Part 7
The sage Levantines have a tale About a rat that weary grew Of all the cares which life assail, And to a Holland cheese withdrew. His solitude was there profound, Extending through his world so round. Our hermit lived on that within; And soon his industry had been With claws and teeth so good, That in his novel hermitage He had in store, for wants of age, Both house and livelihood. What more could any rat desire? He grew fat, fair, and round. God's blessings thus redound To those who in his vows retire. One day this personage devout, Whose kindness none might doubt, Was asked, by certain delegates That came from Rat-United-States, For some small aid, for they To foreign parts were on their way, For succor in the great cat-war: Ratopolis beleaguered sore, Their whole republic drained and poor, No morsel in their scrips they bore. Slight boon they craved, of succor sure In days at utmost three or four. "My friends," the hermit said, "To worldly things I'm dead. How can a poor recluse To such a mission be of use? What can he do but pray That God will aid it on its way? And so, my friends, it is my prayer That God will have you in his care." His well-fed saintship said no more But in their faces shut the door. What think you, reader, is the service, For which I use this niggard rat? To paint a monk? No, but a dervise. A monk, I think, however fat, Must be more bountiful than that.
The fable entitled "Death and the Dying," is much admired for its union of pathos with wit. "The Two Doves," is another of La Fontaine's more tender inspirations. "The Mogul's Dream" is a somewhat ambitious flight of the fabulist's muse. On the whole, however, the masterpiece among the fables of La Fontaine is that of "The Animals Sick of the Plague." Such at least is the opinion of critics in general. The idea of this fable is not original with La Fontaine. The homilists of the middle ages used a similar fiction to enforce on priests the duty of impartiality in administering the sacrament, so called, of confession. We give this famous fable as our closing specimen of La Fontaine:
The sorest ill that Heaven hath Sent on this lower world in wrath-- The plague (to call it by its name), One single day of which Would Pluto's ferryman enrich, Waged war on beasts, both wild and tame. They died not all, but all were sick: No hunting now, by force or trick, To save what might so soon expire. No food excited their desire: Nor wolf nor fox now watched to slay The innocent and tender prey. The turtles fled, So love and therefore joy were dead. The lion council held, and said, "My friends, I do believe This awful scourge, for which we grieve, Is for our sins a punishment Most righteously by Heaven sent. Let us our guiltiest beast resign A sacrifice to wrath divine. Perhaps this offering, truly small, May gain the life and health of all. By history we find it noted That lives have been just so devoted. Then let us all turn eyes within, And ferret out the hidden sin. Himself let no one spare nor flatter, But make clean conscience in the matter. For me, my appetite has played the glutton Too much and often upon mutton. What harm had e'er my victims done? I answer, truly, None. Perhaps, sometimes, by hunger pressed, I've eat the shepherd with the rest. I yield myself if need there be; And yet I think, in equity, Each should confess his sins with me; For laws of right and justice cry, The guiltiest alone should die." "Sire," said the fox, "your majesty Is humbler than a king should be, And over-squeamish in the case. What! eating stupid sheep a crime? No, never, sire, at any time. It rather was an act of grace, A mark of honor to their race. And as to shepherds, one may swear, The fate your majesty describes Is recompense less full than fair For such usurpers o'er our tribes."
Thus Renard glibly spoke, And loud applause from listeners broke Of neither tiger, boar, nor bear, Did any keen inquiry dare To ask for crimes of high degree; The fighters, biters, scratchers, all From every mortal sin were free; The very dogs, both great and small, Were saints, as far as dogs could be.
The ass, confessing in his turn, Thus spoke in tones of deep concern: "I happened through a mead to pass; The monks, its owners, were at mass: Keen hunger, leisure, tender grass, And, add to these the devil, too, All tempted me the deed to do. I browsed the bigness of my tongue: Since truth must out, I own it wrong." On this, a hue and cry arose, As if the beasts were all his foes. A wolf, haranguing lawyer-wise, Denounced the ass for sacrifice-- The bald-pate, scabby, ragged lout, By whom the plague had come, no doubt. His fault was judged a hanging crime. What! eat another's grass? Oh, shame! The noose of rope, and death sublime, For that offense were all too tame! And soon poor Grizzle felt the same. Thus human courts acquit the strong, And doom the weak as therefore wrong.
It is suitable to add, in conclusion, that La Fontaine is a crucial author for disclosing the irreconcilable difference that exists, at bottom, between the Englishman's and the Frenchman's idea of poetry. No English-speaker, heir of Shakespeare and Milton, will ever be able to satisfy a Frenchman with admiration such as he can conscientiously profess for the poetry of La Fontaine.
VII.
MOLIERE.
1623-1673.
Moliere is confessedly the greatest writer of comedy in the world. Greek Menander might have disputed the palm; but Menander's works have perished, and his greatness must be guessed. Who knows but we guess him too great? Moliere's works survive, and his greatness may be measured.
We have stinted our praise. Moliere is not only the foremost name in a certain department of literature; he is one of the foremost names in literature. The names are few on which critics are willing to bestow this distinction. But critics generally agree in bestowing this distinction on Moliere.
Moliere's comedy is by no means mere farce. Farces he wrote, undoubtedly; and some element of farce, perhaps, entered to qualify nearly every comedy that flowed from his pen. But it is not for his farce that Moliere is rated one of the few greatest producers of literature. Moliere's comedy constitutes to Moliere the patent that it does, of high degree in genius, not because it provokes laughter, but because, amid laughter provoked, it not seldom reveals, as if with flashes of lightning--lightning playful, indeed, but lightning that might have been deadly--the "secrets of the nethermost abyss" of human nature. Not human manners merely, those of a time, or a race, but human attributes, those of all times, and of all races, are the things with which, in his higher comedies, Moliere deals. Some transient whim of fashion may in these supply to him the mould of form that he uses, but it is human nature itself that supplies to Moliere the substance of his dramatic creations. Now and again, if you read Moliere wisely and deeply, you find your laughter at comedy fairly frozen in your throat, by a gelid horror seizing you, to feel that these follies or these crimes displayed belong to that human nature, one and the same everywhere and always, of which also you yourself partake. Comedy, Dante, too, called his poem, which included the _Inferno_. And a Dantesque quality, not of method, but of power, is to be felt in Moliere.
This character in Moliere the writer accords with the character of the man Moliere. It might not have seemed natural to say of Moliere, as was said of Dante, "There goes the man that has been in hell." But Moliere was melancholy enough in temper and in mien to have well inspired an exclamation such as, "There goes the man that has seen the human heart."
A poet as well as a dramatist, his own fellow-countrymen, at least, feel Moliere to be. In Victor Hugo's list of the eight greatest poets of all time, two are Hebrews (Job and Isaiah), two Greeks (Homer and AEschylus), one is a Roman (Lucretius), one an Italian (Dante), one an Englishman (Shakespeare)--seven. The eighth could hardly fail to be a Frenchman, and that Frenchman is Moliere. Mr. Swinburne might perhaps make the list nine, but he would certainly include Victor Hugo himself.
Curiously enough, Moliere is not this great writer's real name. It is a stage name. It was assumed by the bearer when he was about twenty-four years of age, on occasion of his becoming one in a strolling band of players--in 1646 or thereabout. This band, originally composed of amateurs, developed into a professional dramatic company, which passed through various transformations, until, from being at first grandiloquently self-styled, L'Illustre Theatre, it was, twenty years after, recognized by the national title of Theatre Francais. Moliere's real name was Jean Baptiste Poquelin.
Young Poquelin's bent, early encouraged by seeing plays and ballets, was strongly toward the stage. The drama, under the quickening patronage of Louis XIII.'s lordly minister, Cardinal Richelieu, was a great public interest of those times in Paris. Moliere's evil star, too, it was perhaps in part that brought him back to Paris, from Orleans. He admired a certain actress in the capital. She became the companion--probably not innocent companion--of his wandering life as actor. A sister of this actress--a sister young enough to be daughter, instead of sister--Moliere finally married. She led her jealous husband a wretched conjugal life. A peculiarly dark tradition of shame, connected with Moliere's marriage, has lately been to a good degree dispelled. But it is not possible to redeem this great man's fame to chastity and honor. He paid heavily, in like misery of his own, for whatever pangs of jealousy he inflicted. There was sometimes true tragedy for himself hidden within the comedy that he acted for others. (Moliere, to the very end of his life, acted in the comedies that he wrote.) When some play of his represented the torments of jealousy in the heart of a husband, it was probably not so much acting, as it was real life, that the spectators saw proceeding on the stage between Moliere and his wife, confronted with each other in performing the piece.
Despite his faults, Moliere was cast in a noble, generous mold, of character as well as of genius. Expostulated with for persisting to appear on the stage when his health was such that he put his life at stake in so doing, he replied that the men and women of his company depended for their bread on the play's going through, and appear he would. He actually died an hour or so after playing the part of the Imaginary Invalid in his comedy of that name. That piece was the last work of his pen.
Moliere produced in all some thirty dramatic pieces, from among which we select a few of the most celebrated for brief description and illustration.
The "Bourgeois Gentilhomme" ("Shopkeeper turned Gentleman") partakes of the nature of the farce quite as much as it does of the comedy. But it is farce such as only a man of genius could produce. In it Moliere ridicules the airs and affectations of a rich man vulgarly ambitious to figure in a social rank too exalted for his birth, his breeding, or his merit. Jourdain is the name under which Moliere satirizes such a character. We give a fragment from one of the scenes. M. Jourdain is in process of fitting himself for that higher position in society to which he aspires. He will equip himself with the necessary knowledge. To this end he employs a professor of philosophy to come and give him lessons at his house:
_M. Jourdain._ I have the greatest desire in the world to be learned; and it vexes me more than I can tell, that my father and mother did not make me learn thoroughly all the sciences when I was young.
_Professor of Philosophy._ This is a praiseworthy feeling. _Nam sine doctrina vita est quasi mortis imago._ You understand this, and you have, no doubt, a knowledge of Latin?
_M. Jour._ Yes; but act as if I had none. Explain to me the meaning of it--
_Prof. Phil._ The meaning of it is, that, without science, life is an image of death.
_M. Jour._ That Latin is quite right.
_Prof. Phil._ Have you any principles, any rudiments, of science?
_M. Jour._ Oh, yes! I can read and write.
_Prof. Phil._ With what would you like to begin? Shall I teach you logic?
_M. Jour._ And what may this logic be?
_Prof. Phil._ It is that which teaches us the three operations of the mind.
_M. Jour._ What are they--these three operations of the mind?
_Prof. Phil._ The first, the second, and the third. The first is to conceive well by means of universals; the second, to judge well by means of categories; and the third, to draw a conclusion aright by means of the figures Barbara, Celarent, Darii, Ferio, Baralipton, etc.
_M. Jour._ Pooh! what repulsive words! This logic does not by any means suit me. Teach me something more enlivening.
_Prof. Phil._ Will you learn moral philosophy?
_M. Jour._ Moral philosophy?
_Prof. Phil._ Yes.
_M. Jour._ What does it say, this moral philosophy?
_Prof. Phil._ It treats of happiness, teaches men to moderate their passions, and--
_M. Jour._ No, none of that. I am devilishly hot-tempered, and, morality or no morality, I like to give full vent to my anger whenever I have a mind to it.
_Prof. Phil._ Would you like to learn physics?
_M. Jour._ And what have physics to say for themselves?
_Prof. Phil._ Physics is that science which explains the principles of natural things and the properties of bodies; which discourses of the nature of the elements, of metals, minerals, stones, plants, and animals; which teaches us the cause of all the meteors, the rainbow, the _ignis fatuus_, comets, lightning, thunder, thunderbolts, rain, snow, hail, and whirlwinds.
_M. Jour._ There is too much hullaballoo in all that, too much riot and rumpus.
_Prof. Phil._ Very good.
_M. Jour._ And now I want to intrust you with a great secret. I am in love with a lady of quality; and I should be glad if you would help me to write something to her in a short letter which I mean to drop at her feet.
_Prof. Phil._ Very well.
_M. Jour._ That will be gallant, will it not?
_Prof. Phil._ Undoubtedly. Is it verse you wish to write to her?
_M. Jour._ Oh, no! not verse.
_Prof. Phil._ You only wish prose?
_M. Jour._ No. I wish for neither verse nor prose.
_Prof. Phil._ It must be one or the other.
_M. Jour._ Why?
_Prof. Phil._ Because, sir, there is nothing by which we can express ourselves except prose or verse.
_M. Jour._ There is nothing but prose or verse?
_Prof. Phil._ No, sir. Whatever is not prose, is verse; and whatever is not verse, is prose.
_M. Jour._ And when we speak, what is that, then?
_Prof. Phil._ Prose.
_M. Jour._ What! when I say, "Nicole, bring me my slippers, and give me my nightcap," is that prose?
_Prof. Phil._ Yes, sir.
_M. Jour._ Upon my word, I have been speaking prose these forty years without being aware of it; and I am under the greatest obligation to you for informing me of it. Well, then, I wish to write to her in a letter, "Fair Marchioness, your beautiful eyes make me die of love"; but I would have this worded in a gallant manner, turned genteelly.
_Prof. Phil._ Say that the fire of her eyes has reduced your heart to ashes; that you suffer day and night for her the torments of a--
_M. Jour._ No, no, no, I don't wish any of that. I simply wish what I tell you--"Fair Marchioness, your beautiful eyes make me die of love."
_Prof. Phil._ Still, you might amplify the thing a little.
_M. Jour._ No, I tell you, I will have nothing but these very words in the letter; but they must be put in a fashionable way, and arranged as they should be. Pray show me a little, so that I may see the different ways in which they can be put.
_Prof. Phil._ They may be put first of all, as you have said, "Fair Marchioness, your beautiful eyes make me die of love;" or else, "Of love die make me, fair Marchioness, your beautiful eyes;" or, "Your beautiful eyes of love make me, fair Marchioness, die;" or, "Die of love your beautiful eyes, fair Marchioness, make me;" or else, "Me make your beautiful eyes die, fair Marchioness, of love."
_M. Jour._ But of all these ways, which is the best?
_Prof. Phil._ The one you said--"Fair Marchioness, your beautiful eyes make me die of love."
_M. Jour._ Yet I have never studied, and I did all right off at the first shot.
The "Bourgeois Gentilhomme" is a very amusing comedy throughout.
From "Les Femmes Savantes" ("The Learned Women")--"The Blue-Stockings," we might perhaps freely render the title--we present one scene to indicate the nature of the comedy. There had grown to be a fashion in Paris, among certain women high in social rank, of pretending to the distinction of skill in literary criticism, and of proficiency in science. It was the Hotel de Rambouillet reduced to absurdity. That fashionable affectation Moliere made the subject of his comedy, "The Learned Women."
In the following extracts, Moliere satirizes, under the name of Trissotin, a contemporary writer, one Cotin. The poem which Trissotin reads, for the learned women to criticise and admire, is an actual production of this gentleman. Imagine the domestic _coterie_ assembled, and Trissotin, the poet, their guest. He is present, prepared to regale them with what he calls his sonnet. We need to explain that the original poem is thus inscribed: "To Mademoiselle de Longueville, now Duchess of Namur, on her Quartan Fever." The conceit of the sonneteer is that the fever is an enemy luxuriously lodged in the lovely person of its victim, and there insidiously plotting against her life:
_Trissotin._ Sonnet to the Princess Urania on her Fever.
Your prudence sure is fast asleep, That thus luxuriously you keep And lodge magnificently so Your very hardest-hearted foe.
_Belise._ Ah! what a pretty beginning!
_Armande._ What a charming turn it has!
_Philaminte._ He alone possesses the talent of making easy verses.
_Arm._ We must yield to _prudence fast asleep_.
_Bel._ _Lodge one's very hardest-hearted foe_ is full of charms for me.
_Phil._ I like _luxuriously_ and _magnificently_: these two adverbs joined together sound admirably.
_Bel._ Let us hear the rest.
_Triss._ Your prudence sure is fast asleep, That thus luxuriously you keep And lodge magnificently so Your very hardest-hearted foe.
_Arm._ _Prudence fast asleep._
_Bel._ _To lodge one's foe._
_Phil._ _Luxuriously_ and _magnificently_.
_Triss._ Drive forth that foe, whate'er men say, From out your chamber, decked so gay, Where, ingrate vile, with murderous knife, Bold she assails your lovely life.
_Bel._ Ah! gently. Allow me to breathe, I beseech you.
_Arm._ Give us time to admire, I beg.
_Phil._ One feels, at hearing these verses, an indescribable something which goes through one's inmost soul, and makes one feel quite faint.
_Arm._ Drive forth that foe, whate'er men say, From out your chamber, decked so gay--
How prettily _chamber, decked so gay_, is said here! And with what wit the metaphor is introduced!
_Phil._ Drive forth that foe, whate'er men say.
Ah! in what an admirable taste that _whate'er men say_ is! To my mind, the passage is invaluable.
_Arm._ My heart is also in love with _whate'er men say_.
_Bel._ I am of your opinion: _whate'er men say_ is a happy expression.
_Arm._ I wish I had written it.
_Bel._ It is worth a whole poem.
_Phil._ But do you, like me, thoroughly understand the wit of it?
_Arm. and Bel._ Oh! Oh!
_Phil._ Drive forth that foe, whate'er men say.
Although another should take the fever's part, pay no attention; laugh at the gossips.
Drive forth that foe, whate'er men say, Whate'er men say, whate'er men say.
This _whate'er men say_, says a great deal more than it seems. I do not know if every one is like me, but I discover in it a hundred meanings.
_Bel._ It is true that it says more than its size seems to imply.
_Phil._ (_to Trissotin._) But when you wrote this charming _whate'er men say_, did you yourself understand all its energy? Did you realize all it tells us? And did you then think that you were writing something so witty?
_Triss._ Ah! ah!
_Arm._ I have likewise the _ingrate_ in my head--this ungrateful, unjust, uncivil fever that ill-treats people who entertain her.
_Phil._ In short, both the stanzas are admirable. Let us come quickly to the triplets, I pray.
_Arm._ Ah! once more, _what'er men say_, I beg.
_Triss._ Drive forth that foe, whate'er men say--
_Phil., Arm., and Bel._ _Whate'er men say!_
_Triss._ From out your chamber, decked so gay--
_Phil., Arm. and Bel._ _Chamber decked so gay!_
_Triss._ Where, ingrate vile, with murderous knife--
_Phil., Arm., and Bel._ That _ingrate_ fever!
_Triss._ Bold she assails your lovely life.
_Triss._ _Your lovely life!_
_Arm. and Bel._ Ah!
_Triss._ What! reckless of your ladyhood, Still fiercely seeks to shed your blood--
_Phil., Arm. and Bel._ Ah!
_Triss._ And day and night to work you harm. When to the baths sometime you've brought her, No more ado, with your own arm Whelm her and drown her in the water.
_Phil._ Ah! It is quite overpowering.
_Bel._ I faint.
_Arm._ I die from pleasure.
_Phil._ A thousand sweet thrills seize one.
_Arm._ _When to the baths sometime you've brought her._
_Bel._ _No more ado, with your own arm._
_Phil._ _Whelm her and drown her in the water._
With your own arm, drown her there in the baths.
_Arm._ In your verses we meet at each step with charming beauty.
_Bel._ One promenades through them with rapture.
_Phil._ One treads on fine things only.
_Arm._ They are little lanes all strewn with roses.
_Triss._ Then, the sonnet seems to you--
_Phil._ Admirable, new; and never did any one make any thing more beautiful.
_Bel._ (_to Henriette_). What! my niece, you listen to what has been read without emotion! You play there but a sorry part!
_Hen._ We each of us play the best part we can, my aunt; and to be a wit does not depend on our will.
_Triss._ My verses, perhaps, are tedious to you.
_Hen._ No. I do not listen.
_Phil._ Ah! Let us hear the epigram.
But our readers, we think, will consent to spare the epigram. They will relish, however, a fragment taken from a subsequent part of the same protracted scene. The conversation has made the transition from literary criticism to philosophy, in Moliere's time a fashionable study, rendered such by the contemporary genius and fame of Descartes. Armande resents the limitations imposed upon her sex:
_Arm._ It is insulting our sex too grossly to limit our intelligence to the power of judging of a skirt, of the make of a garment, of the beauties of lace, or of a new brocade.
_Bel._ We must rise above this shameful condition, and bravely proclaim our emancipation.
_Triss._ Every one knows my respect for the fairer sex, and that, if I render homage to the brightness of their eyes, I also honor the splendor of their intellect.