Part 15

Jean de la Fontaine was born on the 8th day of July, 1621, at Château Thierry. Some of his biographers have maintained his pretensions to nobility with a silly zeal. His father, Jean de la Fontaine, was master or keeper of the royal domains in his district, which appears to have been an honourable charge. The youth of the poet gave no promise of his future success. He was remarkable only for his dulness, and a certain easy tractable good nature. His teachers pronounced him a well disposed but hopeless dunce; but his father, a very zealous and still more undiscerning admirer of poetry, resolved that he should cultivate the muses,--and poor La Fontaine laboured with all the complaisance of filial duty. His efforts were vain. He could not produce a rhyme,--he who afterwards rhymed with so much felicity and abundance,--and who alone, of all the poets of his country, before and since his time, has, by the disposition of his rhymes and the structure of his verses, completely vanquished the monotony of French versification.

The father did not abandon his cherished hopes until he beheld his son arrived at the age of nineteen, when, disappointed of making him a poet, he took the more feasible resolution of making him a priest. With no other fruits of education than such a stock of Latin as a dull boy could have acquired under a village schoolmaster, La Fontaine, now in his twentieth year, entered the religious order of the "oratoire,"--in passive compliance with the wishes of his father, and the example of his brother, a respectable ecclesiastic, who was affectionately attached to the poet, and who subsequently made over to him his share of their paternal inheritance. It may be set down among the instances of La Fontaine's characteristic simplicity, that he did not perceive his utter inaptitude for such a life. He renounced the cloister and returned to society after eighteen months. "The wonder is not," says the abbe Olivet, "that La Fontaine threw off the fetters of a monastic life, but that he ever assumed them;" to which it may be added, as a second wonder, that after living, as he did, in ease and freedom, without system or control, he was able to bear them so long.

It seems to have been his destiny in early life to have conditions chosen for him by others, and adopted by himself, with a curious opposition to his habits and character. Upon his return to the paternal roof, his father proposed to him the transfer of his charge, and a marriage with Marie d'Hericart, the daughter of a friend of his family. La Fontaine accepted both, with the same unthinking docility. The duties of his mastership of the royal domains were light and few, and his wife had talents and beauty; but he neglected alike his official and domestic obligations, with an innocent unconsciousness of both which disarmed censure and silenced complaint.

It would appear that his father now thought once more of seeing him a poet, hopeless as this appeared to everybody else, and to none more than to La Fontaine. His perseverance was strangely rewarded at last. An accident, or an incident so described, called forth the latent fire at the age of twenty-two. The best company of the neighbourhood, and more particularly those who had any pretensions to literature, visited the father of La Fontaine. Among them an officer of the garrison at Château Thierry, a great admirer and reciter of verse, brought with him the poems of Malherbe, and read before young La Fontaine the ode on the assassination of Henry IV. beginning--

"Que direz vous races futures."

Between the lyric spirit of the poet, and the energy of the declaimer, La Fontaine's dormant faculty was suddenly excited. For some days he could think of nothing but the odes of Malherbe. He read them, recited them, spoke of them, with an unconscious and comic disregard of time, place, and persons. He commenced immediately writing odes in imitation of his great idol; and the happy father, on beholding his first essay, wept for joy. But if La Fontaine had written nothing else, or if he had always adhered to the same model, he would have left only the proofs of his own mediocrity, and of his father's want of taste. The choice of Malherbe was as unhappy a mistake of his peculiar genius as his previous destination had been of his character. That poet's forced thoughts and lofty diction are directly opposed to the simple graces of expression and imagination which characterise La Fontaine. He fortunately discovered his mistake, and the secret of his strength, chiefly through the advice of a judicious friend. This was a man of cultivated mind, named Pintrel, translator of the letters of Seneca. His name and his translation would doubtless have sunk into oblivion, were they not thus associated with the early studies of La Fontaine, who, ever grateful to the memory of his guide and friend, republished the forgotten translation.

La Fontaine's modern reading was hitherto confined to Malherbe,--his education, to just as much or as little Latin as was requisite for his admission to a religious order. Pintrel recommended to him the abandonment of Malherbe and verse-making for a time, and the studious perusal of Virgil, Horace, Terence, Livy, and Quintilian. He adopted this judicious counsel, and improved at the same time his knowledge of the Latin language and his taste. Horace, he long afterwards declared, in a letter to the learned Huet, bishop of Avranches, saved him from being spoiled by Malherbe.

It is a curious fact that, as La Fontaine became more conversant with those antique and eternal models of true beauty, he disrelished the French literature of his own time. He went back from the age of Louis XIV. to that of Francis I., preferring the simple and undisciplined manner of the one to the civilised, fastidious, and artificial system of the other. The mere English reader will understand the nature and the justice of this preference, by imagining an English writer, of the reign of Charles II., discarding the wits of that reign for the redundant and unadulterated literature of Elizabeth or Henry VIII.; and they who understand the ancient classics in their spirit and genius, not in external forms, will not be surprised by their producing this effect. The true antique is simple and indulgent, as well as elegant, noble, and governed by rules. It should not be forgotten, or lost sight of, however, that at this period the French literature of the age of Louis XIV. had not yet reached its distinctive character and excellence. The Balzacs, Voitures, and Cotins, with their conceits and mannerisms, had not yet been banished by the force of satire, and the example of better taste in Boileau and Molière. Boileau had not yet written his satires and art of poetry; Molière had not yet dissected, and exposed on the stage, the verses of an admired court poet of the day.[47]

La Fontaine's favourite French writers, from the commencement to the end of his literary career, were Rabelais and Clement Marot; the one for his humour, invention, and happy manner of narrating, in his episodical and most eccentric tales,--the other for his gaiety and naïveté,--and both for the archaic simplicity of their diction. He also read with delight Ariosto, Boccaccio, and Machiavelli,--the last named not only in his lighter, but more serious works. Being asked why he preferred the writers of Italy to those of his own nation, he replied, in that tone of simplicity, bordering on silliness, which obtained him the name of "bon homme," that "they diverted him more." This avowed predilection for the great writers of Italy, at a time when they were not appreciated in France, when Boileau had the impertinence to speak lightly of "Messire Arioste," proves not only the instinctive correctness of his taste, but the independence of his judgment.

Wholly ignorant of the Greek language in his youth, he was too indolent to acquire it at a later period. Translations, and the help of a friend, named Maucroix, who aided him in his studies, like Pintrel, supplied this defect,--as far as it could be supplied. La Fontaine, in return, associated Maucroix, a good scholar, an indifferent poet, and a true friend, with his own immortality, in his letters and minor poems. It may be observed, that, when he resorts to the Greek writers, he seizes their spirit with a justness which would imply a knowledge of their language. This is ascribed to his early intimacy with Racine, who was the most accomplished Greek scholar of his country, and explained as well as translated several portions of the Greek classics for the use of his friend. La Fontaine chiefly delighted in Plutarch and Plato. His partiality to the former may be easily conceived. The lives of Plutarch were calculated to charm his indolence and his imagination. There is something not quite so obvious in his choice of Plato. But the attentive reader will discover, in his fables and tales, traits of observation and ethical philosophy the most profound, as well as ingenious,--worthy of Plato, or of Machiavelli,--yet so happily disposed, and so simply expressed, as to appear perfectly in their place. The abbé Olivet mentions his having seen a copy of Plato once possessed by La Fontaine, and noted by him in such a manner as to betray the source of many of his maxims and observations.

It is curious and instructive to observe one who has been regarded as essentially the poet of nature--one supposed never to have meditated or read--thus storing his mind with knowledge from the best sources, and forming his taste after the best models. His verses even, indolent as he was, and easy and careless as they seem, were slowly and laboriously produced. He has declared this in his letters and prefaces, and it is attested by some who knew him. The fact cannot be too strongly impressed. Mistaken or misrepresented instances of uncultivated genius, and of composition without labour or length of time, too frequently stimulate ignorant and pretending mediocrity to teaze the press and the public with commonplaces, without value as without number.

La Fontaine continued some years at Château Thierry, obscure and indolent,--neglecting his charge, his family, and his fortune,--reading his favourite authors, writing verse, and translating Terence. The preface to his poem of "Adonis," and its being composed in heroic verse, for which he had an early predilection, would imply that it was written during this period. Most of his other earlier verses have been lost through his neglect of the manuscripts; but, judging by some early pieces given in his posthumous works, their disappearance is scarcely to be regretted.

The monotony of his rural life was broken only by a visit to Paris, or some village adventure. The following affair is truly curious, as illustrating the character of the man:--Some self-called friends, either in jest or malice, intimated to him that the frequent visits of an old military officer, named Poignan, at his house, compromised the reputation of madame La Fontaine, and that her husband was bound in honour to challenge him. La Fontaine, the most negligent of husbands, and the most easy and credulous of mankind, listened implicitly to their counsel, made an extraordinary effort to rise at five in the morning, girded on his sword, sallied forth, and found Poignan in bed. "My dear friend," said the old captain, "what brings you out so early? Has any misfortune happened? Is your house on fire?" "Rise, and follow me," said the poet. The captain repeated and reiterated his entreaties for some explanation, but in vain. He was obliged to leave his bed, arm himself, and follow La Fontaine, without the remotest idea of his purpose. After they had gone some short distance. La Fontaine stopped, drew his sword, and desired his companion to draw and defend himself.

The latter, having no alternative, drew in his own defence; and, with his superior address as a military man, disarmed the poet at the first pass. He now obtained an explanation. "They have told me," said La Fontaine, "that I ought to fight you, because you go to my house to see my wife." "My dear friend," replied the captain, who was past the age of gallantry, and, having neither family nor occupations, sought, in his visits, only an escape from ennui, "you have been abused, and I slandered: but, to set your mind quite at ease, I will never again cross your threshold, grievous as the privation is to me." "No, my friend," rejoined the poet, "I have satisfied them by fighting you, as they advised me, and henceforth you shall come to my house more frequently than ever." This anecdote is scarce reconcilable with the maxims of one who reduced the question of conjugal fidelity to the following dilemma:--"Quand on ne le scait pas, ce n'est rien--quand on le scait c'est peu de choses." But it has passed without question in every biographical notice of him.

La Fontaine, according to some accounts, was an unfaithful as well as negligent husband. But his rural gallantries, besides the uncertain evidence of them, are too frivolous to be noticed here.

Opinions and representations are divided as respects madame La Fontaine. According to some, her talents and beauty were marred by an imperious temper, and she was the very original of "Madame Honesta," in the tale of Belphegor, who was

"D'une orgueil extreme; A et d'autant plus, que de quelque vertu Un tel orgueil paraissait revetu."

La Fontaine, they add, accordingly, like the husband in Belphegor, took occasion to absent himself as often and as long as he could. Others, again, assert that the lady was gentle as she was beautiful, and that her husband bore testimony to her good qualities of temper expressly, as well as to her taste, by submitting to her his poetical labours. It may be said, that the neglect and absences of such a husband as La Fontaine form no presumption against the conjugal temper of his wife. Some anecdotes related of his negligence and distractions startle belief. Despatched by his father to Paris, on business the most important and most urgent, he met a friend, dined with him, went to the play with him, supped with him, took up his lodging for the night in his house, and returned to Château Thierry next day. "Well, you have arranged every thing satisfactorily?" said the father. La Fontaine opened wide his eyes in astonishment. He had wholly forgotten the matter till that moment! Going to Paris on another occasion, with papers, upon which depended his private fortune and his public charge, he was overtaken by the postman. "Monsieur," said the latter, "has dropped some papers on the way." "No, no," replied the poet. But the other, knowing with whom he had to do, or having discovered from the papers to whom they belonged, requested him to examine his saddle-bags; upon which he remembered, for the first time, that he even had papers to lose. In his reveries and distractions, he was unconscious not only of the lapse of time but of the inclemency of the weather. He loved reading and musing in the open air. The duchess of Bouillon left him one morning, with a Livy in his hand, pacing up and down between two rows of trees. On her return in the evening she found him still pacing and reading in the same place. What made this the more extraordinary was a heavy fall of rain in the interim, and La Fontaine having all the time had his head uncovered.

He probably owed, and the world owes it, to his acquaintance with the duchess of Bouillon, that he did not pass his life idly and obscurely at Château Thierry. This lady was one of the celebrated _Mancinis_, nieces of Cardinal Mazarin. She inherited her uncle's ambition, sagacity, and love of intrigue: she shared with her sisters wit, gaiety, and the graces; and, with her family, a taste for literature. Whilst living in court disgrace at Château Thierry, some verses of La Fontaine happened to meet her eye. She immediately had the poet introduced to her, and soon became his friend. She had, it is said, the merit of discerning not only his genius but its peculiar bent. La Fontaine had yet written neither tales nor fables. She advised him to devote himself to simple and playful narrations in verse. His first tales in point of time, and some of the first in point of merit, are said to have been composed by him according to her suggestions, both of the matter and the manner. He is supposed indebted to her for that grace and delicacy of perception and expression which he combined with so much of simplicity and nature. He lived in her intimate society, and that alone must have been a great advantage to him. The conversation of a woman who knew the world, loved poetry, and judged of both with discernment, must have been the best school for one so simple and inexperienced, yet so ingenious and inspired, as La Fontaine.

It may appear strange that La Fontaine, a simple bourgeois, and village poet, was thus familiarly treated by a woman of the highest rank. His charge even placed him in the relation of a servant to the duke of Bouillon, her husband, who held some superior and sinecure charge of the royal domains. But, strongly as the gradations of birth and title were marked in France, it will be found that sense, wit, and genius conferred privilege, or, like love and death, levelled all degrees. Voiture, the son of a vintner, was the companion of princes, the lover of princesses, and would never have been reminded of his birth, had he not had the weakness to be ashamed of it; and even then only in pleasantries, which he well deserved for his weakness and vanity. A court lady, provoked by his conceit, one evening, whilst "playing at proverbs," as it was called, said to him, "Come, that won't do; give us a fresh tap--(_percez nous en d'un autre_)."

The duchess of Bouillon, on the expiration or remission of her exile, took La Fontaine with her to Paris. He now became known to the persons most distinguished in the capital for rank and genius in the circles of his patroness, and of her sister, the celebrated duchess of Mazarin, so well known for her wit, graces, gallantries, and conjugal disputes. Both sisters continued the friends of La Fontaine through life, and exercised great influence over his writings. Their characters may be illustrated, in passing, by a single anecdote. It is related in the memoirs of the duchess of Mazarin,--written by herself, or under her immediate direction.

Their breaches of court discipline subjected them frequently to mitigated imprisonments,--sometimes at their own seats, sometimes in a convent, where the offence demanded a more serious lesson of penance and reform. Having been on one occasion consigned to the same convent they amused themselves by putting ink into the holy water. The nuns, who on their way to matins and vespers dipped their fingers in the font, and crossed their foreheads with the sacred lymph, on meeting in the chapel, beheld upon each other's brows, with surprise and terror, the dark signs of reprobation.

La Fontaine doubtless owed that finesse of expression which sometimes palliates, if it does not redeem, the freedom of his pleasantries, to his intercourse with two persons so witty, accomplished, and unconstrained.

Soon after his arrival in Paris he formed that union of friendship between him, Molière, Boileau, and Racine, which death only interrupted. These celebrated men appreciated his genius, before it yet received the stamp of public admiration, and always regarded him with affection. Boileau and Racine, indeed, amused themselves with his simplicity, and treated him sometimes with a certain air of protection. The conversation happening to turn one evening, at a supper party where they were, upon the dramatic probability of what are called stage whispers or "asides," La Fontaine said it was absurd to suppose that what was heard by the whole audience could escape a person on the stage. A discussion ensued, as it commonly happened when any question of art or literature was started, even in the highest circles,--so different from modern fashionable life. "Don't you think La Fontaine a great rogue?" said Boileau, to his nearest neighbour, aside, but loud enough to be heard, and laughed at by everybody except La Fontaine, who was thinking of something else. The argument, as well as the laugh, was immediately turned against him; but most illogically, for the fact proved not the reasonableness of "asides;" it was evidence only of La Fontaine's distractions. "Let them laugh," said Molière, "le bon homme will take a flight beyond them--(_le bon homme ira plus loin qu'eux_)." This prediction has been verified; La Fontaine's reputation has been uniformly spreading and rising, in spite of the disposition, even in France, during and since the latter half of the last century, to detract from the age of Louis XIV. It is worth remarking, with reference to this anecdote, that, of all the poets of that age, he and Molière alone have maintained their pre-eminence undisputed through every change of taste and time.

La Fontaine now passed his life in the coteries of the duchesses of Bouillon and Mazarin, Boileau and Racine, without giving a thought to his home or family. Boileau and Racine, both strictly religious moralists, were scandalised by his complete separation from his wife, and pointed out to him its indecency. Simple and docile, as usual, he admitted the justice of their remonstrance; said the impropriety of his conduct had never occurred to him; and, to make amends, he said he should go and see his wife without delay. He set out for Château Thierry the next morning, and came back the succeeding day. His friends made their inquiries respecting madame La Fontaine. "I did not see her," said he. "How," said they, "not see her? was she from home?" "Yes; she was gone to prayers; and the servant, not knowing me, would not let me stay in the house till she returned." In this extremity the poor poet, shut out of his own house, went to that of a friend, where he dined, supped, and slept; and from which he started for Paris next morning, without seeing his wife, or making his house a second visit.

The most imperative of all motives, however, the want of money, sometimes sent him to Château Thierry, for the purpose of selling part of his estate, to provide for his expenses at Paris. His improvident practice, of consuming the principal after the interest was gone, "_mangant son fonds aprez son revenu_," as he himself expressed it, together with his wife's want of economy--for in this at least they perfectly agreed,--would have soon left him destitute, if he had not become known to the celebrated and unfortunate Foucquet. That prodigal financier and magnificent patron, upon being made acquainted with the genius, character, and wants of La Fontaine, settled on him a liberal pension, to be paid quarterly, on the condition of a quarterly quittance in verse; and this condition he religiously fulfilled. His pension, or rather his gratitude, dictated to him some of the most beautiful of his smaller pieces. He celebrated and ministered to the fêtes and gallantries, and sang the groves, gardens, and fountains, of _Vaux_,--that princely residence, which Foucquet adorned with all that wealth, prodigality, and the arts could produce; and which, it has been supposed, contributed not a little to his ruin, by provoking the jealous or envious pride of Louis XIV.

Though La Fontaine's acknowledgments are grateful, they are not servile. Whatever appears exaggerated at the present day fell far short of the tone of his contemporaries, and is moreover nobly borne out by his fidelity in his patron's memorable disgrace.