_Les Précieuses Ridicules_—Sappho and _Le Grand Cyrus_—The
Poets of the Latin Quarter—The Satire which Kills—A Lost
Child—Periwigs and New Modes—The Royal Marriage and a Grand Entry.
Molière’s comedy, _Le Cocu Imaginaire_—which had created such
unrestrainable delight in the ex-queen of Sweden—had been preceded a
year earlier by the famous _Précieuses Ridicules_. To call this play
the dramatist’s masterpiece, is to do rank injustice to his work of
greater length and importance, notably, if one dare to choose, to _Le
Tartufe_. The _Précieuses_, however, took Paris by storm, and was
accounted a gem. Still a delightful little bit of humour, and not
lacking now in its way of a home-thrust, it carried a double-edged
power in the days of the Hôtel de Rambouillet, when the affectations
of speech and conversation had run to such absurd extravagance,
that Molière’s satire was little or no exaggeration. Mademoiselle
de Scudéri’s “_Inutile! retranchez le superflu de cet ardente_,” is
distinctly precious.
Of the queens of these intellectual _réunions_, Mademoiselle de
Scudéri was the reigning novelist. Her long life, exceeding Ninon’s
in years, was devoted to the production of romances and the lighter
sort of literature, which ran to a lengthy record. _Le Grand
Cyrus_ stands best remembered, but is scarcely more than a memory.
A long day’s journey would be needed to find the most ardent of
fiction-readers who would now care to follow through the windings
of that romance which in its day created such enthusiasm, and made
a lioness of the amiable if some way from beautiful Madeleine
de Scudéri. _Artamène; ou, le Grand Cyrus_, after all, was, to
be sure, scarcely fiction. It was composed of little more than
thinly-veiled facts, presenting under classic names the living men
and women of society; heroes and heroines of antiquity stood sponsors
to the fine, broad-skirted, perruqued gentlemen and fashionable
dames of Versailles and the Louvre and the Palais Royal. Artaban,
Agathyse, Zenocrates—these were, in their modish habit as they
lived, severally the Duc de St Bignon, M. de Rainez, M. Ysern, and
others—while Mademoiselle de Scudéri herself was Sappho. It was in
her salon that was drawn up the famous _Carte du Tendre_—gazetteer
of articles necessary to the pursuit of love. Mademoiselle de Scudéri
wrote with grace and much sense; but her romances were insufferably
prolix. Ninon found them wearisome to a degree, even though the
_Grand Cyrus_ is a record of the great Prince de Condé. George de
Scudéri, Madeleine’s brother, was also a very fertile novelist of his
day, scarcely to be rivalled in speed of production by Dumas himself.
Nor does there appear that the ghosts who worked for this great, more
modern enchanter of the realm of historical romance, rendered any
services to the seventeenth-century novelist. The salons of Madame
de Rambouillet and of Madame de Sablé were the rendezvous of the
most aristocratic of these versifiers and epigram-makers, who really
occasionally uttered something witty or poetical; though for the most
part the wit and poetry did not rise above such greatness as that
of Sir Benjamin Backbite, in Lady Sneerwell’s drawing-room, on the
macaroni ponies whose
“Legs were so slim,
And their tails were so long.”
The refinements and elegance of speech to be heard at those
_réunions_, fostered, and indeed were a powerful influence in, the
reformation effected by the Académie for the French language. But the
passion for these improvements was often torn to tatters, and the
puerilities and affectations excited a reaction among men of the more
Bohemian class of writers and versifiers, such as Scarron, St Amand
and others, and the curious mixture of real poetic expression and
thought, profanity and coarseness, in their productions, carry back
to the days of Rabelais and of Villon, with echoes of Ronsard and of
Charles of Orléans. But the simplicity and beauty of their numbers
only now and again shone through the grossness of their compositions,
and sheer opposition to the “Clélies” and “Uranies” and “Sapphos”
probably inspired the numerous parodies and the odes to cheese and
good feeding produced by these authors, who hailed with delight the
now famous actor-manager Molière’s _Précieuses Ridicules_.
The piece was first produced at the Petit-Bourbon early in the
winter of 1659. The plot, deep-laid if simple, consists of the
successful playing off by two lovers respectively of the two charming
young women they love honestly and deeply, but who meet refusal on
the score of their language being too natural, and their attire not
sufficiently fashionable. The two young men thereupon dress up their
valets, Mascarille and Jodelet, in fine costumes, bestow on them the
titles of marquis and vicomte, and contrive to introduce them to the
_précieuses_. The exquisite humour of the dialogue between Gorgibus,
the father of one of the two girls, and uncle of the other, sets the
ball rolling; his contempt for the new names, Aminte and Policène,
which they have selected in place of those given them, as he says, by
their godfathers and godmothers; his dim grasp of what he calls their
jargon, when they try to instil into him some idea of its elegancies,
is the essence of genuine comicality, as are the compliments of
the two aristocratic visitors who inform the ladies that it is the
reports of their exquisite attractions and beauty, reaching far and
wide, which has brought them to their feet. Then follows the flutter
of delight, veiled under the attempt at calm graciousness, of the
_précieuses_. “But Monsieur,” says Cathos to Mascarille, the marquis,
inviting him to sit down, “I entreat you not to be inexorable to
this armchair, which has been stretching out its arms to you for
this quarter of an hour past; allow it the satisfaction of embracing
you.” The fun grows apace, as the slips of tongue and bearing of
the two pretended gentlemen begin to disconcert the two infatuated
girls. At last a dance is proposed, the fiddlers are sent for, and
behind them enter the two masters of the valets, who tear their fine
coats off their backs, and turn them out. “And you,” says Gorgibus,
chasing the _précieuses_ from the room, to repent at leisure of their
affectations and thirst for _la galantérie_, “out of my sight, and to
the devil with all these verses, romances, sonnets, and the rest of
it—pernicious amusements of do-nothings and idlers!” So the curtain
descended on the _Précieuses Ridicules_, and the story goes that
before very long the play extinguished the glory of the salon of the
Hôtel de Rambouillet.
The Comte de Fiesque, who had gone with Condé to Spain, was killed in
Catalonia by the bursting of a bomb. Ninon, not able personally to
ask the widow where the child was which de Fiesque regarded as his,
commissioned two persons to ascertain for her from Madame de Fiesque
some intelligence concerning its whereabouts, but the countess
asserted that she had no knowledge of this. The remorse and regret of
Ninon were of no avail: she was unable to trace the lost one.
At last, after long negotiations, Maria Théresa of Austria was united
to Louis XIV. This brought Condé back to allegiance to France, by
the Peace of the Pyrenees, effected by Cardinal Mazarin, one of the
few of his achievements which really benefited France. Ninon was
one in the gorgeous cortège which proceeded to Grosbois, beyond
Charenton, to receive the young princess. It was a brilliant show.
The fashions of the early days of the young king had greatly changed
since his father’s time, which was so greatly distinguished, at
least as far as male attire went, for its elegant simplicity. Bright
hues had superseded the black, the beautiful but sombre colouring
of the material of the silk or satin or velvet doublets with large,
loose slashed sleeves; the falling bands of rich point lace; the
long, straight, fringed or pointed breeches meeting down to the
lace-ruffled or lawn wide-topped boots, and the eminently graceful
Flemish plumed beaver hat. In place of the long hair waving to the
neck, full-bottomed periwigs had come into vogue; the doublets were
short and waistcoatless, displaying a bulging shirt-front, tied with
ribbons to the nether garments, which, like the large loose sleeves,
were covered with points and bows; deep lace ruffles drooped from the
knees, and only the falling collar, with a hat higher crowned than of
yore, but still plumed, remained of the old style.
It was to the beauty of Louis XIV.’s hair when he was a little
boy, that the huge, hideous periwigs seem to owe their invention.
Nature’s ruling has its exceptions in the bestowal of naturally
curling head-covering, and desiring to offer the sincerest flattery
of imitation, the French courtiers and the ingenuity of the coiffeurs
combined to invent the huge periwigs, which in some sort of fashion
even contrived to live through the French Revolution and the Terror
itself; for did not Robespierre preside at the great Feast of the
Supreme Being in about the ugliest, primmest bobtail wig ever
fashioned on barber’s block?
As to the women’s dress in France, it varied somewhat according to
their rank. Middle-class bourgeoises wore the scantiest covering
out-of-doors on their necks and shoulders; not even in church was
their attire more modest. To so scandalous a length was this carried,
that it brought on them more than one remonstrance from the pulpit;
and Englishwomen, taking as always, their fashions from Paris,
followed suit. A Nonconformist English divine published a translation
of a French work by “A grave and learned Papist”—possibly the Curé
of St Étienne—who reprehended in no measured terms the “shameful
enormity,” as he phrased it, of this style of dress. The ladies of
the great world ordinarily went with more circumspection in the
streets, and nearly always, also, they wore a mask. It was generally
made of black velvet, lined with white satin. It fixed itself on
the face with a spring, and was fastened with a thin wire, which
was terminated by a glass button that could be dropped between the
lips, and so disguise the voice. The female style of dressing the
hair was to gather it up in a bunch at the crown of the head, leaving
some curls to hang on each side of the face; over this was placed a
sort of little linen hood, the points of which usually reached to
the shoulders. The gowns were wide-sleeved and long-waisted, with
a skirt embroidered or trimmed with lace. A small dog was almost
indispensable to a lady of fashion. The little creatures were very
pretty, generally having pointed muzzles and ears. Women took snuff
and smoked, and the traces of these habits were apt to leave their
ugly reminders about their persons and dress.
A great many new streets and houses were added to the city. The
increase in the number of public vehicles rendered the streets very
noisy, while the filth of the ways was indescribable; but this did
not hinder women from walking in velvet slippers, or pages and
lackeys from wearing bright, gold-laced scarlet livery.
The state of morals, from highest to lowest, was at a low ebb. Vice
permeated every class, from the clergy and nobility to the dregs of
the populace. Murder and barefaced robbery took place constantly
in the streets; the rage for gambling was boundless, and the
cardinal-minister made no attempt to check the shameful licence of
the green tables.
Yet Paris was fair and brilliant to the eye when Maria Théresa made
her entry in the most magnificent carriage of the cortège which
occupied three hours in passing. The princess was not beautiful;
but her expression was amiable, and her complexion very fair for a
Spanish woman. She wore a mantle of violet velvet embroidered with
golden _fleur-de-lis_ over a robe of white brocade covered all down
the front with a splendid _rivière_ of emeralds, and she wore her
crown with infinite grace and dignity.
The fierce light that beats upon the lives of kings and queens was at
its fiercest when cast upon the life of the Sun-King. His marriage
with the Spanish princess was one of policy and convenience, and as
such there have been unions more disastrous. If love played no great
part in it, at least the king was true to the dignity and a certain
gentle courtesy and good-nature underlying the pomp and extravagant
display with which he was pleased to surround himself; and Maria
Théresa’s record of a queen’s life bears no startling evidence of
unhappiness or discontent—something indeed to the contrary.