La terre après le trépas,
À ceux qui, pendant leur vie,
Ont joué la comédie,
Pourquoi ne jette-t-on pas
Les bigots à la voirie?
Ils sont dans le même cas."
Boileau also alludes to the scandalous and impious treatment of his
friend's remains.]
[Footnote 46: He does less justice to his personal character even than
to his works. No one can read the biographies of Molière without
admiring the honourable, generous, and kindly nature of the man;
Schlegel slurs over these qualities, and endeavours to stamp him as a
mere court buffoon.]
LA FONTAINE
1621-1695
The life of this celebrated fabulist is marked by fewer incidents than
the generality even of literary lives. Unambitious, indolent, "simple,"
it has been said, "as the heroes of his own fables," and subject to the
most whimsical lapses of thought and memory, his habitual state was a
sort of abstracted ruminating quietism, roused from which, he amused by
his singularities, or delighted by his inspirations. He lived almost a
stranger to the literary disputes of his time. Personal resentment or
dislike was a feeling too uncongenial, and an effort too fatiguing, for
him to sustain, beyond the excitement of the moment, even on two
occasions when he was wantonly ill used. His designation of "bon homme,"
first applied to him by Boileau and Racine, then by the public, and
since by posterity, paints him very happily. The particulars recorded of
him are what would naturally be expected--traits of character rather
than events.
Jean de la Fontaine was born on the 8th day of July, 1621, at Château
Thierry. Some of his biographers have maintained his pretensions to
nobility with a silly zeal. His father, Jean de la Fontaine, was master
or keeper of the royal domains in his district, which appears to have
been an honourable charge. The youth of the poet gave no promise of his
future success. He was remarkable only for his dulness, and a certain
easy tractable good nature. His teachers pronounced him a well disposed
but hopeless dunce; but his father, a very zealous and still more
undiscerning admirer of poetry, resolved that he should cultivate the
muses,--and poor La Fontaine laboured with all the complaisance of
filial duty. His efforts were vain. He could not produce a rhyme,--he
who afterwards rhymed with so much felicity and abundance,--and who
alone, of all the poets of his country, before and since his time, has,
by the disposition of his rhymes and the structure of his verses,
completely vanquished the monotony of French versification.
The father did not abandon his cherished hopes until he beheld his son
arrived at the age of nineteen, when, disappointed of making him a poet,
he took the more feasible resolution of making him a priest. With no
other fruits of education than such a stock of Latin as a dull boy could
have acquired under a village schoolmaster, La Fontaine, now in his
twentieth year, entered the religious order of the "oratoire,"--in
passive compliance with the wishes of his father, and the example of his
brother, a respectable ecclesiastic, who was affectionately attached to
the poet, and who subsequently made over to him his share of their
paternal inheritance. It may be set down among the instances of La
Fontaine's characteristic simplicity, that he did not perceive his utter
inaptitude for such a life. He renounced the cloister and returned to
society after eighteen months. "The wonder is not," says the abbe
Olivet, "that La Fontaine threw off the fetters of a monastic life, but
that he ever assumed them;" to which it may be added, as a second
wonder, that after living, as he did, in ease and freedom, without
system or control, he was able to bear them so long.
It seems to have been his destiny in early life to have conditions
chosen for him by others, and adopted by himself, with a curious
opposition to his habits and character. Upon his return to the paternal
roof, his father proposed to him the transfer of his charge, and a
marriage with Marie d'Hericart, the daughter of a friend of his family.
La Fontaine accepted both, with the same unthinking docility. The duties
of his mastership of the royal domains were light and few, and his wife
had talents and beauty; but he neglected alike his official and domestic
obligations, with an innocent unconsciousness of both which disarmed
censure and silenced complaint.
It would appear that his father now thought once more of seeing him a
poet, hopeless as this appeared to everybody else, and to none more than
to La Fontaine. His perseverance was strangely rewarded at last. An
accident, or an incident so described, called forth the latent fire at
the age of twenty-two. The best company of the neighbourhood, and more
particularly those who had any pretensions to literature, visited the
father of La Fontaine. Among them an officer of the garrison at Château
Thierry, a great admirer and reciter of verse, brought with him the
poems of Malherbe, and read before young La Fontaine the ode on the
assassination of Henry IV. beginning--
"Que direz vous races futures."
Between the lyric spirit of the poet, and the energy of the declaimer,
La Fontaine's dormant faculty was suddenly excited. For some days he
could think of nothing but the odes of Malherbe. He read them, recited
them, spoke of them, with an unconscious and comic disregard of time,
place, and persons. He commenced immediately writing odes in imitation
of his great idol; and the happy father, on beholding his first essay,
wept for joy. But if La Fontaine had written nothing else, or if he had
always adhered to the same model, he would have left only the proofs of
his own mediocrity, and of his father's want of taste. The choice of
Malherbe was as unhappy a mistake of his peculiar genius as his previous
destination had been of his character. That poet's forced thoughts and
lofty diction are directly opposed to the simple graces of expression
and imagination which characterise La Fontaine. He fortunately
discovered his mistake, and the secret of his strength, chiefly through
the advice of a judicious friend. This was a man of cultivated mind,
named Pintrel, translator of the letters of Seneca. His name and his
translation would doubtless have sunk into oblivion, were they not thus
associated with the early studies of La Fontaine, who, ever grateful to
the memory of his guide and friend, republished the forgotten
translation.
La Fontaine's modern reading was hitherto confined to Malherbe,--his
education, to just as much or as little Latin as was requisite for his
admission to a religious order. Pintrel recommended to him the
abandonment of Malherbe and verse-making for a time, and the studious
perusal of Virgil, Horace, Terence, Livy, and Quintilian. He adopted
this judicious counsel, and improved at the same time his knowledge of
the Latin language and his taste. Horace, he long afterwards declared,
in a letter to the learned Huet, bishop of Avranches, saved him from
being spoiled by Malherbe.
It is a curious fact that, as La Fontaine became more conversant with
those antique and eternal models of true beauty, he disrelished the
French literature of his own time. He went back from the age of Louis
XIV. to that of Francis I., preferring the simple and undisciplined
manner of the one to the civilised, fastidious, and artificial system of
the other. The mere English reader will understand the nature and the
justice of this preference, by imagining an English writer, of the reign
of Charles II., discarding the wits of that reign for the redundant and
unadulterated literature of Elizabeth or Henry VIII.; and they who
understand the ancient classics in their spirit and genius, not in
external forms, will not be surprised by their producing this effect.
The true antique is simple and indulgent, as well as elegant, noble, and
governed by rules. It should not be forgotten, or lost sight of,
however, that at this period the French literature of the age of Louis
XIV. had not yet reached its distinctive character and excellence. The
Balzacs, Voitures, and Cotins, with their conceits and mannerisms, had
not yet been banished by the force of satire, and the example of better
taste in Boileau and Molière. Boileau had not yet written his satires
and art of poetry; Molière had not yet dissected, and exposed on the
stage, the verses of an admired court poet of the day.[47]
La Fontaine's favourite French writers, from the commencement to the end
of his literary career, were Rabelais and Clement Marot; the one for his
humour, invention, and happy manner of narrating, in his episodical and
most eccentric tales,--the other for his gaiety and naïveté,--and both
for the archaic simplicity of their diction. He also read with delight
Ariosto, Boccaccio, and Machiavelli,--the last named not only in his
lighter, but more serious works. Being asked why he preferred the
writers of Italy to those of his own nation, he replied, in that tone of
simplicity, bordering on silliness, which obtained him the name of "bon
homme," that "they diverted him more." This avowed predilection for the
great writers of Italy, at a time when they were not appreciated in
France, when Boileau had the impertinence to speak lightly of "Messire
Arioste," proves not only the instinctive correctness of his taste, but
the independence of his judgment.
Wholly ignorant of the Greek language in his youth, he was too indolent
to acquire it at a later period. Translations, and the help of a friend,
named Maucroix, who aided him in his studies, like Pintrel, supplied
this defect,--as far as it could be supplied. La Fontaine, in return,
associated Maucroix, a good scholar, an indifferent poet, and a true
friend, with his own immortality, in his letters and minor poems. It may
be observed, that, when he resorts to the Greek writers, he seizes their
spirit with a justness which would imply a knowledge of their language.
This is ascribed to his early intimacy with Racine, who was the most
accomplished Greek scholar of his country, and explained as well as
translated several portions of the Greek classics for the use of his
friend. La Fontaine chiefly delighted in Plutarch and Plato. His
partiality to the former may be easily conceived. The lives of Plutarch
were calculated to charm his indolence and his imagination. There is
something not quite so obvious in his choice of Plato. But the attentive
reader will discover, in his fables and tales, traits of observation and
ethical philosophy the most profound, as well as ingenious,--worthy of
Plato, or of Machiavelli,--yet so happily disposed, and so simply
expressed, as to appear perfectly in their place. The abbé Olivet
mentions his having seen a copy of Plato once possessed by La Fontaine,
and noted by him in such a manner as to betray the source of many of his
maxims and observations.
It is curious and instructive to observe one who has been regarded as
essentially the poet of nature--one supposed never to have meditated or
read--thus storing his mind with knowledge from the best sources, and
forming his taste after the best models. His verses even, indolent as he
was, and easy and careless as they seem, were slowly and laboriously
produced. He has declared this in his letters and prefaces, and it is
attested by some who knew him. The fact cannot be too strongly
impressed. Mistaken or misrepresented instances of uncultivated genius,
and of composition without labour or length of time, too frequently
stimulate ignorant and pretending mediocrity to teaze the press and the
public with commonplaces, without value as without number.
La Fontaine continued some years at Château Thierry, obscure and
indolent,--neglecting his charge, his family, and his fortune,--reading
his favourite authors, writing verse, and translating Terence. The
preface to his poem of "Adonis," and its being composed in heroic verse,
for which he had an early predilection, would imply that it was written
during this period. Most of his other earlier verses have been lost
through his neglect of the manuscripts; but, judging by some early
pieces given in his posthumous works, their disappearance is scarcely to
be regretted.
The monotony of his rural life was broken only by a visit to Paris, or
some village adventure. The following affair is truly curious, as
illustrating the character of the man:--Some self-called friends, either
in jest or malice, intimated to him that the frequent visits of an old
military officer, named Poignan, at his house, compromised the
reputation of madame La Fontaine, and that her husband was bound in
honour to challenge him. La Fontaine, the most negligent of husbands,
and the most easy and credulous of mankind, listened implicitly to their
counsel, made an extraordinary effort to rise at five in the morning,
girded on his sword, sallied forth, and found Poignan in bed. "My dear
friend," said the old captain, "what brings you out so early? Has any
misfortune happened? Is your house on fire?" "Rise, and follow me,"
said the poet. The captain repeated and reiterated his entreaties for
some explanation, but in vain. He was obliged to leave his bed, arm
himself, and follow La Fontaine, without the remotest idea of his
purpose. After they had gone some short distance. La Fontaine stopped,
drew his sword, and desired his companion to draw and defend himself.
The latter, having no alternative, drew in his own defence; and, with
his superior address as a military man, disarmed the poet at the first
pass. He now obtained an explanation. "They have told me," said La
Fontaine, "that I ought to fight you, because you go to my house to see
my wife." "My dear friend," replied the captain, who was past the age of
gallantry, and, having neither family nor occupations, sought, in his
visits, only an escape from ennui, "you have been abused, and I
slandered: but, to set your mind quite at ease, I will never again cross
your threshold, grievous as the privation is to me." "No, my friend,"
rejoined the poet, "I have satisfied them by fighting you, as they
advised me, and henceforth you shall come to my house more frequently
than ever." This anecdote is scarce reconcilable with the maxims of one
who reduced the question of conjugal fidelity to the following
dilemma:--"Quand on ne le scait pas, ce n'est rien--quand on le scait
c'est peu de choses." But it has passed without question in every
biographical notice of him.
La Fontaine, according to some accounts, was an unfaithful as well as
negligent husband. But his rural gallantries, besides the uncertain
evidence of them, are too frivolous to be noticed here.
Opinions and representations are divided as respects madame La Fontaine.
According to some, her talents and beauty were marred by an imperious
temper, and she was the very original of "Madame Honesta," in the tale
of Belphegor, who was
"D'une orgueil extreme;
A et d'autant plus, que de quelque vertu
Un tel orgueil paraissait revetu."
La Fontaine, they add, accordingly, like the husband in Belphegor, took
occasion to absent himself as often and as long as he could. Others,
again, assert that the lady was gentle as she was beautiful, and that
her husband bore testimony to her good qualities of temper expressly, as
well as to her taste, by submitting to her his poetical labours. It may
be said, that the neglect and absences of such a husband as La Fontaine
form no presumption against the conjugal temper of his wife. Some
anecdotes related of his negligence and distractions startle belief.
Despatched by his father to Paris, on business the most important and
most urgent, he met a friend, dined with him, went to the play with him,
supped with him, took up his lodging for the night in his house, and
returned to Château Thierry next day. "Well, you have arranged every
thing satisfactorily?" said the father. La Fontaine opened wide his eyes
in astonishment. He had wholly forgotten the matter till that moment!
Going to Paris on another occasion, with papers, upon which depended his
private fortune and his public charge, he was overtaken by the postman.
"Monsieur," said the latter, "has dropped some papers on the way." "No,
no," replied the poet. But the other, knowing with whom he had to do, or
having discovered from the papers to whom they belonged, requested him
to examine his saddle-bags; upon which he remembered, for the first
time, that he even had papers to lose. In his reveries and distractions,
he was unconscious not only of the lapse of time but of the inclemency
of the weather. He loved reading and musing in the open air. The duchess
of Bouillon left him one morning, with a Livy in his hand, pacing up and
down between two rows of trees. On her return in the evening she found
him still pacing and reading in the same place. What made this the more
extraordinary was a heavy fall of rain in the interim, and La Fontaine
having all the time had his head uncovered.
He probably owed, and the world owes it, to his acquaintance with the
duchess of Bouillon, that he did not pass his life idly and obscurely at
Château Thierry. This lady was one of the celebrated _Mancinis_, nieces
of Cardinal Mazarin. She inherited her uncle's ambition, sagacity, and
love of intrigue: she shared with her sisters wit, gaiety, and the
graces; and, with her family, a taste for literature. Whilst living in
court disgrace at Château Thierry, some verses of La Fontaine happened
to meet her eye. She immediately had the poet introduced to her, and
soon became his friend. She had, it is said, the merit of discerning not
only his genius but its peculiar bent. La Fontaine had yet written
neither tales nor fables. She advised him to devote himself to simple
and playful narrations in verse. His first tales in point of time, and
some of the first in point of merit, are said to have been composed by
him according to her suggestions, both of the matter and the manner. He
is supposed indebted to her for that grace and delicacy of perception
and expression which he combined with so much of simplicity and nature.
He lived in her intimate society, and that alone must have been a great
advantage to him. The conversation of a woman who knew the world, loved
poetry, and judged of both with discernment, must have been the best
school for one so simple and inexperienced, yet so ingenious and
inspired, as La Fontaine.
It may appear strange that La Fontaine, a simple bourgeois, and village
poet, was thus familiarly treated by a woman of the highest rank. His
charge even placed him in the relation of a servant to the duke of
Bouillon, her husband, who held some superior and sinecure charge of the
royal domains. But, strongly as the gradations of birth and title were
marked in France, it will be found that sense, wit, and genius conferred
privilege, or, like love and death, levelled all degrees. Voiture, the
son of a vintner, was the companion of princes, the lover of princesses,
and would never have been reminded of his birth, had he not had the
weakness to be ashamed of it; and even then only in pleasantries, which
he well deserved for his weakness and vanity. A court lady, provoked by
his conceit, one evening, whilst "playing at proverbs," as it was
called, said to him, "Come, that won't do; give us a fresh tap--(_percez
nous en d'un autre_)."
The duchess of Bouillon, on the expiration or remission of her exile,
took La Fontaine with her to Paris. He now became known to the persons
most distinguished in the capital for rank and genius in the circles of
his patroness, and of her sister, the celebrated duchess of Mazarin, so
well known for her wit, graces, gallantries, and conjugal disputes. Both
sisters continued the friends of La Fontaine through life, and exercised
great influence over his writings. Their characters may be illustrated,
in passing, by a single anecdote. It is related in the memoirs of the
duchess of Mazarin,--written by herself, or under her immediate
direction.
Their breaches of court discipline subjected them frequently to
mitigated imprisonments,--sometimes at their own seats, sometimes in a
convent, where the offence demanded a more serious lesson of penance and
reform. Having been on one occasion consigned to the same convent they
amused themselves by putting ink into the holy water. The nuns, who on
their way to matins and vespers dipped their fingers in the font, and
crossed their foreheads with the sacred lymph, on meeting in the chapel,
beheld upon each other's brows, with surprise and terror, the dark signs
of reprobation.
La Fontaine doubtless owed that finesse of expression which sometimes
palliates, if it does not redeem, the freedom of his pleasantries, to
his intercourse with two persons so witty, accomplished, and
unconstrained.
Soon after his arrival in Paris he formed that union of friendship
between him, Molière, Boileau, and Racine, which death only
interrupted. These celebrated men appreciated his genius, before it yet
received the stamp of public admiration, and always regarded him with
affection. Boileau and Racine, indeed, amused themselves with his
simplicity, and treated him sometimes with a certain air of protection.
The conversation happening to turn one evening, at a supper party where
they were, upon the dramatic probability of what are called stage
whispers or "asides," La Fontaine said it was absurd to suppose that
what was heard by the whole audience could escape a person on the stage.
A discussion ensued, as it commonly happened when any question of art or
literature was started, even in the highest circles,--so different from
modern fashionable life. "Don't you think La Fontaine a great rogue?"
said Boileau, to his nearest neighbour, aside, but loud enough to be
heard, and laughed at by everybody except La Fontaine, who was thinking
of something else. The argument, as well as the laugh, was immediately
turned against him; but most illogically, for the fact proved not the
reasonableness of "asides;" it was evidence only of La Fontaine's
distractions. "Let them laugh," said Molière, "le bon homme will take a
flight beyond them--(_le bon homme ira plus loin qu'eux_)." This
prediction has been verified; La Fontaine's reputation has been
uniformly spreading and rising, in spite of the disposition, even in
France, during and since the latter half of the last century, to detract
from the age of Louis XIV. It is worth remarking, with reference to this
anecdote, that, of all the poets of that age, he and Molière alone have
maintained their pre-eminence undisputed through every change of taste
and time.
La Fontaine now passed his life in the coteries of the duchesses of
Bouillon and Mazarin, Boileau and Racine, without giving a thought to
his home or family. Boileau and Racine, both strictly religious
moralists, were scandalised by his complete separation from his wife,
and pointed out to him its indecency. Simple and docile, as usual, he
admitted the justice of their remonstrance; said the impropriety of his
conduct had never occurred to him; and, to make amends, he said he
should go and see his wife without delay. He set out for Château
Thierry the next morning, and came back the succeeding day. His friends
made their inquiries respecting madame La Fontaine. "I did not see her,"
said he. "How," said they, "not see her? was she from home?" "Yes; she
was gone to prayers; and the servant, not knowing me, would not let me
stay in the house till she returned." In this extremity the poor poet,
shut out of his own house, went to that of a friend, where he dined,
supped, and slept; and from which he started for Paris next morning,
without seeing his wife, or making his house a second visit.