Chapter VI: Part 6

Ne vous déférez-vous jamais, avec moi, de la familiarité de ce mot
de belle-mère, et ne sauriez-vous vous accoutumer à me dire Madame?

GEORGE DANDIN.

Parbleu! si vous m'appelez votre gendre, il me semble que je puis
vous appeler belle-mère?

MADAME DE SOTENVILLE.

Il y a fort à dire, et les choses ne sont pas égales. Apprenez, s'il vous plait, que ce n'est pas à vous à vous servir de ce mot-là avec une personne de ma condition; que, tout notre gendre que vous soyez, il y a grande différence de vous à nous, et que vous devez vous connoître.

MONSIEUR DE SOTENVILLE.

C'en est assez, m'amour: laissons cela.

MADAME DE SOTENVILLE.

Mon dieu! Monsieur de Sotenville, vous avez des indulgences qui n'appartiennent qu'à vous, et vous ne savez pas vous faire rendre par les gens ce qui vous est dû.

MONSIEUR DE SOTENVILLE.

Corbleu! pardonnez-moi; on ne peut point me faire des leçons là-dessus; et j'ai su montrer en ma vie, par vingt actions de vigueur, que je ne suis point homme à démordre jamais d'une partie de mes prétentions: mais il suffit de lui avoir donné un petit avertissement. Sachons un peu, mon gendre, ce que vous avez dans l'esprit.

GEORGE DANDIN.

Puisqu'il faut donc parler catégoriquement, je vous dirai,
Monsieur de Sotenville, que j'ai bien de----

MONSIEUR DE SOTENVILLE.

Doucement, mon gendre. Apprenez qu'il n'est pas respectueux d'appeler les gens par leur nom, et qu'à ceux qui sont au-dessus de nous, il faut dire Monsieur, tout court.

GEORGE DANDIN.

Hé bien! Monsieur tout court, et nonplus Monsieur de Sotenville,
j'ai à vous dire que ma femme me donne----

MONSIEUR DE SOTENVILLE.

Tout beau! Apprenez aussi que vous ne devez pas dire ma femme,
quand vous parlez de notre fille.

GEORGE DANDIN.

J'enrage! Comment, ma femme n'est pas ma femme?

MADAME DE SOTENVILLE.

Oui, notre gendre, elle est votre femme; mais il ne vous est pas permis de l'appeler ainsi; et c'est tout ce que vous pourriez faire si vous aviez épousé une de vos pareilles.

GEORGE DANDIN.

Ah! George Dandin, ou t'es-tu fourré?"

But we must leave off. Sir Walter Scott says that, as often as he opened the volume of Molière's works during the composition of his article on that author, he found it impossible to lay it out of his hand until he had completed a scene, however little to his immediate purpose of consulting it; and thus we could prolong and multiply extracts to the amusement of ourselves and the reader; but we restrain ourselves, and, returning to the subject that caused this quotation, we must say, that we differ entirely from Rousseau and other critics who adopt his opinions; and even Schlegel, who accuses the author of being guilty of currying favour with rank in this comedy, and making honest mediocrity ridiculous. If genius was to adapt its works to the rules of philosophers, instead of following the realities of life, we should never read in books of honesty duped, and vice triumphant: whether we should be the gainers by this change is a question. It may be added, also, that Molière did not represent, in "George Dandin," honesty ill-used, so much as folly punished; and, at any rate, where vice is on one side and ridicule on the other, we must think that class worse used to whom the former is apportioned as properly belonging. In spite of philosophers, truth, such as it exists, is the butt at which all writers ought to aim. It is different, indeed, when a servile spirit paints greatness, virtue, and dignity on one side--poverty, ignorance, and folly, on the other.

At length the time came when Molière was allowed to bring out the "Tartuffe" in its original shape, with its original name. Its success was unequalled: it went through forty-four consecutive representations. At a period when religious disputes between molinist and jansenist ran high in France--when it was the fashion to be devout, and each family had a confessor and director of their consciences, to whom they looked up with reverence, and whose behests they obeyed--a play which showed up the hypocrisy of those who cloaked the worst designs, and brought discord and hatred into families, under the guise of piety, was doubtless a useful production; yet the "Tartuffe" is not an agreeable play. Borne away by his notion of the magnitude of the evil he attacked, and by his idea of the usefulness of the lesson, Molière attached himself greatly to it. The plot is admirably managed, the characters excellently contrasted, its utility probably of the highest kind; but Molière, hampered by the necessity of giving as little umbrage as possible to true devotees, was forced by the spirit of the times to regard his subject more seriously than is quite accordant with comedy: there is something heavy in the conduct of the piece, and disgust is rather excited than amusement. The play is still popular; and, through the excellent acting of a living performer, it has enjoyed great popularity in these days in its English dress: still it is disagreeable; and the part foisted in on our stage, of the strolling methodist preacher, becomes, by its farce, the most amusing part in the play.[43]

Molière may now be considered as having risen to the height of his 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.

In every point of view Molière's disposition and actions demand our love and veneration. He was generous to a high degree--undeviating in his friendship; charitable to all in need. His sense of Barron's talent and friendless position caused him to adopt him as a son; and he taught him the art in which both as a comic and tragic actor Barron afterwards excelled. One day the young man told him of a poor stroller who wanted some small sum to assist him in joining his company--Molière learnt that it was Mondorge, who had formerly been a comrade of his own; he asked Barron, how much he wished to give; the other replied, four pistoles. "Give him," said Moliere, "four pistoles from me--and here are twenty to give from yourself." His charities were on all sides very considerable; and his hand was never shut to the poor. Getting into a carriage one day, he gave a piece of money to a mendicant standing by; the man ran after the carriage, and stopt it, "You have made a mistake, sir," he cried out, "You have given me a louis d'or." "And here is another, to reward your honesty," replied Molière; and, as the carriage drove off, he exclaimed, "Where will virtue next take shelter" (_où la vertu va-t-elle se nicher!_), showing that he generalised even this simple incident, and took it home to his mind as characteristic of human nature. The biographer, Grimarest--who by no means favours him, and dilates on anecdotes till he turns them into romance--says, that he was very irritable, and that his love of order was so great that he was exceedingly discomposed by any want of neatness or exactitude in his domestic arrangements. That ill health and the various annoyances he suffered as manager of a theatre, may have tended to render him irritable, is possible; but there are many anecdotes that display sweetness of disposition and great gentleness of mind and manner. Boileau, who was an excellent mimic, amused Louis XIV. one day by taking off all the principal actors--the king insisted that he should include Molière, who was present; and afterwards asked him, What he thought of the imitation? "We cannot judge of our own likeness," replied Molière; but if he has succeeded as well with me as with the others, it must needs be admirable. One day La Fontaine having drawn on himself an unusual share of raillery by his abstraction and absence of mind, Molière felt that the joke was being carried too far--"_Laissons-le_," he said, "_nous n'effacerons jamais le bon-homme_,"--the name bestowed on La Fontaine by his friends. We cannot help considering also in the same light, that of a heart true to the touch of a nature, which "makes the whole world kin," his habit of reading his pieces, before they were acted, to his old housekeeper, La Forêt. From the dulness or vivacity which her face expressed as he read, he judged whether the audience would yawn or applaud his scenes as acted. That she was a sensible old woman cannot be doubted; as when a play, by another author, was read to her as written by her master, she shook her head, and told Molière that he was cheating her.

As a comic actor Molière had great merit: he played broad farcical parts; and a description of his style is handed down to us both by his enemies and friends. Montfleuri (the son of the actor), in his satire, says,----

----"Il vient le nez au vent,
Les pieds en parenthèse, et l'épaule en avant;
Sa péruque, qui suit le côté qui avance,
Plus pleine de lauriers qu'un jambon de Mayence;
Les mains sur les côtés, d'un air peu négligé,
La tête sur le dos, comme un mulet chargé,
Les yeux fort égarés, puis débitant ses roles,
D'un hoquet perpétuel sépare les paroles."

No doubt, though a caricature, there is truth in this picture. We still see in his portraits the wig, thickly crowned with laurels; and theatrical historians have mentioned the sort of catching of the breath--exaggerated in the verses above quoted into a hoquet, or hiccough,--which he had acquired by his endeavour to moderate the rapidity of his articulation. The newspapers of the day, in giving an account of him when he died, describe him as "actor from head to foot: he seemed to have many voices--for all spoke in him; and by a step, a smile, a trick of the eye, or a motion of the head, he said more in a moment than words could express in an hour." "He was," we find written in another newspaper, "neither too fat nor too thin; he was rather above the middle height, and carried himself well--he walked gravely, with a very serious manner; his nose was thick; his mouth large, his complexion dark; his eyebrows black and strongly marked, and the way in which he moved them gave great comic expression to his countenance." He acted well also, because, in addition to his genius, his heart was in all he did; and he wrote well from the same cause. He had that enthusiasm for his art which marks the man of genius. He did not begin to write till thirty-four--but the style of his productions, founded on a knowledge of mankind and of life, necessitates a longer apprenticeship than any other. When he did write it was with facility and speed. The whole of his comedies--each rising in excellence--were composed during the space of fourteen years; and Boileau addresses him as----

"Rare et fameux esprit, dont la fertile veine
Ignore en écrivant le travail et la peine."

But although when having conceived the project of a play his labour was light, his life, like that of all great authors, was spent in study--the study of mankind. Boileau called him the contemplator. He was silent and abstracted in company--he listened, and felt; and carried away a knowledge that displayed itself afterwards in his conception of character, in his perception of the ridiculous, in his portraitures of the human heart. Perhaps nothing proves more the original and innate bent of genius than the fact, that Molière was a comic writer. His sense of the ridiculous being intuitive, forced him to a species of composition, which, by choice, he would have exchanged for tragic and pathetic dramas: but he could only idealise in one view of life; his imagination was tame when it tried to soar to the sublime, or to touch by tenderness. Of course he has not escaped criticism even in the pieces in which his genius is most displayed. Voltaire says that his farce is too broad, and his serious pieces want interest; and that he almost always failed in the _dénouement_ of his plots. The latter portion of this remark is truer than the former; though there is foundation for the whole. Voltaire, like Boileau, was bitten by the then Gallic mania for classical (_i.e._ in modern literature, imitative instead of original) productions. Boileau too often considers that Molière sacrificed good taste to the multitude when he made his audience laugh. Boileau's poetry is arid, with all its wit; and he had no feeling for humour: his very sarcasms, full of point and epigram as they are, turn entirely on manner; he seldom praises or blames the higher portions of composition. Schlegel, in his bigotted dislike for all things French, by no means does Molière justice[46]; and many of his criticisms are quite false. As, for instance, that on the "Avare;" where he says, that no miser at once hides a treasure and lends money on usury. Any one who consults the history of our celebrated English misers of the last century will find that they, without exception, united the characters of misers and money-lenders.

It has been mentioned that Molière did not succeed in the serious, the sentimental, the fanciful. Voltaire mentions his little one-act piece of "L'Amour Peintre" as the only one of the sort that has grace and spirit. This slight sketch is evidently the groundwork of the "Barber of Seville;" it contains the same characters and the same situations in a more contracted space.

Similar to our Shakspeare, Molière held up a faithful mirror to nature; and there is scarcely a trait or a speech in any of his pieces that does not charm the reader as the echo of reality. It is a question, how far Molière individualised general observations, or placed copies of real persons in his canvass. All writers of fiction must ground their pictures on their knowledge of life; and comic writers (comedy deriving so much of its excellence from slight but individual traits) are led more entirely into plagiarisms from nature. Sir Walter Scott is an instance of this, and could point out the original of almost all his comic characters. This may be carried too far; and the question is, to what extent Molière sinned against good taste and good feeling in holding up well-known persons to public ridicule. We have mentioned the story of his having paid M. de Soyecourt a visit, for the purpose of transferring his conversation to the stage, for the amusement of the king on the following day. This was hardly fair; while, on the other hand, he had full right to the count de Soissons _naïve_ annunciation of the discovery that he had been speaking prose all his life, and putting it into M. Jourdain's mouth; and also to the anecdote we have related concerning Louis XIV. and the bishop of Rhodes, which he introduced into the "Tartuffe." Nor was it his fault that the name of _Tartuffe_ became fixed on the bishop of Autun, as several allusions in madame de Sévigné's letters testify. There is, however, a difference to be drawn between the cap fitting after it is made, and its being made to fit. And in _Trissotin_, in the "Femmes Savantes," where the works of the abbé Cotin were held up to ridicule, we are apt to think that he went beyond good taste in his personality. The effect was melancholy. Cotin had long suffered from Boileau's attacks; but this last public one from Molière completely overwhelmed him, and he fell into a state of melancholy that soon after caused death. "Sad effect," writes Voltaire, "of a liberty more dangerous than useful; and which does not so much inspire good taste as it flatters the malice of men. Good poems are the best satires that can be levelled against bad poets; and Molière and Boileau need not, in addition, have had recourse to insult."

Molière died on the 17th of February, 1673, aged fifty-one. His friends deeply mourned his loss, and many epitaphs were written in his honour. By degrees France became aware of the honour the country received from having given birth to such a man. The academicians of the eighteenth century endeavoured to atone for the folly of their predecessors. The bust of Molière was placed in their hall, with an appropriate inscription by Saurin:--

"Rien ne manque à sa gloire, il manquait à la nôtre."

In 1769, his eulogy was made the subject of a prize. It was gained by Chamfort; and, on the day of its public recital, two Poquelins were hunted out from their obscurity, and an honourable place assigned them among the audience; and there they sat, living epigrams on the bigotry which in former days expunged Molière's name from their genealogical tree.

His remains, unhonoured at first, were destined to several mutations during the revolution. A stone is at present erected to their honour, in the cemetery of Père la Chaise; but it may be considered a cenotaph, as there is every reason to doubt the identity of the remains placed beneath.

His troop of comedians did not long survive him. The theatre had been shut on his death, and not reopened till a fortnight after; when his widow, in contempt of decency, filled a part. She became manager; but was speedily deserted by the best actors, and soon after the use of the theatre was transferred to Lulli. Madame Molière applied to the king, and obtained the use of another; but within a few years this company no longer existed: amalgamated at first with that of the Marais, and soon after with that of the Hôtel de Bourgogne, there remained only one company of actors in France, called the king's troop. Molière's widow soon after married Guerin, an actor; her career was not reputable: frivolity and misconduct long deprived her of the public esteem. She continued to act till the 14th October, 1694, when she retired from the stage with a pension of 1000 livres. From this time she partly redeemed past errors by leading a perfectly respectable life till she died, 30th November, 1700. Of Molière's three children one only survived, a daughter. She was placed in a convent by her mother; but, resisting her wish to take the veil, she returned home. A grown up daughter interfered with madame Guerin's arrangements; and Molière's orphan child was unhappy and neglected. Unable to induce her mother to make any arrangement for her marriage, she allowed herself to be carried off by M. Claude Rachel, sieur de Montalant, a widower with four children, and forty-nine years of age. Her mother was soon reconciled; and they all together went to live at Argenton. Madame de Montalant died in 1723, at the age of fifty-seven. She had no children; and not only does the posterity of Molière no longer exist, but even the many descendants of his numerous brothers and sisters have left no trace--and the family of Poquelin is extinct.

[Footnote 31: A thousand mistakes were current, even in Molière's own day, with regard to various particulars of his history, which he took no pains to contradict, and which have been copied and recopied by succeeding biographers. Even the calumny that he had incurred the hazard of marrying his own daughter, which he disdained to confute in print, aware that facts known to every one acquainted with him bore the refutation with them, was faintly denied. These days, however, have brought forth a commentator, unwearied in the search for documents on the subject. M. L. F. Beffara hunted through parish registers and other public records, and, by means of these simple but irrefutable instruments, has thrown light on all the darker passages of Molière's history, exonerated him from every accusation, and set his character in a higher point of view than ever.]

[Footnote 32: Bellerose (whose real name was Pierre Le Meslier) was the best tragic actor of the reign of Louis XIII.: he was the original _Cinna_ of Corneille's play. He was elegant in manner, and his elocution was easy. Scarron accuses him of affectation: and we are told, in the Memoirs of the Cardinal de Retz, that a lady objected to M. de la Rochefoucauld, that he resembled Bellerose in the affectation of gentleness.]

[Footnote 33: Biographers are apt to invent, if they cannot discover the causes of even trifling events. That the son replaced the father on this occasion, made the elder biographers state that the latter was prevented by his advanced age. Beffara has discovered that the grandfather of Molière married 11th July, 1594, consequently that the father could not be more than forty-six years of age in 1641. A thousand reasons may be found for the substitution of the son. The aversion that Parisians have for travelling might suffice--the large motherless family that the elder Poquelin must leave behind, or a wish to introduce his son to the notice of the king, &c.]

[Footnote 34: Molière's company then consisted of, in actors, the two brothers, Bejart, Du Parc, De Brie, De Croisal: in actresses, of the sisters Bejart, Du Parc, De Brie, and Hervé. Du Croisy and La Grange, two first-rate actors, were soon afterwards added.]

[Footnote 35: For him surely was written Miss Lamb's pretty song--

"High born Helen
Round your dwelling
These twenty years I've paced in vain.
Haughty Beauty,
Your lover's duty
Has been his pleasure and his pain."

Vide _Poet. Works of Charles Lamb._

Molière in the farce in question gives a diverting account of a _Précieuse_ courtship: "Il faut qu'un amant, pour être agréable, sache débiter les beaux sentiments, pousser le doux, le tendre, et le passionné, et que sa recherche soit dans les formes. Premièrement, il doit voir au temple, ou à la promenade, ou dans quelque cérémonie publique, la personne dont il devient amoureux, ou bien être conduit fatalement chez elle par un parent ou un ami, et sortir de la tout rêveur ou mélancholique. Il cache, un temps, sa passion à l'objet aimé, et cependant lui rends plusieurs visites où l'on ne manque jamais de mettre sur le tapis une question galante qui exerce les esprits de l'assemblée. Le jour de la déclaration arrive, qui se doit faire ordinairement dans une allée de quelque jardin, tandis que la compagnie s'est un peu éloignée: et cette déclaration est suivie d'un prompte courroux, qui parait à notre rougeur, et qui, pour un temps, bannit l'amant de notre présence. Ensuite il trouve moyen de nous appaiser, de nous accoutumer insensiblement au discours de sa passion, et de tirer de nous cet aveu qui fait tant de peine. Après cela viennent les aventures, les rivaux qui se jettent à traverse d'une inclination établie, les persécutions des pères, les jalousies conçues sous des fausses apparences, les plaintes, les désespoirs, les enlèvemens, et ce qui s'ensuit."]

[Footnote 36: When Fléchier delivered a funeral oration on the death of madame de Montauzier, he spoke of her mother by her assumed name of Athénice. "You remember, my brothers," he exclaimed, "those cabinets, which we still regard with so much veneration; where the mind was purified and where virtue was revered under the name of the incomparable Athénice; where persons of quality or talent assembled, and composed a select court--numerous without confusion, modest without constraint, learned without pride, refined without affectation." La Bruyère describes this society in somewhat different terms: "Not long ago we witnessed a circle of persons of either sex, drawn together by conversation and the cultivation of talent. They left the art of speaking intelligibly to the vulgar. One remark, enveloped in mysterious phrase, brought on another yet more obscure; and they went on exaggerating till they spoke in absolute enigmas, which were most applauded. By talking of delicacy, sentiment, and finesse of expression, they managed neither to make themselves understood, nor to understand. There was need of neither good sense, memory, nor cleverness for these conversations. Wit was all in all--not true wit, but that which consists in conceits and extravagant fancies."]

[Footnote 37: It has been frequently asserted this piece was written while the author was in the country; his preface favours this notion, in which he says that he only ridicules _les fausses Précieuses_, that name being then held in esteem. Contemporary notices, however, make it apparent that this piece came out first in Paris; and it was impossible that he could have so well seized the peculiar tone of these sentimental pedants any where except in their very birth-place.]

[Footnote 38: It is well known that even during his life-time the calumny was spread abroad, that Molière married his own natural daughter. The great difference of age between the sisters, Madeleine and Armande Bejart gave to those who were ignorant of their true relationship some foundation for a report, which sprung from a former intimacy between Molière and the elder sister. He always disdained to contradict the falsehood; and it has generally been assumed by biographers, while they acquitted him of the alleged crime, that his wife was the daughter of Madeleine. We owe the discovery of this falsehood to the pains which M. Beffara took to discover the certificate of Molière's marriage; which is as follows:--"Jean Baptiste Poquelin, son of sieur Jean Poquelin, and of the late Marie Cressé, on the one side: and Armande Gresinde Bejart, daughter of the late Joseph Bejart and of Marie Hervée, on the other: both of this parish, opposite the Palais Royal, affianced and married together, by permission of M. Comtes, deacon of Notre-Dame, and grand vicar of Monseigneur the cardinal de Retz, archbishop of Paris; in presence of the said Jean Poquelin, father of the bridegroom, and of André Boudet, brother-in-law of the bridegroom; the said Marie Hervée, mother of the bride, and Louis Bejart and Madeleine Bejart, brother and sister of the said bride." This certificate is signed by J. B. Poquelin, J. Poquelin, Boudet, Marie Hervée, Armande Gresinde Bejart, Louis Bejart, and Bejart (Madeleine). Madeleine's daughter, by the noble Modena, who was the cause of this calumny, was older than the wife of Molière; her baptismal register names her the daughter of Madeleine Bejart et Messire Esprit de Raymond, noble of Modena, and chamberlain to Monsieur, brother of the king, born 11th July, 1638; her name was Françoise, and she is mentioned as illegitimate in her baptismal register. It is singular that in his "Essay on Molière," Sir Walter Scott slurs over the complete refutation which this certificate brings with it of the calumny in question, and speaks of the relationship of Molière and his wife as a doubtful point. This is neither just nor generous; but Sir Walter seems to insinuate that as Molière's life was not entirely exempt from the stain of illicit love, a little more or less was of no account.]

[Footnote 39: The king often danced in these ballets, till struck by some lines in the "Britannicus" of Racine, in allusion to Nero's public exhibitions of himself, he entirely gave up the practice; and soon after the appearing in them fell into such discredit, that, when Lulli took a part in that appended to the "Bourgeois Gentilhomme," the secretaries of the king refused to receive him among them on this account, and the king was obliged to interpose to bring them to reason.]

[Footnote 40: The following is the story of Ninon de l'Enclos and the "Tartuffe":--When Gourville, the vicissitudes of whose life were many and great, was, in 1661, in danger of being hanged, and was indeed hanged in effigy, he left two caskets full of money, one with Ninon, the other with a priest of his acquaintance, who affected great devotion. On his return, Ninon restored him his casket, and the value of money being increased, he was richer than before. He offered this surplus to his friend; but she replied by threatening to throw the money out of window, if he said a word more on the subject. The priest acted in a different way: he said he had employed the sum deposited with him in pious works, having preferred the good of Gourville's soul to pelf, which might have occasioned his perdition. This story Ninon used to tell with such clever mimicry of the false devotee, that Molière declared he owed his best inspiration to her.]

[Footnote 41: Preface to "Tartuffe."]

[Footnote 42: Schlegel.]

[Footnote 43: There are some excellent observations on the moral of the "Tartuffe" in Sir Walter Scott's article on Molière, published in the seventeenth vol. of his prose works, in answer to Bourdaloue's violent philippic against this play. Scott argues with force and justice on the propriety of affixing the stigma of ridicule to the most hateful vice ever nurtured in the human heart--the assumption of the appearance of religion for worldly and wicked purposes; and he represents also the utility of the picture drawn to arrest in his course one in danger of incurring the sin of spiritual pride, by showing him that the fairest professions and strictest observances may be consistent with the foulest purposes. "The case of the 'Tartuffe,'" Sir Walter Scott thus sums up in his argument, "is that of a vilely wicked man, rendering the profession of religion hateful by abusing it for the worst purposes: and if such characters occurred, as there is little reason to doubt, in the time and court of Louis XIV., we can see no reason against their being gibbeted in effigy. The poet himself is at pains to show that he draws the true line of distinction between the hypocrite and the truly religious man. When the duped _Orgon_, astonished at the discovery of _Tartuffe_'s villainy, expresses himself doubtful of the existence of real worth _Cléante_ replies to him, with his usual sense and moderation:

'Quoi! parce qu'un fripon vous dupe avec audace,
Sous le pompeux éclat d'une austère grimace,
Vous voulez que partout on soit fait comme lui,
Et qu'aucun vrai dévot ne se trouve aujourd'hui?
Laissez aux libertins ces sottes conséquences:
Démêlez la vertu d'avec ses apparences;
Ne bazardez jamais votre estime trop tôt.
Ne soyez pour cela dans le milieu qu'il faut.
Gardez-vous, s'il se peut, d'honorer l'imposture,
Mais au vrai zèle, aussi, n'allez pas faire injure;
Et s'il vous faut tomber dans une extrémité,
Péchez plutôt encor de cet autre côté.']