"Il a des vieux auteurs la pleine intelligence,
Et sait du grec, madame, autant qu'homme de France.
PHILAMINTE.
Du grec! O ciel! du grec! il sait du grec, ma sœur.
BÉLISE.
Ah, my nièce, du grec!
ARMANDE.
Du grec! quelle douceur!
PHILAMINTE.
Quoi! monsieur sait du grec? Ah! permettez, de grace,
Que, pour l'amour du grec, monsieur, on vous embrasse."
The pedants at first compliment each other extravagantly, and then
quarrel extravagantly; and _Vadius_ exclaims,--
"Oui, oui, je te renvoie à l'auteur des Satires.
TRISSOTIN.
Je t'y renvoie aussi.
VADIUS.
J'ai le contentement
Qu'on voit qu'il m'a traité plus honorablement.
* * * *
Ma plume t'apprendra quel homme je puis être.
TRISSOTIN.
Et la mienne saura te faire voir ton maître.
VADIUS.
Je te défie en vers, en prose, grec et latin.
TRISSOTIN.
Eh bien! nous nous verrons seul à seul chez Barbin."
It must be remarked that, in the favourite of these learned ladies of
the stage, _Trissotin_, the spectators perceived the Magnus Apollo of
the real ones, l'abbé Cotin; and, as the epigram _Trissotin_ recites
was really written by Cotin, there can be no doubt that Molière held up
the literary productions of the man to ridicule--but it is false that he
made him personally laughable. Cotin was a priest; and, when Molière
made _Trissotin_ a layman, who aspired to the hand of one of the
personages, he might believe that he took all personal sting from his
satire. The public fixed the name of _Vadius_ on Menage: the latter was
far too clever to allow that the cap fitted. "Is it to be borne that
this man should thus make game of us?" said madame de Rambouillet to
Menage, on their return from the first representation of the play.
"Madame," said Menage, "the play is admirable; there is not a word to be
said against it."
Molière's career was drawing to a close; he was overworked, and did not
take sufficient care of his health: he despised the medicinal art such
as it then existed, and rejected its remedies. "What do you do with your
doctor?" asked the king, when Molière applied for a canonicate for the
son of M. de Mauvillain, the physician, whose patient he said "he had
the honour to be." "We converse together," he replied; "he writes
prescriptions which I do not take, and I recover." A weak chest and a
perpetual cough was indeed best medicated by the sober regimen and milk
diet to which he long adhered; and while he adhered to it his life
seemed safe. Mutual friends had interfered with success in reconciling
him and his wife; and the order of his simple table being altered by her
presence, he yielded to her instigations in adopting a more generous
diet: his cough became worse, in consequence.
[Sidenote: 1673.
Ætat.]
When he brought out the "Malade Imaginaire" he was really ill; but such
was his sense of duty towards his fellow comedians, that he would not be
turned from his intention of acting the principal character. The play
was warmly received. Though more adverse to our taste and tone than
almost any of Molière's, it is impossible not to be highly amused. Sir
Walter Scott well remarks, that the mixture of frugality and love of
medicine in the "Malade Imaginaire" himself is truly comic: his
credulity as to the efficacy of the draughts, and his resolution only to
pay half-price for them--his anxious doubts of whether, in the exercise
prescribed to him he is to walk across his room, or up and down--his
annoyance at having taken one third less physic this month than he had
done the last and his expostulation at the cost,--"_C'est se moquer,
il faut vivre avec les malades--si vous en usez comme cela, on ne voudra
plus être malade--mettez quatre francs, s'il vous plait_,"--is very
comic; as is also the sober pedantry of _Thomas Diafoirus_, and his long
orations, when he addresses his intended bride as her mother, is in the
most amusing spirit of comedy. Meanwhile, as the audience laughed, the
poet and actor was dying. On the fourth night he was evidently worse;
Barron and others tried to dissuade him from his task. "How can I?" he
replied, "There are fifty poor workmen whose bread depends on the daily
receipt. I should reproach myself if I deprived them of it." It was with
great difficulty however that he went through the part; and in the last
entrée of the ballet, as he pronounced the word _juro_, he was seized
by a vehement cough and convulsions, so violent that the spectators
became aware that something was wrong; and the curtain failing soon
after, he was carried home dying. His cough was so violent that a
blood-vessel broke; and he, becoming aware of his situation, desired
that a priest might be sent for. One after another was sent to, who, to
the disgrace of their profession, refused the consolations of religion
to a dying fellow-creature--to the greatest of their countrymen. It was
long before one was found, willing to obey the summons; and, during this
interval, he was suffocated by the blood that flowed from his lungs. He
expired, attended only by a few friends, and by two sisters of charity,
whom he was accustomed to receive in his house each year, when they came
to Paris to collect alms during Lent.
Dying thus, without the last ceremonies of the catholic religion, and,
consequently, without having renounced his profession, Harley,
archbishop of Paris, refused the rites of sepulture to the revered
remains. Harley was a man of vehement, vindictive temper. His life had
been so dissolute that he died the victim of his debaucheries--this was
the very man to presume on his station, and to insult all France by
staining her history with an act of intolerance.[45] Molière's wife was
with him at his death; and probably at the moment was truly grieved by
his loss--at least she felt bitterly the clerical outrage. "What," she
cried, "refuse burial to one who deserves that altars should be erected
to him!" She hastened to Versailles, accompanied by the curate of
Auteuil, to throw herself at the king's feet, and implore his
interference. She conducted herself with considerable indiscretion, by
speaking the truth to royal ears; telling the king, that if "her husband
was a criminal, his crimes had been authorised by his majesty himself."
Louis might have forgiven the too great frankness of the unhappy
widow--but her companion, the curate, rendered him altogether indisposed
to give ear; when, instead of simply urging the request for which he
came, he seized this opportunity of trying to exculpate himself from a
charge of jansenism. The king, irritated by this _mal à propos_, dismissed
both supplicants abruptly; merely saying, that the affair depended on
the archbishop of Paris. Nevertheless he at the same time gave private
directions to Harley to take off his interdiction. The curate of the
parish, however, in a servile and insolent spirit, refused to attend the
funeral; and it was agreed that the body should not be presented in
church, but simply conveyed to the grave, accompanied by two
ecclesiastics. How deeply does one mourn the prejudice that caused the
survivors to submit to this series of outrages; and the manners of the
times that prevented their choosing some spot more holy than a parish
churchyard, since it would be consecrated solely to Molière; and,
disdaining clerical intolerance, bear him in triumph to the grave over
which bigotry could have no control.
How far such an act was impossible at that time, when religious disputes
and persecutions raged highly, is demonstrated by the conduct of the mob
on the day of his funeral. Excited by some low and bigotted priests, a
crowd of the vilest populace assembled before Molière's door, ready to
insult the humble procession. The widow was alarmed--she was advised to
throw a quantity of silver among the crowd: nearly a thousand francs,
thus distributed, changed at once the intentions of the rioters; and
they accompanied the funeral respectfully, and in silence.
[Sidenote: 1673.]
The body was carried, on the evening of the 21st of February, to the
cemetery of St. Joseph, Rue Mont Martre, followed by two priests, and
about a hundred persons, either friends or acquaintances of the
deceased, each bearing a torch. No funeral chaunt or prayer honoured the
interment; but it must have been difficult in the hearts of attached
friends or upright men to suppress the indignation such a vain attempt
at contumely naturally excited.
Every one who knew Molière loved him. He was generous, charitable, and
warm-hearted. His sense of duty towards his company induced him to
remain an actor, when his leaving the stage would have opened the door
to honours eagerly sought after and highly esteemed by the first men of
the day. It was deliberated, to elect him a member of the French
academy. The academicians felt that they should be honoured by such a
member, and wished him to give up acting low comedy; without which they
fancied that the dignity of the academy would be degraded. Boileau tried
to persuade his friend to renounce the stage, Molière refused: he said,
he was attached to it by a point of honour. "What honour?" cried
Boileau, "that of painting your face, and making a fool of yourself?"
Molière felt that by honour he was engaged to give all the support he
could to a company whose existence (as it was afterwards proved)
depended on his exertions: and besides, his point of honour might mean a
steady adherence to the despised stage; so that the slur of his
secession might not be added to the ignominy already heaped upon it. He
had a delicacy of feeling that went beyond Boileau--that of shrinking
from insulting his fellow actors by seceding from among them, and of
choosing to show to the world that he thought it no dishonour to
exercise his talent for its amusement. In his heart, indeed, he knew the
annoyances attached to his calling; when a young man came to ask him to
facilitate his going on the stage, and Molière, inquiring who he was,
learnt that his father was an advocate in good practice, on which he
represented forcibly the evils that attend the life of an actor. "I
advise you," he continued, "to adopt your father's profession--ours will
not suit you; it is the last resource of those who have nothing better,
or who are too idle to work. Besides, you will deeply pain your
relations. I always regret the sorrow I occasioned mine; and would not
do so could I begin again. You think perhaps that we have our pleasures;
but you deceive yourself. Apparently we are sought after by the great;
it is true, we are the ministers of their amusement--but there is
nothing so sad as being the slaves of their caprice. The rest of the
world look on us as the refuse of mankind, and despise us accordingly."
Chapelle came in while this argument was going on; and, taking the
opposite side, exclaimed: "Do you love pleasure? then be sure you will
have more in six months as an actor than in six years at the bar." But
Molière's earnest and well-founded arguments were more powerful than
the persuasions of his volatile friend.