Part 8
_Phil._ And our sex does you justice in this respect; but we will show to certain minds who treat us with proud contempt, that women also have knowledge; that, like men, they can hold learned meetings--regulated, too, by better rules; that they wish to unite what elsewhere is kept apart, join noble language to deep learning, reveal nature's laws by a thousand experiments; and, on all questions proposed, admit every party, and ally themselves to none.
_Triss._ For order, I prefer peripateticism.
_Phil._ For abstractions, I love platonism.
_Arm._ Epicurus pleases me, for his tenets are solid.
_Bel._ I agree with the doctrine of atoms; but I find it difficult to understand a vacuum, and I much prefer subtile matter.
_Triss._ I quite agree with Descartes about magnetism.
_Arm._ I like his vortices.
_Phil._ And I, his falling worlds.
_Arm._ I long to see our assembly opened, and to distinguish ourselves by some great discovery.
_Triss._ Much is expected from your enlightened knowledge, for nature has hidden few things from you.
_Phil._ For my part, I have, without boasting, already made one discovery; I have plainly seen men in the moon.
_Bel._ I have not, I believe as yet, quite distinguished men, but I have seen steeples as plainly as I see you.
_Arm._ In addition to natural philosophy, we will dive into grammar, history, verse, ethics, and politics.
_Phil._ I find in ethics charms which delight my heart; it was formerly the admiration of great geniuses; but I give the preference to the Stoics, and I think nothing so grand as their founder.
"Les Precieuses Ridicules" is an earlier and lighter treatment of the same theme. The object of ridicule in both these pieces was a lapsed and degenerate form of what originally was a thing worthy of respect, and even of praise. At the Hotel de Rambouillet, conversation was cultivated as a fine art. There was, no doubt, something overstrained in the standards which the ladies of that circle enforced. Their mutual communication was all conducted in a peculiar style of language, the natural deterioration of which was into a kind of euphuism, such as English readers will remember to have seen exemplified in Walter Scott's Sir Piercie Shafton. These ladies called each other, with demonstrative fondness, "Ma precieuse." Hence at last the term _precieuse_ as a designation of ridicule. Madame de Sevigne was a _precieuse_. But she, with many of her peers, was too rich in sarcastic common sense to be a _precieuse ridicule_. Moliere himself, thrifty master of policy that he was, took pains to explain that he did not satirize the real thing, but only the affectation.
"Tartuffe, or the Impostor," is perhaps the most celebrated of all Moliere's plays. Scarcely comedy, scarcely tragedy, it partakes of both characters. Like tragedy, serious in purpose, it has a happy ending like comedy. Pity and terror are absent; or, if not quite absent, these sentiments are present raised only to a pitch distinctly below the tragic. Indignation is the chief passion excited, or detestation, perhaps, rather than indignation. This feeling is provided at last with its full satisfaction in the condign punishment visited on the impostor.
The original "Tartuffe," like the most of Moliere's comedies, is written in rhymed verse. We could not, with any effort, make the English-reading student of Moliere sufficiently feel how much is lost when the form is lost which the creations of this great genius took, in their native French, under his own master hand. A satisfactory metrical rendering is out of the question. The sense, at least, if not the incommunicable spirit, of the original, is very well given in Mr. C. H. Wall's version, which we use.
The story of "Tartuffe" is briefly this: Tartuffe, the hero, is a pure villain. He mixes no adulteration of good in his composition. He is hypocrisy itself, the strictly genuine article. Tartuffe has completely imposed upon one Orgon, a man of wealth and standing. Orgon, with his wife, and with his mother, in fact, believes in him absolutely. These people have received the canting rascal into their house, and are about to bestow upon him their daughter in marriage. The following scene from act first shows the skill with which Moliere could exhibit, in a few strokes of bold exaggeration, the infatuation of Orgon's regard for Tartuffe. Orgon has been absent from home. He returns, and meets Cleante, his brother, whom, in his eagerness, he begs to excuse his not answering a question just addressed to him:
_Orgon (to Cleante)._ Brother, pray excuse me: you will kindly allow me to allay my anxiety by asking news of the family. (_To Dorine, a maid-servant._) Has every thing gone on well these last two days? What has happened? How is every body?
_Dor._ The day before yesterday our mistress was very feverish from morning to night, and suffered from a most extraordinary headache.
_Org._ And Tartuffe?
_Dor._ Tartuffe! He is wonderfully well, stout, and fat with blooming cheeks and ruddy lips.
_Org._ Poor man!
_Dor._ In the evening she felt very faint, and the pain in her head was so great that she could not touch any thing at supper.
_Org._ And Tartuffe?
_Dor._ He ate his supper by himself before her, and very devoutly devoured a brace of partridges and half a leg of mutton hashed.
_Org._ Poor man!
_Dor._ She spent the whole of the night without getting one wink of sleep: she was very feverish, and we had to sit up with her until the morning.
_Org._ And Tartuffe?
_Dor._ Overcome by a pleasant sleepiness, he passed from the table to his room and got at once into his warmed bed, where he slept comfortably till the next morning.
_Org._ Poor man!
_Dor._ At last, yielding to our persuasions, she consented to be bled, and immediately felt relieved.
_Org._ And Tartuffe?
_Dor._ He took heart right valiantly, and fortifying his soul against all evils, to make up for the blood which our lady had lost, drank at breakfast four large bumpers of wine.
_Org._ Poor man!
_Dor._ Now, at last, they are both well: and I will go and tell our lady how glad you are to hear of her recovery.
Tartuffe repays the trust and love of his benefactor by making improper advances to that benefactor's wife. Orgon's son, who does not share his father's confidence in Tartuffe, happens to be an unseen witness of the man's infamous conduct. He exposes the hypocrite to Orgon, with the result of being himself expelled from the house for his pains; while Tartuffe, in recompense for the injury done to his feelings, is presented with a gift-deed of Orgon's estate. But now Orgon's wife contrives to let her husband see and hear for himself the vileness of Tartuffe. This done, Orgon confronts the villain, and, with just indignation, orders him out of his house. Tartuffe reminds Orgon that the shoe is on the other foot; that he is himself now owner there, and that it is Orgon, instead of Tartuffe, who must go. Orgon has an interview with his mother, who is exasperatingly sure still that Tartuffe is a maligned good man:
_Madame Pernelle._ I can never believe, my son, that he would commit so base an action.
_Org._ What?
_Per._ Good people are always subject to envy.
_Org._ What do you mean, mother?
_Per._ That you live after a strange sort here, and that I am but too well aware of the ill-will they all bear him.
_Org._ What has this ill-will to do with what I have just told you?
_Per._ I have told it you a hundred times when you were young, that in this world virtue is ever liable to persecution, and that, although the envious die, envy never dies.
_Org._ But what has this to do with what has happened to-day?
_Per._ They have concocted a hundred foolish stories against him.
_Org._ I have already told you that I saw it all myself.
_Per._ The malice of evil-disposed persons is very great.
_Org._ You would make me swear, mother! I tell you that I saw his audacious attempt with my own eyes.
_Per._ Evil tongues have always some venom to pour forth; and here below, there is nothing proof against them.
_Org._ You are maintaining a very senseless argument. I saw it, I tell you--saw it with my own eyes! what you can call s-a-w, saw! Must I din it over and over into your ears, and shout as loud as half a dozen people?
_Per._ Gracious goodness! appearances often deceive us! We must not always judge by what we see.
_Org._ I shall go mad!
_Per._ We are by nature prone to judge wrongly, and good is often mistaken for evil.
_Org._ I ought to look upon his desire of seducing my wife as charitable?
_Per._ You ought to have good reasons before you accuse another, and you should have waited till you were quite sure of the fact.
_Org._ Heaven save the mark! how could I be more sure? I suppose, mother, I ought to have waited till--you will make me say something foolish.
_Per._ In short, his soul is possessed with too pure a zeal; and I cannot possibly conceive that he would think of attempting what you accuse him of.
_Org._ If you were not my mother, I really don't know what I might now say to you, you make me so savage.
The short remainder of the scene has for its important idea the suggestion that, under the existing circumstances, some sort of peace ought to be patched up between Orgon and Tartuffe. Meantime one _Loyal_ is observed coming, whereupon the fourth scene of act fifth opens:
_Loy. (to Dorine at the farther part of the stage)._ Good-day, my dear sister; pray let me speak to your master.
_Dor._ He is with friends, and I do not think he can see any one just now.
_Loy._ I would not be intrusive. I feel sure that he will find nothing unpleasant in my visit; in fact, I come for something which will be very gratifying to him.
_Dor._ What is your name?
_Loy._ Only tell him that I come from Mr. Tartuffe for his benefit.
_Dor. (to Orgon)._ It is a man who comes in a civil way from Mr. Tartuffe, on some business which will make you glad, he says.
_Cle. (to Orgon)._ You must see who it is and what the man wants.
_Org. (to Cleante)._ He is coming, perhaps, to settle matters between us in a friendly way. How, in this case, ought I to behave to him?
_Cle._ Don't show any resentment, and, if he speaks of an agreement, listen to him.
_Loy. (to Orgon)._ Your servant, sir. May heaven punish whoever wrongs you; and may it be as favorable to you, sir, as I wish!
_Org. (aside to Cleante)._ This pleasant beginning agrees with my conjectures, and argues some sort of reconciliation.
_Loy._ All your family was always dear to me, and I served your father.
_Org._ I am sorry and ashamed to say that I do not know who you are, neither do I remember your name.
_Loy._ My name is Loyal; I was born in Normandy, and am a royal bailiff in spite of envy. For the last forty years I have had the good fortune to fill the office, thanks to heaven, with great credit; and I come, sir, with your leave, to serve you the writ of a certain order.
_Org._ What! you are here--
_Loy._ Gently, sir, I beg. It is merely a summons--a notice for you to leave this place, you and yours; to take away all your goods and chattels, and make room for others, without delay or adjournment, as hereby decreed.
_Org._ I! leave this place?
_Loy._ Yes, sir, if you please. The house incontestably belongs, as you are well aware, to the good Mr. Tartuffe. He is now lord and master of your estates, according to a deed I have in my keeping. It is in due form, and cannot be challenged.
_Damis (to Mr. Loyal)._ This great impudence is, indeed, worthy of all admiration.
_Loy. (to Damis.)_ Sir, I have nothing at all to do with you. (_Pointing to Orgon._) My business is with this gentleman. He is tractable and gentle, and knows too well the duty of a gentleman to try to oppose authority.
_Org._ But--
_Loy._ Yes, sir; I know that you would not, for any thing, show contumacy; and that you will allow me, like a reasonable man, to execute the orders I have received.
The scene gives in conclusion some spirited byplay of asides and interruptions from indignant members of the family. Then follows scene fifth, one exchange of conversation from which will sufficiently indicate the progress of the plot:
_Org._ Well, mother, you see whether I am right; and you can judge of the rest by the writ. Do you at last acknowledge his rascality?
_Per._ I am thunderstruck, and can scarcely believe my eyes and ears.
The next scene introduces Valere, the noble lover of that daughter whom the infatuated father was bent on sacrificing to Tartuffe. Valere comes to announce that Tartuffe, the villain, has accused Orgon to the king. Orgon must fly. Valere offers him his own carriage and money--will, in fact, himself keep him company till he reaches a place of safety. As Orgon, taking hasty leave of his family, turns to go, he is encountered by--the following scene will show whom:
_Tar. (stopping Orgon.)_ Gently, sir, gently; not so fast, I beg. You have not far to go to find a lodging, and you are a prisoner in the king's name.
_Org._ Wretch! you had reserved this shaft for the last; by it you finish me, and crown all your perfidies.
_Tar._ Your abuse has no power to disturb me, and I know how to suffer every thing for the sake of heaven.
_Cle._ Your moderation is really great, we must acknowledge.
_Da._ How impudently the infamous wretch sports with heaven!
_Tar._ Your anger cannot move me. I have no other wish but to fulfill my duty.
_Marianne._ You may claim great glory from the performance of this duty: it is a very honorable employment for you.
_Tar._ The employment cannot be otherwise than glorious, when it comes from the power that sends me here.
_Org._ But do you remember that my charitable hand, ungrateful scoundrel, raised you from a state of misery?
_Tar._ Yes, I know what help I have received from you; but the interest of my king is my first duty. The just obligation of this sacred duty stifles in my heart all other claims; and I would sacrifice to it friend, wife, relations, and myself with them.
_Elmire._ The impostor!
_Dor._ With what treacherous cunning he makes a cloak of all that men revere!...
_Tar. (to the Officer)._ I beg of you, sir, to deliver me from all this noise, and to act according to the orders you have received.
_Officer._ I have certainly put off too long the discharge of my duty, and you very rightly remind me of it. To execute my order, follow me immediately to the prison in which a place is assigned to you.
_Tar._ Who? I, sir?
_Officer._ Yes, you.
_Tar._ Why to prison?
_Officer._ To you I have no account to render. (_To Orgon._) Pray, sir, recover from your great alarm. We live under a king [Louis XIV.] who is an enemy to fraud--a king who can read the heart, and whom all the arts of impostors cannot deceive. His great mind, endowed with delicate discernment, at all times sees things in their true light.... He annuls, by his sovereign will, the terms of the contract by which you gave him [Tartuffe] your property. He moreover forgives you this secret offense in which you were involved by the flight of your friend. This to reward the zeal which you once showed for him in maintaining his rights, and to prove that his heart, when it is least expected, knows how to recompense a good action. Merit with him is never lost, and he remembers good better than evil.
_Dor._ Heaven be thanked!
_Per._ Ah! I breathe again.
_El._ What a favorable end to our troubles!
_Mar._ Who would have foretold it?
_Org. (to Tartuffe as the Officer leads him off)._ Ah, wretch! now you are--
Tartuffe thus disposed of, the play promptly ends with a vanishing glimpse afforded us of a happy marriage in prospect for Valere with the daughter.
"The Tartuffian Age" is the title of a late Italian book admirably translated into English by an American, Mr. W. A. Nettleton. That such should be the Italian author's chosen title for his work incidentally shows how cosmopolitan is our French dramatist's fame. The book is a kindly-caustic satire on the times in which we live, found by the satirist to be abundant in the quality of Tartuffe, that leaven of the Pharisees which is hypocrisy.
Moliere is said to have had a personal aim in drawing the character of Tartuffe. This, at least, was like Dante. There is not much sweet laughter in such a comedy. But there is a power that is dreadful.
Each succeeding generation of Frenchmen supplies its bright and ingenious wits who produce comedy. But as there is no second Shakespeare, so there is but one Moliere.
VIII.
PASCAL.
1623-1662.
Pascal's fame is distinctly the fame of a man of genius. He achieved notable things. But it is what he might have done, still more than what he did, that fixes his estimation in the world of mind. Blaise Pascal is one of the chief intellectual glories of France.
Pascal, the boy, had a strong natural bent toward mathematics. The story is that his father, in order to turn his son's whole force on the study of languages, put out of the lad's reach all books treating his favorite subject. Thus shut up to his own resources the masterful little fellow, about his eighth year, drawing charcoal diagrams on the floor, made perceptible progress in working out geometry for himself. At sixteen he produced a treatise on conic sections that excited the wonder and incredulity of Descartes. Later he experimented in barometry, and pursued investigations in mechanics. Later still he made what seemed to be approaches toward Newton's binomial theorem.
Vivid religious convictions meantime deeply affected Pascal's mind. His health, never robust, began to give way. His physicians prescribed mental diversion, and forced him into society. That medicine, taken at first with reluctance, proved dangerously delightful to Pascal's vivacious and susceptible spirit. His pious sister Jacqueline warned her brother that he was going too far. But he was still more effectively warned by an accident, in which he almost miraculously escaped from death. Withdrawing from the world, he adopted a course of ascetic practices, in which he continued till he died--in his thirty-ninth year. He wore about his waist an iron girdle armed with sharp points; and this he would press smartly with his elbow when he detected himself at fault in his spirit.
Notwithstanding what Pascal did or attempted worthy of fame, in science, it was his fortune to become chiefly renowned by literary achievement. His, in fact, would now be a half-forgotten name if he had not written the "Provincial Letters" and the "Thoughts."
The "Provincial Letters" is an abbreviated title. The title in full originally was, "Letters written by Louis de Montalte to a Provincial, one of his friends, and to the Reverend Fathers, the Jesuits, on the subject of the morality and the policy of those Fathers."
Of the "Provincial Letters," several English translations have been made. No one of these that we have been able to find seems entirely satisfactory. There is an elusive quality to Pascal's style, and in losing this you seem to lose something of Pascal's thought. For with Pascal the thought and the style penetrate each other inextricably and almost indistinguishably. You cannot print a smile, an inflection of the voice, a glance of the eye, a French shrug of the shoulders. And such modulations of the thought seem everywhere to lurk in the turns and phrases of Pascal's inimitable French. To translate them is impossible.
Pascal is beyond question the greatest modern master of that indescribably delicate art in expression, which, from its illustrious ancient exemplar, has received the name of the Socratic irony. With this fine weapon, in great part, it was, wielded like a magician's invisible wand, that Pascal did his memorable execution on the Jesuitical system of morals and casuistry, in the "Provincial Letters." In great part, we say; for the flaming moral earnestness of the man could not abide only to play with his adversaries to the end of the famous dispute. His lighter cimeter blade he flung aside before he had done, and, toward the last, brandished a sword that had weight as well as edge and temper. The skill that could halve a feather in the air with the sword of Saladin was proved to be also strength that could cleave a suit of mail with the brand of Richard the Lion-hearted.
It is generally acknowledged that the French language has never in any hands been a more obedient instrument of intellectual power than it was in the hands of Pascal. He is rated the earliest writer to produce what may be called the final French prose. "The creator of French style," Villemain boldly calls him. Pascal's style remains to this day almost perfectly free from adhesions of archaism in diction and in construction. Pascal showed, as it were at once, what the French language was capable of doing in response to the demands of a master. It was the joint achievement of genius, of taste, and of skill, working together in an exquisite balance and harmony.
But let us be entirely frank. The "Provincial Letters" of Pascal are now, to the general reader, not so interesting as from their fame one would seem entitled to expect. You cannot read them intelligently without considerable previous study. You need to have learned, imperfectly, with labor, a thousand things that every contemporary reader of Pascal perfectly knew as if by simply breathing--the necessary knowledge being then, so to speak, abroad in the air. Even thus you cannot possibly derive that vivid delight from perusing in bulk the "Provincial Letters" now, which the successive numbers of the series, appearing at brief irregular intervals, communicated to the eagerly expecting French public, at a time when the topics discussed were topics of a present and pressing practical interest. Still, with whatever disadvantage unavoidably attending, we must give our readers a taste of the quality of Pascal's "Provincial Letters."
We select a passage at the commencement of the "Seventh Letter." We use the translation of Mr. Thomas M'Crie. This succeeds very well in conveying the sense, though it necessarily fails to convey either the vivacity or the eloquence, of the incomparable original. The first occasion of the "Provincial Letters" was a championship proposed to Pascal to be taken up by him on behalf of his beleaguered and endangered friend Arnauld, the Port-Royalist. (Port Royal was a Roman Catholic abbey situated some eight miles to the south-west of Versailles, and therefore not very remote from Paris.) Arnauld was "for substance of doctrine" really a Calvinist, though he quite sincerely disclaimed being such; and it was for his defense of Calvinism (under its ancient form of Augustinianism) that he was threatened, through Jesuit enmity, with condemnation for heretical opinion. The problem was to enlist the sentiment of general society in his favor. The friends in council at Port Royal said to Pascal, "You must do this." Pascal said, "I will try." In a few days the first letter of a series destined to such fame was submitted for judgment to Port Royal, and approved. It was printed--anonymously. The success was instantaneous and brilliant. A second letter followed, and a third. Soon, from strict personal defense of Arnauld, the writer went on to take up a line of offense and aggression. He carried the war into Africa. He attacked the Jesuits as teachers of immoral doctrine.