CONTINUATION OF MORAL REACTION.--TARTUFFE, 1664-1669.--REAL
TARTUFFES.--WHY TARTUFFE IS NOT YET A QUIETIST.
The devotee caught in the fact by the man of the world, the churchman
excommunicated by the comedian--this is the meaning and aim of the
_Tartuffe_.
Plato, in his Athenian Tartuffe (the Euthyphron), put this grand moral
question, "Can there be _sanctity_ without _justice_?" This question,
so clear in itself but so skilfully obscured by casuists, was again put
forward in open daylight. The _Theatre_ re-established religious
morality which had been so endangered in the _Churches_.
The author of the _Tartuffe_ chose his subject, not in society in
general, but in a more limited space, in the family circle, the
fireside, the holy of holies of modern life. This dramatist, this
impious being was, of all men in the world, the one who had most at
heart the religion of the family, though he had no family himself. He
was both tender and melancholy, and sometimes, in speaking of himself
and his domestic griefs, he would utter this grave but characteristic
sentence: "I ought to have foreseen that one thing made me unfit for
family society; which is my austerity."
The _Tartuffe_, that grand and sublime picture, is very simple in its
outline. Had it been more complicated it had been less popular.
_Mental restriction_ and the _direction of intention_, which everybody
had laughed at since the "Provincial Letters," were sufficient matter
for Moliere. He did not venture to bring the new doctrine of mysticism
on the stage, being as yet too little known or too dangerous.
Had he employed the jargon of Desmarets and the earlier quietists, and
put into the mouth of Tartuffe their mystic tendernesses, the result
would have been the same as that of his ridiculous sonnet in the
_Misanthrope_--the pit would have wondered what it meant.
The evening before the first representation of Tartuffe, Moliere read
the piece to Ninon; "and to pay him back in his own coin, she related
to him a similar adventure she had had with a wretch of that species,
whose portrait she drew in such lively and natural colours, that if the
piece had not been composed, he said he never would have undertaken it."
What, then, could be wanting to this master-piece, this drama of such
profound conception and powerful execution? Nothing, certainly, but
what was excluded by the state of religion at that time, and by the
customs of our theatre.
Still one thing was wanting, which was impossible to be shown in so
short a drama (though, in fact, it constitutes the real essence of the
characters), I mean the preparatory management, the long windings by
which he makes his approaches, his patience in stratagems, and his
gradual fascination.
Everything is strongly told, but rather abruptly. This man, received
into the house out of charity--this low rogue, this glutton who eats as
much as six, this red-eared villain--how did he grow bold so suddenly
and aspire so high? A declaration of love from such a man to such a
lady, from an intended son-in-law to his future mother-in-law, still
astonishes when we read it. On the stage, perhaps, we countenance it
more easily.
Elmira, when the holy man makes this surprising avowal to her face is
by no means prepared to listen to him. A real Tartuffe would have
acted in a very different manner: he would have quietly sat down,
humble and patient, and waited for the favourable moment. If, for
instance, Elmira had experienced the indiscretions and fickleness of
those worldly lovers whom Tartuffe mentions, then, indeed, when she was
worn out by these trials, and become weak, weary, and dispirited, he
might have accosted her; then perhaps she would have allowed him to
say, in the smooth quietist jargon, many things that she cannot listen
to at the moment when Moliere presents her before us.
Mademoiselle Bourignon, in her curious _Life_, which well deserves
another edition, relates what danger she was in through a saint of this
species. I shall let her speak for herself. But first you must know
that the pious damsel, who had just become an heiress, was thinking
about laying out her wealth in endowing convents, and in other similar
acts of piety.
"Being, one day, in the streets of Lille, I met a man whom I did not
know, who said to me as he passed, 'You will not do what you wish; you
will do what you do not wish.' Two days after, the same man came to my
house and said, 'What did you think of me?' 'That you were either a
fool or a prophet,' replied I. 'Neither,' said he; 'I am a poor fellow
from a village near Douai, and my name is Jean de St. Saulieu; I have
no other thought but that of charity. I lived first of all with a
hermit, but now I have my cure, Mr. Roussel, for a director. I teach
poor children to read. The sweetest--the most charitable act you could
do would be to collect all the little female orphans; they have become
so numerous since the wars! The convents are rich enough.' He spoke
for three hours together with much unction.
"I inquired about him of the cure, his director, who assured me that he
was a person of a truly apostolical zeal. (We should observe that the
cure had tried at first to catch this rich heiress for his own nephew;
the nephew not succeeding, he employed one of his own creatures.)
Saint Saulieu frequently repeated his visits, speaking divinely of
spiritual things. I could not understand how a man without any
preparatory study could speak in so sublime a manner of the divine
mysteries. I believed him to be really inspired by the Holy Ghost. He
said himself that he was dead to nature. He had been a soldier, and
had returned from the wars as chaste as a child. By dint of abstinence
he had lost the taste of food, and could no longer distinguish wine
from beer! He passed the greater part of his time on his knees in the
churches. He was seen to walk in the street with a modest air and
downcast eyes, never looking at anything, as if he had been alone in
the world. He visited the poor and sick, giving away all he possessed.
In winter time, if he saw a poor man without a garment, he would draw
him aside, take off his own coat, and give it him. My heart overflowed
with joy to see that there were still such men in the world. I thanked
God, and thought I had found the counterpart of myself. Priests and
other pious persons put the same confidence in him, went to consult
him, and receive his good advice.
"It was quite foreign to my feelings to quit my peaceful retreat, and
establish the asylum for children that Saint Saulieu had recommended to
me. But he brought me a tradesman who had begun the same thing, and
who offered me a house where he had already located a few poor girls.
I took possession in November, 1653. I cleaned these children. They
were shockingly dirty, but after a great deal of trouble, I cleaned
them myself, having nobody with me who liked the occupation. But at
last I made a rule, and followed it myself, putting every thing in
common, and making every one eat at the same table. I kept myself as
retired as I could; but I was obliged to speak to all sorts of persons.
Friars came, as well as devotees whose conversations did not much
please me... I was frequently sick to death.
"The house in which Saint Saulieu taught having been destroyed, and
himself sent away, he went to live with the tradesman of whom I have
already spoken. They solicited me to make an asylum, like mine, for
boys. In order to raise a necessary fund, Saint Saulieu was to take an
office in the town on lease, that brought in two thousand francs
a-year, and the revenue was to be applied to this foundation, myself
being security for him. He received the produce of one year, and then
said it was necessary, before anything was done, to receive for another
year, to furnish the house. This made four thousand franks; and when
he had got six thousand, he kept the whole, saying it was the fruit of
his labour, and that he had well earned it.
"I had not waited for this to make me distrustful of the man; I had had
some strange inward misgivings on his account. One day methought I saw
a black wolf sporting with a white lamb. Another day it was the heart
of Saint Saulieu, and a little Moorish child with a crown and sceptre
of gold sitting upon it, as if the devil had been the king of his
heart. I did not conceal these visions from him; but he grew angry,
and said I ought to confess myself, for thinking so badly of my
neighbour; that he could not be a black wolf; for, on the contrary, the
more he approached me, the more pure and chaste he became.
"One day, however, he told me that we ought to be married, only for
spiritual love; and that such a union would enable us to do still more
good. To this I answered, that marriage was not requisite for such a
union. He made me, however, little demonstrations of friendship, to
which, at first, I paid no attention. At last, he suddenly threw off
the mask, told me he loved me desperately; that for many years he had
studied spiritual books, the better to win me; and that now having so
much access to me, I must be his wife, either by love or force and he
approached to caress me. I was very angry, and commanded him to go.
Then he burst into tears, fell on his knees, and said, 'The devil
tempted me.' I was simple enough to believe and to pardon him.
"This was not the end of the affair: he was always recommencing his
attack, following me everywhere, and entering my house in spite of my
girls. He went so far as to hold a knife to my throat to force me to
yield... At the same time he said everywhere that he had gained his
suit, and that I was his promised wife. I complained in vain to his
confessor; I then appealed to justice, who allowed me two men to guard
my house, and began an enquiry. Saint Saulieu soon absconded from
Lille, and went to Ghent, where he found one of my girls, who was a
great devotee and passed for a mirror of perfection: he lived with her,
and she became _enceinte_. The way he arranged the Lille affair was
this: he had a brother among the Jesuits, and they employed their
friends so well, that he got off by paying the costs of justice,
retracting his calumny, and acknowledging that I was an honest
women."[1]
This took place between 1653 and 1658, consequently only a few years
before the representation of Moliere's _Tartuffe_, who wrote the three
first acts in 1664. Everything leads us to believe that such
adventures were not rare at that period. Tartuffe, Orgon, and all the
other personages of this truly historical piece, are not abstract
beings, pure creations of art, like the heroes of Corneille or Racine;
they are real men, caught in the act, and taken from nature.
What strikes us in Mademoiselle de Bourignon's Flemish Tartuffe is his
patience to study and learn mysticism in order to speak its language;
and, again, his perseverance in associating himself for whole years
with the thoughts of the pious maiden.
If Moliere had not been confined in so narrow a frame, if his
_Tartuffe_ had had the time to prepare better his advances, if he had
been able (the thing was then, no doubt, too dangerous) to take the
cloak of Desmarets and Quietism in its birth, he might have advanced
still further in his designs without being discovered. Then he would
not in the very beginning have made to the person he wants to seduce
the very illogical confession, that he is a cheat. He would not have
ventured the expression, "If it be only heaven" (Act iv. scene 5).
Instead of unmasking abruptly this ugly corruption, he would have
varnished it over, and unveiled it by degrees. From one ambiguous
phrase to another, and by a cunning transition, he would have contrived
to make corruption take the appearance of perfection. Who knows? He
might perhaps at last have succeeded, like many others, in finding it
unnecessary to be a hypocrite any longer, and have finished by imposing
on himself, cheating and seducing himself into the belief that he was a
saint. It is then he would have been Tartuffe in the superlative
degree, being so not only for the world, but for himself, having
perfectly confounded within himself every ray of good, and reposing in
evil with a tranquillity secured by his ignorance, counterfeit at
first, but afterwards become natural.
[1] The two accounts given by Mademoiselle de Bourignon are abridged
and united. See at the end of Vol. I. of her OEuvres (Amsterdam,
1686), pp. 68-80, and pp. 188-197.