Part 13

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."