what the memoir-writers have recorded of him. It was much noted that he
was no scholar; like Shakespeare he had little Latin and less Greek;
indeed it was roundly asserted that he had none of either. But he
studied much Italian and Spanish, and he had a fine library exclusively
of modern literature. He wrote a great deal in prose and verse, but
mainly for his private pleasure; he kept a prudent silence about his
works, which were understood to be mediocre. He was always an invalid;
already, in his youth, he began to be a sufferer from the gout, which
was to torture him for thirty years. But pain did not affect his temper,
nor his extraordinary gregariousness. He lived for the small enjoyments
of others. He was the confidant of everybody, the healer of all quarrels
and disputes. As time went on, and Conrart became absorbed in the duties
of perpetual Secretary to the Academie, his qualities may have become
exaggerated. His enemies began to say that he was too indulgent, too
easy-going with offenders. The super-subtle declared that he had become
infatuated with his own friendliness, and that he went through Paris
murmuring "Ah! ma belle amitie!" He was a great depositary of secrets,
and liked nothing so much as to run about--or rather, poor man! to
hobble about--pouring oil upon troubled waters. Tallemant des Reaux, who
hated him, says that Conrart had an unpleasant wife, whose face was like
a gingerbread nut, but we need not believe all that Tallemant des Reaux
says.
Conrart, however, with all his serviceable friendliness, could not have
done much without Chapelain, who was really the founder of the Academie.
Jean Chapelain was not merely an active man of letters, he was the man
of letters pure and simple. He had, in that age of intellectual
curiosity, a passion for literature not surpassed, if equalled, by a
single contemporary. M. Lanson has shown, what scarcely needed showing,
that Chapelain was no artist, but if he was a bad poet, he was intensely
interested in the technique of poetry. He has been called the founder of
French criticism; he had pertinacity, courage, and a passionate love for
the French language. Perhaps he was the inventor of the law of the Three
Unities in drama. His influence in French thought lasted until the days
of Boileau. In 1629 Chapelain was thirty-five years of age, old enough
and dogmatic enough to impress his will and his opinions on his younger
companions. Because he was a detestable epic and a ridiculous lyric
poet, because we cannot be drawn by wild horses to read the _Pucelle_ or
the _Ode a Richelieu_, we must not overlook the fact that Chapelain was
one of the great intellectual forces of his time, although when the
meetings began he had scarcely printed anything except the
much-discussed _Preface de l'Adone_ (1623). Ceremonious and yet rough, a
courtier and yet a sort of astute Diogenes, hating all luxury and
ruining himself to buy rare books, a stormy petrel in every literary
tempest, Chapelain presents to us the shrewd and violent figure of a
captain who steered the youthful Academie through its vicissitudes into
safe anchorage.
Among all these young men, there was one old man, and he too, like
Chapelain, was an authentic man of letters. This was Jean Ogier, Sieur
de Gombauld, who was not less than sixty years of age already. He had
been born youngest son in the fourth marriage of a redoubtable Huguenot
of Xaintogne, and he came to Paris towards the end of the reign of Henry
IV, with a mass of strange MSS. He was very poor, very proud,
extravagant and eccentric to the last degree. He managed to appear at
Court, and there must have been something striking about him, since his
fortune began by Marie de Medicis noticing him at the coronation of
Louis XIII. It was said that she saw in him a striking likeness to a man
of whom she had been very fond years before in Florence. After the
ceremony, the Queen-Mother sent for Gombauld, and he was attached to her
Court, where he was called "le Beau Tenebreux," but he remained very shy
and helpless. He nourished a frenzied passion for her Majesty, yet was
incapable of speech or movement in her presence; during his brief
splendour at Court, he wrote the most famous of his works, the romance
of _Endymion_ (1624), in which the Queen-Mother appeared as that leading
character, "La Lune." There are delightful stories of the _gaucherie_
and pathetic simplicity of this old poet, who was a very fine country
gentleman, always carefully dressed, holding his tall, spare figure well
upright, and with quantities of real hair pushing out his wig on all
sides. Gombauld, in spite of "La Lune," could never feel at his ease in
the presence of fine ladies, and sighed for a farmer's daughter. After
the death of Richelieu, all the pensions were struck off, and Gombauld
grew very poor and wrinkled. He was touched with the mania of
persecution, and became rather a terror to his fellow-Academicians, one
of whom called him "the most ceremonious and the most mysterious of
men." He grew to be very unhappy, but like Tithonus could not die, and
he was "a white-haired shadow roaming like a dream" in the world of
Moliere and Racine. He died, at the age of ninety-six, in 1666, having
been born in the lifetime of Ronsard, and out-living the birth of
Massillon.
The other four members of the original group have not left so deep a
mark on the history of literature. Jacques de Serisay was accustomed to
literary coteries, for he had been a constant attendant on Montaigne's
adopted daughter, that enthusiastic and grotesque old maid, Mlle. Marie
de Gournay, who loved to collect the wits around her "shadow" and her
cat, Donzelle. Serisay cannot have been a man of letters of much force,
since his works, to the end of time, consisted of half a tragedy, which
he could never finish. Later on he contrived to read this fragment aloud
to Richelieu, who yielded to fatigue before the end of the exercise.
This vague person was known as "le delicat Serisay." Then, there was
Claude de Malleville, who had just come back from attending Bassompierre
in England. He was a man of considerable originality of character, and
afterwards a power in the Academie. He liked the pleasant informality of
the meetings at Conrart's house, and objected to their being turned into
official sessions. We shall see that he stood alone, a little later, in
stout opposition to the proposals of the Cardinal. Malleville was a
little wisp of a man, with black locks and dim dark eyes. He translated
vaguely and amorously from the Italian, and had a great deal to do with
the composition of the Guirlande de Julie. Except for some Ovidian
Epistles, which he is said to have published as early as 1620,
Malleville's own poems were posthumous. M. Magne says that Malleville
was "un faiseur de bibus" (a term of contempt almost beyond the range of
translation) "qui fretillait autour des jupes"; but that is because he
opposed Boisrobert. Shadows they were, and shadows they pursued.
Most shadowy of all are to us now the two Haberts. Germain Habert, the
youngest of the original Academicians, wrote a very affected poem on the
metamorphosis of the eyes of Phillis into stars. As he grew older he
neglected Phillis to devote himself to good works. Menage, who was his
friend, says he was "un des plus beaux esprits de son temps." But where
are the evidences of his wit? His brother, Philippe Habert, is the last
of the original coterie and the faintest phantom of them all. He was a
soldier in the artillery, and he was killed, in 1637, at the siege of
Emery, crushed under a wall that had been accidentally blown up by
gunpowder. Just before this melancholy event, Philippe Habert had
prophetically published his poem called _Le Temple de la Mort_, which
was very much admired, but is now not easily accessible. He was a cold
and solemn young man, reserved in manner, but held to be both brave and
friendly.
Such were the eight companions who met, week by week, all innocent and
unconscious, to discuss in familiar intercourse every species of
subject--business, the news of the day, the movement of letters. If any
one of them had written something, as frequently happened, he would read
it aloud, and ask for criticism, which would be frankly given. Often
their discussions would end in a stroll through the streets, or in a
meal prepared by Conrart's really estimable _chef_. It was a delightful
time, and, in after years, when the Academie was celebrated and
powerful, the original members looked back wistfully at this happy
period of almost pastoral quietude. Pellisson, interviewing the
survivors in a later generation, says that "Ils parlent encore
aujourd'hui de ce premier age de l'Academie, comme d'un age d'or, durant
lequel avec toute l'innocence et toute la liberte des premiers siecles,
sans bruit et sans pompe, et sans autres lois que celles de l'amitie,
ils goutaient ensemble tout ce que la societe des esprits et la vie
raisonnable ont de plus doux et de plus charmant."
It is curious and interesting to find that this "little clan," as Keats
would call it, contrived to preserve its unity and its privacy for
several years. The friends met, as we have seen, with remarkable
frequency, yet they did not quarrel, nor grow bored, nor break up
through the action of any outward accident. It is, surely, even in much
quieter centuries than ours, unusual that a party of this kind should
continue to exist, suspended as in a vacuum, not dwindling nor
increasing, and unknown to the world outside. In those Valois times,
such a collection of persons would be in danger of being accused of
political plotting, and so the visitors to Conrart were pledged to an
absolute silence. This pledge was first broken by Malleville, who told
Nicolas Faret, apparently in 1632. Faret was a young provincial lawyer,
lately arrived in Paris from the town of Bourg-en-Bresse. He was still
very poor, but ingenious and active; he was a disciple of the great
grammarian, Vaugelas, and later the intimate of Moliere. He was a jolly
man, with chestnut hair and rubicund face; his figure grew massive as
the years went by. Faret was consumed with curiosity, and when he had
once wormed the secret of the meetings out of Malleville, he gave the
latter no peace until he consented to introduce him. Faret had just
published a book of some merit and considerable popularity, _L'Honnete
Homme_, a breviary of how a gentleman should behave, a sort of
courtier's _vade mecum_; and he brought an early copy of this with him
as a credential. Faret was an active, boisterous person, boon companion
of the more gifted poet Saint-Amant. He had no sooner secured a footing
in Conrart's house than he made himself very useful to the body, for he
was by far the most businesslike of the group. It was Faret who, in
1634, drew up the original scheme for the foundation of the Academie. He
did not add much to the glory of the corporation, when once it was
formed, for the other members complained that he did not attend the
meetings unless there was some practical business on hand, and that then
he was apt to be drunk. Faret, who was attached to Henry of Lorraine,
the comte d'Harcourt, and served as his go-between with Richelieu, was
not a very shining Academicien, but he had his temporary value.
Faret's chief merit was that he brought to the meetings a man of letters
who was destined to take a very prominent place, for the time being,
both in the French Academy and in literary life--namely, Jean Desmarets
de Saint-Sorlin. He was an indefatigable writer, and a man exactly
suited to be useful to a group of literary persons, because he had
experience of the world, great enthusiasm for the craft of letters, and
a wide and humorous outlook on life. Chapelain, glancing back many years
later, defined Desmarets as "un des esprits les plus faciles de ce
temps," and that is just what he was, an inexhaustible and rapid
producer of prose and verse in the spirit and fashion of the age. He was
much valued by Richelieu, who forced him, against his will, to
collaborate in the composition of tragedies. Desmarets had no dramatic
inspiration, but he was able to satisfy the Cardinal. At the time of
which we are speaking, probably in 1633, Desmarets was brought to
Conrart's house by Faret and received a courteous welcome. It was
characteristic of him that, instantly entering into the spirit of the
company, he pulled out of his pocket the proof-sheets of his new prose
romance _Ariane_, and asked leave to submit them to discussion.
Desmarets was rich and influential, and he had the true Academic spirit.
He became a prominent public character, and Controller-General of the
King's Army, but he never lost his close hold upon the Academie, of
which he was elected the first Chancellor. In the moment of transition,
the dark hour before the dawn, he was eminently useful, for when, in
1633, Conrart married, and it was no longer convenient to meet in his
house, Desmarets transferred the whole cluster of bees to a new hive,
the sumptuous Hotel Pelleve, which he had just rebuilt at the corner of
the Rue du Roi de Sicile and of the Rue Tison. Then, and not till then,
did they begin seriously to think of founding an Academy. Desmarets's
numerous writings have stood the test of time very ill. His epic of
_Clovis_ was ridiculed by Boileau, and perhaps the only work of his
which can be read to-day without boredom is his comedy of _Les
Visionnaires_ (1635), a merry piece of literary criticism, in which the
various coteries of that day, and the famous salons, are satirized.
Nevertheless, it is not beyond the range of possibility that, in these
days of revival, somebody may be found to resuscitate Desmarets de
Saint-Sorlin.
In that entertaining volume, _Le Plaisant Abbe de Boisrobert_, the great
rival of Desmarets has already found an eloquent resuscitator, M. Magne.
Francois de Metel de Boisrobert is an unedifying figure of a scapegrace
priest, whose giggling face is seen peeping round most doors in the
scandalous memoirs of the time. No one was more contemptuously insulted,
no one more bitterly ridiculed, than Richelieu's supple jackal, the
author of _Anaxandre et Orazie_ and of _Pyrandre_. These heroic works
of faded imagination are read no longer, nor the _Recueil de Lettres
Nouvelles_ nor _Le Sacrifice des Muses_. On the other hand, the sarcasms
of the epigrammatists and the scandalous tales of contemporaries
continue to invest the memory of Boisrobert with a nasty odour. M.
Magne, who brings a marvellous erudition to the task, has bravely
endeavoured to redeem a talent and a character so deeply compromised. We
cannot join in the whole of his white-washing, but we may admit that he
has proved the "plaisant abbe" to be neither the dunce nor the
blackguard that legend had painted him. Moreover, it is quite certain
that he exercised a most useful energy in the foundation of the French
Academy.
When the indiscretion of Faret brought Desmarets to the literary
meetings in Conrart's house, it had the inevitable result of exciting
the jealous curiosity of Boisrobert. He was the great rival of Desmarets
in the affection and confidence of Richelieu, and we may be certain that
when "le plaisant abbe" found out that Desmarets was attending secret
and mysterious assemblies, he plainly intimated to Faret that he also
must be taken into the secret or else he would report the plot to the
Cardinal. Accordingly, some time in 1633, Boisrobert too was brought to
Conrart's house, and instantly conceived a great scheme for his own
honour and the glory of French literature. He clung, through every
storm, to the robes of Richelieu, who had originally disliked him, but
who proved in the long run powerless to resist the devotion and the
entertainment which Boisrobert provided. The poet took no snub; on one
occasion when Richelieu had rudely ignored him, he flung himself on his
knees, crying "You let the dogs eat the crumbs which fall from your
table. Am I not a dog?" The Cardinal admitted that he was, and
thenceforth Boisrobert occupied an intimate place in Richelieu's
household, sometimes as a retriever, more often as a poodle. It is
impossible to deny that Boisrobert was a poltroon, but in his lifelong
devotion to the Academie he really behaved extremely well. The secret,
no doubt, was that with the minimum of regard for purity of conduct, the
"plaisant abbe" combined a genuine solicitude for the purity of
language.
It was Boisrobert who first conceived the idea that an Academy of
Letters might be useful to Richelieu and Richelieu indispensable to an
Academy of Letters. For this scheme he deserves great credit, and we
gather that it was first to the Cardinal and not first to Conrart's
friends that he spoke. It seems probable that the latter had already
begun to suggest among themselves that their relation might be
permanent. There is a letter dated as early as December, 1632, in which
Godeau, writing to Chapelain, seems to speak of the Academie as already
a recognized thing. If we may suppose that Louis Giry, the Hellenist,
who was not an original member, but whose name is mentioned as that of
one of Conrart's friends, was already a visitor, the body now consisted
of twelve persons, with all of whom I have endeavoured to make my
readers acquainted. It was after one of the meetings in 1633 that, as
Pellisson tells us, having observed what kind of books had been
examined, and that the conversation had not been a commerce of
compliment and flattery, where each person gave praise that in his turn
he might receive it, but that faults of style, and even very small ones,
had been seized upon boldly and frankly for discussion, Boisrobert was
"fulfilled with joy and admiration." It crossed his mind that this was
the very toy to enliven the petulant leisure of his Cardinal. When that
scheme occurred to "le plaisant abbe" the Academie Francaise practically
started into being.
No small part of the success of the policy of Richelieu came from the
brilliant intuition which he had of the importance of regulating
intellectual effort. He did not ignore the Press, as had so stupidly
been done before his day, but he had no idea of leaving it to follow its
own devices. In 1626 he had used a very remarkable expression; he had
said "Les faiseurs de livres serviraient grandement le roi et ceux qui
sont aupres de lui, s'ils ne se melaient de parler de leurs actions ni
en bien ni en mal." Literature was to be encouraged and protected, on
the understanding that it would attend to its own affairs, and not
disturb the King's government with _libelles_ which were none of its
concern. Richelieu's genuine enthusiasm for scholarship and poetry is
not to be questioned, but with it all he was pre-eminently an ambitious
statesman. Public policy was the business of his life, literature his
enchanting relaxation and entertainment. But he wished to be master in
the temple of the Muses, no less than in the King's palace, and he would
only protect the authorship of the day on the terms of being recognized
as its absolute tyrant. He was to be the Miltiades of letters, but once
acknowledge his authority, and he became literature's "best and truest
friend." His lightning intelligence had perceived, in 1631, the
importance of journalism, and he had protected the earliest of French
newspapers, the _Gazette_, on the understanding that it proceeded from
his own official cabinet. It was his scheme to break the prestige of the
nobility, and in carrying out his plans, he was glad of the support of
the intellectual classes. He was aided, of course, by the development of
public feeling in this direction.
There can be little doubt that it was by Boisrobert rather than by
Desmarets that the Cardinal was originally informed of the literary
meetings in the house of Conrart. His curiosity was vividly awakened.
Knots of persons meeting privately and with regularity were the objects
of his lively suspicion, and there is some reason to suppose that his
first impulse was to break up the company and forbid the meetings. But
Boisrobert, who held his ear, reassured him.
He did not fail [says our earliest authority] to give a favourable
report of the little assembly in whose deliberations he had taken a
part, and of the persons who composed it; and the Cardinal, whose
temper was naturally attuned to great designs, and who loved the
French language to infatuation, being himself an excellent writer,
after having praised the scheme, asked M. Boisrobert whether these
persons would not like to become a corporation, and to meet
regularly, and under public authority.
He desired Boisrobert to put this proposition before the next meeting,
as from himself.
It appears that at first the idea was not received with enthusiasm. The
friends were simple men of letters, not ambitious of power, and timid in
the face of such formidable patronage. But the Cardinal consulted
Chapelain, and won him over to his views. There can be no doubt that
Desmarets and Faret supported a plan from which they could reap nothing
but personal advantage. When the ground was ready and the hour was ripe,
Boisrobert came down to a meeting, with a definite proposal from the
Cardinal, who offered to these gentlemen his protection for their
Society, the public compliment of Letters Patent, and also--this was so
like the vehement _bonhomie_ of Richelieu--a promise of personal
affection "en toutes rencontres" for each of them individually. The
friends were, in fact, to be attached in permanence to his personal
household.
The meeting at which Boisrobert made this startling announcement was one
of which it would be interesting indeed to have a detailed report.
Unfortunately, this is wanting. But we know that the friends were
smitten with timidity and dismay. Scarcely any one of them but expressed
his vexation, and regretted that the Cardinal had done them this most
unwelcome honour, that he had come down from his majestic heights to
"troubler la douceur et la familiarite de leurs conferences." We can
imagine the agitation and the anxiety, the babble of voices which had
never before been raised above the tone of scholarly amenity. Those who
were pledged to support the scheme doubtless held their peace until the
storm had subsided, and until Serisay and Malleville, who were the most
intractable opponents, had done their worst in denunciation of it. Then
the voices of the supporters were heard, and someone, doubtless the
honey-tongued Boisrobert, suggested that as Serisay was master of the
household to the Duc de la Rochefoucauld, and Malleville secretary to
the Marechal de Bassompierre, it would, unjustly but most inevitably, be
believed that they were incited by the enmity which their respective
patrons were supposed (but how unfairly!) to nourish against the
Cardinal. This impressed the company, and Serisay withdrew his
opposition, but Malleville continued to be intractable. It was
important, however, that the reply of the infant Academy to the Cardinal
should be cordial, and that it should be unanimous.