K I MOLIERE HIS LIFE AND HIS WORKS BY BRANDER MATTHEWS < PROFESSOR OF DRAMATIC LITERATURE IN COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY WITH PORTRAITS CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS NEW YORK :: :: :: :: :: :: 1910 COPYKIGHT, 1910, BY CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS Published October, 1910 TO MY WIFE 235567 PREFATORY NOTE IN this biography I have striven specially for three things: first, to set forth the facts of Moliere^s life, stripped of all the legends which compass it about; jsecond, to trace his development as a dramatist, ing it plain how cautiously he advanced injiis arTand how slowly he reached the full expansion of his power; and thirdly, to show his intimate relation to the time in which he livefL the ftlitterirtfl bepinninp; of the reign of Louis XIV. I have endeavored always to center atten- tion on MoUf.rr nimcglfj the melancholy humorist who was companionable and friendly, and whose career was cut short before his genius had completely revealed itself. In one important particular this biography differs from most of the more recent attempts to consider Moliere's life. I have sought to establish it solidly on the ad- mitted facts, and I have therefore resolutely refrained from utilizing two notorious libels, one on Moliere and the other on his widow, "Elomire Hypocondre" and the "Fameuse Comedienne/' Holding these abusive pam- phlets to be wholly beneath credence, I have borrowed no hints and I have drawn no inferences from either of them. viii PREFATORY NOTE Alfred de Vigny called a man fortunate who was able in his maturity to carry out a plan formed in his youth; and this much of happiness I may claim, as it is now nearly [ forty years since I first began to hope that I might npp Hay hfi flfrle to write a life of Moliere. BRANDER MATTHEWS. COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY IN THE CITY OF NEW YORK. TABLE OF CONTENTS PACK Mali ere. By Richard Watson Gilder .... xi I. His FAMILY AND His EDUCATION i II. His APPRENTICESHIP AND His WANDERINGS . . 22 III. His EARLIEST PLAYS 44 IV. THE 'PRECIEUSES RIDICULES' 67 V. FROM 'SGANARELLE' TO THE TACHEUX' ... 83 VI. His FRIENDSHIPS AND His MARRIAGE .... 100 . T THE *COLE DES FEMMES' AND ITS SEQUELS . 113 VIII. MOLIERE AND Louis XIV 133 xJX. 'TARTUFFE' 151 X. 'DON JUAN' 175 XI. MOLIERE AND THE DOCTORS 190 XII. THE 'MISANTHROPE* 202 XIII. FROM THE 'MDECIN MALGRE Lui' TO 'GEORGE DANDIN' 223 XIV. THE 'AVARE' 243 XV. 'MONSIEUR DE POURCEAUGNAC' AND THE 'BOUR- GEOIS GENTILHOMME' 259 iz x CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE XVI. FROM ' PSYCHE ' TO THE 'COMTESSE D'ESCAR- BAGNAS' 274 XVII. THE TEMMES SAVANTES' 287 XVIII. THE 'MALADE IMAGINAIRE' AND THE DEATH OF MOLIERE 308 XIX. MOLIERE THE MAN 322 XX. MOLIERE THE COMIC DRAMATIST 339 XXI. MOLIERE AND SHAKSPERE 361 La Bonne Comedie. By Austin Dobson . . . 375 MOLIERE He was the first great modern. In his art The very times their very manners show; But for he truly drew the human heart In his true page all times themselves shall know. RICHARD WATSON GILDER. MOLIERE CHAPTER I HIS FAMILY AND HIS EDUCATION MOLIERE to give to Jean Baptiste Poquelin the name by which he made himself known to posterity, just as Marie Francois Arouet is remembered only as Voltaire Moliere is in many ways the central figure in all French literature. He is the embodiment of certain dominant characteristics of the French people; in him we find its social instinct, its hatred of affectation, its lack of spirituality, its relish for the concrete, its girding humor and its dramatic ingenuity. But he is more than French, for his genius transcends the boundaries of race; it has the solid elements of the uni- versal and of the permanent. Moliere is the great master of comedy in its finest not less than in its broadest aspects. He is the foremost of comic dramatists, the model of all who came after him and the superior of almost all who went before. The humor- ous fantasies of Aristophanes are not narrowly comedy, rather are they lyrical-burlesque. The lauded comedies of Menander are lost to us, and they can now be dimly glimpsed only through Latin adaptations. Plautus, as robust a fun-maker as Moliere, lacks elevation as he lacks breadth of outlook. Terence, with all his taste and delicacy, i" MOLIERE is remote from the hearty reality of large comedy. Shak- spere put his supreme comic creation, Falstaff, into a loosely knit chronicle-play in two parts; and his lighter pieces, ever delightful as they are, must be classed, some as romantic-comedies and others as frank farces; and he never essayed the comedy-of-manners or the comedy-of- character, pure and simple. Through the labor of many devoted students we have been put in possession of the more important facts of Moliere's career. We know his family, his youth, and his education; we can follow his footsteps where he goes to and fro as a strolling player; we can analyze his modest efforts as a 'prentice playwright, and we can trace the growth of his genius after his return to Paris, when he brought out his later masterpieces in swift succession during the crowded fifteen years of life that were then left to him. We can observe his humble beginnings, his hesitations, his false starts; and we can perceive his slow recognition of the goal which he might attain. We can trace the steady enrichment of his method by which in e he was able to achieve the glorious result. As we go down the years with him, the man wins our admira- tion as much as the artist; and we give him our sym- pathy, loving him all the more for the enemies he made. Then when the funeral procession has filed past in the darkness of the night, we have in our hands all that is needed for the understanding of his character; and we find that the three-fold explanation of what he was, and of what he did, lies in these things he was a born playwright, a master-craftsman in the dramaturgic art; he was fiver a humorist^with the underlying melancholy and the piercing insightthat accompany richness of humor; and he was a HIS FAMILY AND HIS EDUCATION 3 hater of hyrjocrisy, with a scorn that was ever burning hot within him, when he beheld pretense, or affectation, or deceit. I Moliere was born in Paris in 1622, There is a certain significance in the observation that only a few of the masters of Latin literature were natives of Rome itself, whereas a host of the chief figures of French literature first saw the light in the city by the Seine Ruteboeuf, Villon, Regnier, Scarron, Boileau, La Bruyere, Regnard, Voltaire, Beau- marchais, Beranger and Labiche, all of them exponents of characteristics that are essentially French. The litera- ture of the French is more urban as well as more urbane than the literature of the Latins, more inclined to take its color from the capital. There is a special fitness therefore in the fact that Moliere, the most representative of all French writers, was also born in Paris. In the first quarter of the seventeenth century Paris was very unlike the smiling and embellished city of to-day, with its spacious avenues, its handsome squares and its elaborate parks. It was little better than any other more or less medieval town, with its scant half-million of in- habitants closely packed within the ramparts still needful to guard against domestic insurgents and foreign invaders. In Moliere's youth, Richelieu made a breach in these walls to lay out the garden of what is now the Palais-Royal; and in the last years of Moliere's life, Colbert cleared away the rest of these bulwarks to make the circle of the Boulevards. The center of the little city was still the island on which Notre Dame raises aloft its twin towers. The Louvre was separated from the Tuileries by a network of small streets, as crooked and as filthy, as little paved and ill-lighted, as 4 MOLIERE all the other streets of the capital of France. Beyond the Tuileries there was open country, where we now can see the Garden, the Place de la Concorde and the long Champs Elysees. Opposite the Louvre the Tour de Nesle was still standing on the outskirts of the town. The houses were not yet numbered, being distinguished by their separate signs. Some of these houses clung to the Seine, built out on piles, and others lined the bridges that crossed the river, a fashion which once obtained in London, and which still survives in Florence. When Moliere was born Louis XIII was king; and two years thereafter the far-sighted and strong-willed Richelieu became his minister, to begin the arduous task of consoli- dating the royal authority, laying a firm foundation for the autocracy of Louis XIV. There was unceasing conspiracy, often followed by summary justice. It was ten years after Moliere's birth that Richelieu sent Montmorency to the scaffold; and it was ten years later that he put Cinq-Mars to death. Between these two executions for high treason, Urbain Grandier had been burnt at the stake as a sorcerer. And yet amid all this turmoil, literature was flourishing again; the Marquise de Rambouillet and her cotery were striving to refine the language as well as the manners of the time; Corneille was slowly attaining the fit form for French tragedy; and the French Academy, at first only a private gath- ering of poets and scholars, was receiving royal recognition. Moliere was born only six years after Shakspere died; and Milton was his older contemporary, outliving him a year. Calderon also survived him, and Lope de Vega did not die until Moliere was thirteen; Cervantes had died the same year as Shakspere. These illustrious figures of English and of Spanish literature seem far remoter from us than Moliere; even though some of them outlived him, HIS FAMILY AND HIS EDUCATION 5 they are less modern than he is. In his own country, Hardy, the founder of the modern drama in France, sur- vived until Moliere was nine; Corneille, born fourteen years before him, lived eleven years after him; and Rotrou, born eleven years earlier, did not die till Moliere was twenty-eight. La Fontaine was less than a year older than Moliere, and Pascal was a year younger. Mme. de Sevigne was four years his junior, and Bossuet was born a year after the incomparable letter-writer. Boileau, always Moliere' s steadfast friend, was fourteen years younger; and Racine (whose first steps in the theater Moliere was to encourage, as he was to bring out also two of the final efforts of the aging Corneille) was seventeen years his junior. Louis XIV himself was born sixteen years after Moliere; and his reign covers that splendid epoch of French history and of French literature which extends from the rule. of Richelieu almost to the fatal revocation of the Edict of Nantes. II Moliere' s father, Jean Poquelin, was born in 1595. He became a prosperous tradesman, an upholsterer and fur- niture-maker; and in 1631 he succeeded to an appoint- ment as one of the king's eight valets de chambre tapissiers, to whom was committed the care of all the royal furniture and furnishings. Two of these officials were in constant attendance, serving in their turn for a quarter of the year, whether the monarch was residing in one of his palaces or going on a journey or to a campaign. These appointments could be held only by tradesmen of character and promi- nence; they conferred upon the holders the right to call themselves knights; and like most of the other offices in the royal household they could be sold or transferred by con- 6 MOLIERE tract. It was in 1621 that Jean Poquelin married Marie Cresse, the daughter of another upholsterer and furniture- maker. The husband took his bride to his house in the rue St. Honore on the corner of the rue des Vieilles-Etuves a house destroyed only at the beginning of the nineteenth century. This dwelling, distinguished by a corner-post carved with climbing monkeys, stood on the site of the building numbered 76, which now bears a commemorative panel. Like most tradesmen in those days, Moliere's father lived over his shop; and there in the first half of January, 1622, the eldest son was born. The exact date is uncertain, but the child was baptized on January 15, probably only a day or two at most after his birth. His paternal grandfather was his godfather. Business was thriving and the household was well-to-do. The bride had brought a comfortable dowry. Of her character we know little, except that she possessed a Bible and a Plutarch. She bore five other children, of whom three survived her a second son, also christened Jean, a third named Nicholas, and a daughter Madeleine, who was only five years old when the mother died, in 1633. The inventory taken at her death catalogues not only her clothing, her jewelry and her household linen, but also the abundant stock on hand in the shop. Almost exactly a year after her death her husband remarried, only to lose his second wife three years later, after she had borne him two more daughters, half-sisters of the future Moliere. These brothers and sisters seem to have played small parts in the poet's later life, after he broke away from his family and went on the stage. From his mother he inherited five thousand livres, a goodly sum in those days; and this is proof that trade had been satisfactory during the eleven years of her married life. HIS FAMILY AND HIS EDUCATION 7 In the same year that he remarried, Moliere' s father bought a house in the colonnade of the market, the Piliers des Halles, near the rue de la Reale (now the rue du Pont- neuf). Moliere was only eleven years old when he lost his mother (as Voltaire was only seven when the same mis- fortune befell him); and it might be interesting to speculate on the effect this loss may have had upon the development of his character, perhaps we can find here one reason why there is in his plays a notable absence of maternal love. He was only twelve when his father remarried and only fifteen when his stepmother died; here again we might question whether this second marriage of his father had any significant influence upon Moliere's development. There is danger always in trying to cast light on the life of a dramatist by the characters and by the situations we may find in his plays; and in this case the attempt is impossible, since Moliere has twice introduced a stepmother, once in 'Tartuffe,' where she is on the best of terms with her step- children, once again in the 'Malade Imaginaire/ where she is a self-seeking and hypocritical intriguer. It was not until after the death of his stepmother that he was sent to school. He was about fifteen; and in all probability he had already served his apprenticeship to his father's trade, to which he was expected to succeed. Perhaps even at that early age the lad's thoughts were beginning to turn to the theater; at least there is a legend that his maternal grandfather, Cresse, who survived until Moliere was sixteen, had delighted in taking the boy to see farce-actors of the time. It may be noted that the most amusing of them all, Tabarin, died only in 1633 and that another, Turlupin, lived until 1637. What is certain is that Moliere's youth was passed in comfortable circum- stances, and that his future seemed to be assured. His 8 MOLIERE prosperous father was ready to give him the best possible education, to fit him to carry on the business and to acquit himself well in the honorable position near the person of the king. In 1637, six years after he had acquired the title of valet de chambre tapissier du rot, the elder Poquelin caused the reversion to be confirmed to his son. A few months earlier he had sent the lad to the foremost school then existing in Paris, the College de Clermont (now called the Lycee Louis-le-Grand), where he was to study for the next four or five years. The year when Moliere probably entered the College de Clermont 1636 was the year in which Richelieu ceded to Louis XIII the sumptuous edifice now known as the Palais-Royal; it was the year in which Corneille produced his earliest masterpiece, the 'Cid, J which marked the dawn of a new day in the French drama; and it was also the year in which Descartes was privileged to publish in Holland his ' Discourse on Method/ the beginning of a new era in philosophy. Ill The College de Clermont was managed by the Jesuits; and Moliere like Calderon and Tasso, like Corneille and Goldoni, like Descartes' and Montesquieu, BuflFon and Voltaire owed his training to those devoted instructors of youth. Their rigid program of studies, the famous ratio studioruniy had been finally promulgated in 1599, less than a quarter of a century before Moliere was born; and it was in 1622, the year' of Moliere' s birth, that Ignatius Loyola and Francis Xavier had been canonized. The school had been flourishing in the sixteenth century until the Jesuits were expelled from France, in 1574. They were allowed to return only in 1603; and the school was not reopened HIS FAMILY AND HIS EDUCATION 9 until 1618. The corner-stone of a new building was laid in 1628 and the edifice was completed in 1632, about four years before Moliere first took his place on its benches. The College had quickly regained its prosperity; and it soon came to have two or three thousand scholars in attendance. Instruction was given generally in Latin, although there was also careful training in the use of French. The pupils were expected to speak the Roman tongue even in conversa- tion with each other. The teaching was oral and tutorial; and in the lower classes there was but little writing. Only in the higher classes were the pupils instructed in com- position. The aim was first solidity of knowledge, and second flexibility of style, although it has been charged that the former was often sacrificed to the latter. Special attention was paid to grammar and rhetoric, to the humani- ties and to philosophy; the masters held up as models were Aristotle, Cicero and Quintilian. Verbal dexterity was highly esteemed; and the older students vied with the instructors in the effort to achieve elegance and euphony. Probably there was a tendency toward phrase-making and to the employment of mellifluous words for their own sake; but even this was a valuable gymnastic. The best pupils were made masters of the Latin language; and they studied the chief works of the leading Latin authors. The severe training in philosophy, as that was then understood, could not but broaden the mind and make its action swifter and suppler. The College de Clermont had a teaching staff of nearly three hundred; and it received some four hundred boarders, including many boys of the best blood in France. The Prince of Conti, for example, the younger brother of the great Conde, was entered two years after Moliere. We do io MOLIERE not know whether Moliere was only a day-scholar or whether he lived in one of the boarding-houses for pupils, of which there were several, more or less under the control of the school authorities; probably he resided at home, as the Jesuit institution, although it was on the other side of the Seine, was less than a mile from his father's house. Nor do we know with certainty how long he was a pupil of the Jesuits or exactly what his studies were. Probably he remained at college for four or five years at least, until he was eighteen or nineteen. His earliest biographer, La Grange, in the brief notice prefixed to the first edition of his collected plays, asserted that "the success of his studies was what might have been expected from a genius as happy as his," and also that "if he was a good humanist, he did even better in philosophy." The instruction in philosophy was based on the 'Logic/ the 'Ethics' and the 'Physics' of Aristotle and on the 'Institutes' of Porphyry. There is in Moliere's comedies abundant evidence of his thorough training in the peripatetic philosophy; he became master not only of its vocabulary but also of its modes of thought. Equally obvious is his acquaintance with the plays of Plautus and Terence. "The inclination he had for poetry," so La Grange declared, "made him apply himself particularly to the poets; and he possessed them perfectly." By the poets, the biographer meant, in all likelihood, the the Latin poets chiefly, since Moliere's acquaintance with Greek is less apparent. It was perhaps while he was still on the benches of the College de Clermont that he un- dertook a translation of Lucretius, a few lines of which he utilized in the 'Misanthrope/ But we do not know how far he carried this task and whether it was ever more than the project of an ambitious schoolboy although another contemporary translator of Lucretius informs us HIS FAMILY AND HIS EDUCATION n that Moliere retained his interest in this undertaking, even in the busy years of his theatrical management, revising his translation constantly and trying certain passages in several ways. There is no doubt that he found in the Roman poet a kindred soul and that his own attitude toward the insistent problems of life is not unlike that of Lucretius. It may be noted as an interesting coincidence that Moliere's younger contemporary, Dryden, had also a great liking for the austere Latin poet. What is beyond all question also is that Moliere's tend- ency toward the theater, if it had already shown itself, would not have been discouraged by the education he re- ceived. The Jesuits had always trained their pupils in declamation and even in acting. The rules required the annual performance of a tragedy written by the professor of poetry, accompanied by a lighter piece written by the professor of rhetoric. These plays, tragic and comic, were in Latin, of course; and they were intended to give the students experience and facility in the oral use of that tongue. The rules also forbade female characters and any love-interest whatsoever; and they prescribed subjects taken from the scriptures or from the annals of the church. Sometimes a play of Plautus was substituted for the origi- nal effort of a professor, more often a play of Terence. Although these comedies might be modified to suit a school-performance, the prohibition of female characters was not always enforced. A Latin tragedy was acted in 1641 before Richelieu in his palace by the noble pupils of the Jesuits, the Prince de Conti being one of the performers. In the College itself the performances were given in a large court between three buildings, a stage being erected at one end and three galleries at the other. An awning covered the court; and 12 MOLIERE the windows of the adjoining buildings served as private boxes. Admission tickets could be purchased; and the performances were evidently much relished by fashionable society. Probably the more serious Latin plays were not as attractive as the ballets which often accompanied them and in which the Jesuits took special pride. These ballets were not unlike the English masques which Ben Jonson and Inigo Jones devised for the delight of King James and his consort. They represented an allegoric or mythologic theme; and they did not demand the terpsichorean agility which we now associate with the idea of the ballet. Yet they called for not a little formal dancing, and the Jesuits paid great attention to this part of their educational scheme. After the Opera had been established by Louis XIV, the authorities of the College de Clermont engaged its ballet- masters to instruct their pupils and to take charge of the ballets given in the school. IV We have no record that Moliere took part either in the ballets of the Jesuits or in their Latin comedies and trage- dies; but it is not at all improbable that he acted in some of the performances which were given while he was a student. It is also likely that while he was still a pupil of the Jesuits he formed his friendship with a group of clever young fellows, with some of whom he was to be closely knit for the rest of his life. One of these was the eccentric poet, Cyrano de Bergerac. Another was Bernier, the future traveler, afterward the physician of an Indian king. And a third was the gay good-liver Chapelle, who went through life lightly and carelessly. Even in their youth they were all frank and independent, in this respect fit companions HIS FAMILY AND HIS EDUCATION 13 for Moliere; and, like him, they kept up to the end the habit of doing their own thinking. Cyrano de Bergerac preserved his outspoken individua- lity as long as he lived; and Bernier, on his return from his far voyages, had the courage to answer a question of Louis XIV as to the happiest country he had visited with the un- expected assertion that it was Switzerland. Chapelle was the one whose friendship with Moliere seems to have been most intimate; he was the illegitimate son of Lullier, the financier, who finally adopted him formally. Lullier, as it happened, was a friend of Gassendi, and he invited that philosopher to stay with him in Paris in 1641 the year when Moliere was probably finishing his studies at the College de Clermont and when he had probably already formed the acquaintance of Chapelle. Gassendi was a man of wide rather than deep learning. He was a correspondent of Galileo and of Kepler. In- terested in every branch of science, he taught philosophy at one time and at another mathematics. Although always circumspect and tactful he was no respecter of tradition or of authority, being always more or less in advance of his time; and to many, no doubt, he seemed an iconoclast. The discoveries of Copernicus, Galileo and Kepler had convinced him of the inadequacy of the Ptolemaic system, still accepted absolutely, not only by the Jesuits but by nearly all who were then charged with the instruction of youth. He had an intense admiration for Lucretius, and he was then at work on his 'Apology for Epicurus/ He brought forward again the Epicurean theory of the con- stitution of matter, which has become the basis of modern physics. In return for Lullier' s hospitality he seems to have given private instruction to Chapelle and to Chapelle' s young comrades; and to these lessons, which could not i 4 MOLIERE fail to be suggestive and stimulating, Moliere was admitted (so we are informed by his second biographer, Grimarest). How formal this teaching may have been we do not know, or whether it amounted to more than the privilege of listening to the philosopher's talk. Possibly it was Gas- sendi who first awakened Moliere's interest in Lucretius. Possibly, also, Gassendi's habit of girding at the medical practitioners may have called Moliere's attention to the pretentious arrogance of the doctors of his day. Certainly, the association with Gassendi could but exert a broaden- ing influence upon the young pupil of the Jesuit fathers, opening his eyes to many things that the tutors of the College de Clermont would surely have kept from him. This must have been a critical epoch in his career, when he was finishing his studies with the Jesuits and at the same time profiting by the free and easy conversation of his ardent young friends, who were detached from prejudice and encouraged to bold speculation by the guidance of the unpedantic Gassendi. It has been suggested that it was then Moliere felt for the first time the attraction of the theater and that he helped Cyrano de Bergerac to sketch out one or more of the farces the ingenious Gascon was later to bring out on the stage; and it is a fact that from one of these farces Moliere after- ward took over one episode in the 'Fourberies de Scapin,' justifying his borrowing with the famous phrase, "I take my own where I find it." But there is no reason to suppose that at this time, 1641, Moliere had decided to write plays for a living or to go on the stage as an actor. The elder Poquelin was then a thriving tradesman; and in spite of the fact that the re- HIS FAMILY AND HIS EDUCATION 15 version of his post as valet de chamlre tapisster had been confirmed to his son, he was apparently ambitious to have his first-born rise out of the burgher class and become a member of one of the learned professions. For medicine, Moliere certainly had no liking. For theology, his call seems equally doubtful; and yet his gossiping contempo- rary, Tallement des Reaux, has asserted that Moliere was for a season a student at the Sorbonne, the training- school for the church. It is unfortunate that, although our information as to the later and more important years of Moliere' s life is abundant and exact, there are still many obscure points in the history of his youth. Tallemant is not always a trustworthy witness, and it is probable that he blunders in making this assertion. Yet there is undeniable piquancy in the possibility that the future author of 'Tar- tuffe' may have begun to prepare himself for the church, even if he speedily changed his mind and gave up the uncongenial and inappropriate task. Although it remains unlikely that Moliere ever seriously undertook the study of theology, there is reason to believe that he did begin the study of law and even that he may have been admitted to the bar. In those days, as in our own time, the law was a profession that might lead to many a post of honor; and there is no improbability in the sug- gestion that Moliere may never have intended to practise and that he mastered the principles of law only as a prepa- ration for some other calling. We have no record of his matriculation at any law-school or of his admission to the bar; and yet his legal studies may be considered as beyond dispute. They are affirmed both by La Grange and Grimarest; and the latter declared that Moliere's family was the authority for the assertion. The statement has been made that Moliere took his law degree at Orleans, 16 MOLIERE convoyed there by his father. At that time and in that place degrees were bestowed very liberally; and to those who were ready to pay the fees the stated residence was rarely insisted upon. The applicant was required only to maintain a thesis, upon a topic of his own choice; and even this formality might be filled for him by some good-natured and well-equipped friend. The. ease with which a license might be obtained is amusingly described in the memoirs of Charles Perrault, who passed the examination at Orleans late on the evening of his arrival; this was in 1651, ten years after Moliere is believed to have been admitted as a licentiate in law; and from Perrault's account it would seem that the diploma was practically sold to any appli- cant who was ready with the cash. Additional evidence in favor of Moliere's having studied the intricacies of the law may be found abundantly in his plays, in which he frequently employs legal technical- ities, and in which he reveals his familiarity not only with the vocabulary of the courts but with their procedure also. His acquaintance with the principles and the practice of jurisprudence is both deeper and more exact than Shak- spere's. The English dramatist dealt with law very freely indeed, bending it to his bidding, in accord with the neces- sities of the story he was handling and never hesitating to make use of quibbles, which a real court would have been very unlikely to countenance. The French dramatist ^/thought in lawyer-like fashion and he took no liberties with code or with custom. / It must be noted, however, that the evidence drawn from in Moliere's comedies does not carry as much weight as it might if he had shown his technical knowledge only in dealing with legal questions, since a little study makes it clear that he is almost equally expert in his use of the ter- HIS FAMILY AND HIS EDUCATION 17 minology of the other sciences, philosophy, for one, and medicine, for another. Apparently he took pride in the precision of the technical terms he put into the mouths of his characters, making it a matter of conscience to get the best professional advice, whenever he had to deal with an art or a science that he did not himself possess. VI If Moliere received a law diploma at Orleans or at Bourges, which has also been mentioned as the university where he made his legal studies this must have been in 1641, after he had left the College de Clermont. And in 1642, there was a tragic event in the history of France of which Moliere may have been a witness. In January, Louis XIII set out on a journey to the south of France, from which he did not return until late in July. The king's favorite, Cinq-Mars, was then engaged in a conspiracy to overthrow Richelieu; and in this he had enlisted the king's brother, Gaston d'Orleans. He had also a secret treaty with Spain, which pledged him the aid of a Spanish army. The cardinal was fully informed of the plot, but he bided his time until he could put into the king's hands a copy of the treaty which proved the treachery of the favor- ite. It was at Narbonne on May twelfth that Cinq-Mars was suddenly arrested, to be executed exactly four months thereafter. In all the travels of the king there were in attendance on his person two of the eight valets de chamlres tapissiers, whose duty it was to see to the comfort of the monarch wherever he might tarry. The quarterly term of service of Moliere's father extended from the beginning of April to the end of June; it was during these three months i8 MOLIERE that the arrest of Cinq-Mars took place. A valet de cham- bre tapis sier had the privilege of substitution ; he could get one of his colleagues to take his place. He could also send in his stead his future successor, the possessor of the survivorship of the post. In those days such a journey on such a duty was fatiguing; and a prolonged absence from the shop at home might be very inconvenient. Moliere' s father, who was getting on in years and who had a fam- ily of motherless children, may have had good reason to delegate his son instead of going himself; and he may well have thought that this early association with the sovereign could not but be advantageous to a well-educated young fellow of twenty. Furthermore, documents have been dis- covered which prove that the elder Poquelin was actually in Paris on the third of July; as his term of service did not come to an end until the first of that month he could not have returned to the capital from Lyons (where the king then was) in two days. Grimarest is formal in his assertion that Moliere "made the Narbonne journey in the train of the king." In April, and again in June, Louis XIII spent the night in the little town of Sigean, where the members of his household were lodged with a wealthy citizen named Dufort; and later in Moliere's career we find him on friendly terms with this Dufort; to whom he was even under pecuniary obliga- tions a fact which possibly points to an earlier meeting. One narrator of the event immediately preceding the arrest of Cinq-Mars has told us that the frightened conspirator was hidden for a little while in a dark closet by a "young valet de chambre of the king." Of course, we have no right to accept this uncorroborated statement and to believe that this young valet de chambre, moved by sudden pity for a man in danger of his life, was Moliere. But a weighing of HIS FAMILY AND HIS EDUCATION 19 all the evidence leads to the belief that in all probability Moliere was a member of the king's household when Richelieu unmasked the conspiracy. It may be noted also that in Alfred de Vigny's historical novel, ' Cinq-Mars '- which seemingly served as the basis of Lord Lytton's long popular play, * Richelieu' the poet saw fit to introduce as minor characters in an earlier scene of the story not only Moliere, but also Milton, then returning home from a visit to Italy. VII Whether Moliere did or did not act as his father's substitute in the spring of 1642 and make the voyage to Narbonne in the train of the king, we know that he did not much longer aspire to the succession to his father's business. It was at that time, just as he was about to attain to man's estate, that he felt the lure of the theater to be irresistible and that he decided to go on the stage. For a little while after the execution of Cinq-Mars, Moliere may have aided his father in the shop, or he may even have begun to practise as a lawyer; but not for long did he engage in these tasks which were becoming more and more uncongenial. It was in the first month of 1643, wnen ne was j ust turned twenty-one, that his intention of giving up his father's trade and of striking out for himself was made manifest by a formal act. He ceded back to his father the right to dis- pose of the survivorship of the royal appointment as valet de chamlre tapissler. And in July, only six months later, another formal act proves that he had chosen his new calling; he enrolled himself in a little band of actors. It cannot be said that he gave up law for literature, as Cor- neille had done and as Boileau was to do, since he seems 20 MOLIERE in these years of his youth to have had no ambition for authorship. His vocation may have been the delayed result of the boyish visits made with his grandfather to the farce-actors of his youth. It may have been stimulated by the tragedies and comedies and ballets of his school-days. It may have been intensified by contact with the strollin^r^rformers who enlivened the annual Fair of St. Germain, where his father always opened a branch shop for a few weeks in every year. It may have been heightened by admiration for the brisk and adroit Italianjzomedians then appearing in Paris, under the leadership of Tibero Fiorelli, the famous Scaramouche (for whose portrait La Fontaine was later to rime a quatrain, declaring that nature had been his teacher as he had been Moliere's). It may have been nourished by attendance at the two theaters then established in Paris, the Hot^Ljie^Bourgogne and its younger rival, the play- house in the Ma^rais. It may have been encouraged by the royal edict of two years earlier, relieving actors from the outlawry which had oppressed them for years. It may have been due in some measure to the emulation excited by the growing fame of Corneille, who had produced in 1640 'Cinna,' 'Horace' and 'Polyeucte/ and in 1642 the 'Menteur,' the most popular of his comedies. It may even have had a simpler cause, a love affair with an actress, Madeleine Bejart, with whom he was to be closely associated for more than a score of years. Whatever might be the origin of the call, he heard it clearly and he obeyed. It was in 1643 that he cast in his lot with the company of players of which Madeleine Bejart was the chief, and that he entered on the first stage of the career which was to make him the best comic actor of his time and the foremost comic dramatist of all time. HIS FAMILY AND HIS EDUCATION 21 For this career he was better fitted than the majority of the ambitious young fellows who are always ready to knock at the stage-door, believing it to be the portal of the temple of fortune. He had grown to manhood in a comfortable home and he had received an excellent education. The circumstances of his youth were not unlike Shakspere's; but his schooling had been far more thorough, and by his training he was better equipped for literature. His turning to the theater in his early manhood may have been due to a woman, as Shakspere's may have been, with the significant difference that Moliere was following a woman older than himself with whom he may have fallen in love, and that Shakspere was possibly seeking rather to get away from a woman older than himself whom he had married. Like Shakspere, once more, Moliere was to spend years in obscure struggle, wrestling with poverty and serving an arduous apprenticeship to a difficult art. Prob- ably Moliere' s years of youthful striving were even less pleasant than Shakspere's; and certainly his period of probation lasted longer. CHAPTER II HIS APPRENTICESHIP AND HIS WANDERINGS I IT was soon after he became a professional actor that Jean Baptiste Poquelin followed the practice of the time and took a stage-name. Why he chose to call himself Moliere we do not know; and Grimarest asserted that he would not explain the reason for this choice "even to his best friends." The name, it may be noted, was borne by at least one other person more or less connected with the theater a musician of little importance. In the beginning, for a brief season, Moliere seems to have acted only as an amateur, if we may believe the ac- count Grimarest has given us. "It was often the custom at that time," so this biographer asserted, "for a group of friends to act plays. A few citizens of Paris made up a company to which Moliere belonged. They acted several times for their own amusement. Then having sufficiently enjoyed themselves, and convinced that they were good actors, they determined to make money by their perfor- mances." And therefore they resolved to establish them- selves in a tennis-court owned by a man named Metayer, and situated near the Porte de Nesle. Just as the strolling actors in England in Shakspere's youth were wont to perform in the court-yard of an inn, building out a stage from under the rear gallery, so the strolling actors in France in Moliere' s youth were accus- HIS APPRENTICESHIP 23 tomed to perform in a tennis-court, which could be trans- formed into an acceptable theater by the erection of a shallow stage at one end. Tennis-courts were admirably adapted for theatrical use; they were weather-tight halls, generally a little more than a hundred feet long and a little less than forty feet wide. They had galleries which could be divided into boxes for the ladies, for whose use there were sometimes erected a few tiers of seats at the back of the hall. The main body of male spectators stood on the open floor; and the stage was raised breast-high, often pro- tected by a stout balustrade across the front. A few of the better sort of playgoers were accommodated with seats on the stage itself a device for increasing the receipts of the performance which had first been employed in France in consequence of the overwhelming popularity of Cor- neille's 'Cid,' and which had its equivalent also in the English theater in Shakspere's time. The space left for the actors must have been unduly confined whenever there chanced to be a rush to see a new play. Often there was no scenery, but only a few hangings at the back and sides; and it was by parting the openings in these curtains that the actors made their entrances and their exits. The stage was ill-lighted by a few candles placed in sconces against the hangings and also on rude wooden chandeliers suspended over the front of the stage above the heads of the actors. When performances could be given under these primitive conditions it did not take long to transform a tennis-court into a theater; and the list of these transformations is end- less. Indeed, so convenient was this method of making a playhouse that the practice persisted in France well into the nineteenth century, as late as the reign of Louis Phi- lippe, when the tennis-court in the palace of Compiegne was made available for theatrical performances. 24 MOLIERE When the little company of amateur actors, of which Moliere was a member, decided to become professionals, they organized in accordance with another custom of the time. In France, in Moliere' s day, as in England, in Shakspere's, a theatrical enterprise was rarely if ever the speculation of a single manager who was responsible for all the risks of the undertaking and who pocketed all the profits, as is the practice now. The chief performers were then their own managers, and their venture was co-opera- tive. Chappuzeau, in his contemporary account of the French theaters in the seventeenth century, notes that although the actors "loved monarchy in the state, they rejected it in their own organization." All the leading tragedians and comedians, male and female, were equal sharers in the risks and in the profits, taking no salaries themselves, but paying wages to a few humbler assistants. This was the system under which the Globe Theater in London was governed when Shakspere was a sharer. This is still the system, only a little modified, to be found now at the Theatre Francais in Paris the Comedie-Fran^aise being the direct descendant of the little company of comedi- ans which Moliere helped to constitute in 1643, on tne thirtieth of June. It was also a custom in those days for a company of actors to bestow a sonorous and grandiloquent name on their organization; and Moliere and his associates chose to entitle themselves the Illustre Theatre. By good fortune the articles of association still exist; and from this docu- ment we learn that there were ten sharers, that all matters of importance were to be decided in general assembly, that no partner should withdraw without giving four months' notice; that Madeleine Bejart was to have the right of choosing the parts she might prefer, and that the HIS APPRENTICESHIP 25 heroes were to be taken alternatively by Moliere and by two other leading performers. This last clause has an importance of its own, since it shows that Moliere, who was later to be acknowledged as the foremost comic actor of the time, had not yet discovered where his genius lay, and that he aspired at first to heroic characters in serious plays. Perhaps this aspiration was due in the beginning to a desire to play opposite parts to Madeleine Bejart; but whatever its origin, it survived the long years of strolling, since we shall find him, even after the return of the com- pany to Paris, attempting unsuccessfully the heroic char- acter in his own romantic play 'Don Garcie de Navarre/ It is significant that the best portrait we have of Moliere, that painted by his friend, Pierre Mignard, represents him in the tragic character of Cesar in Corneille's 'Mort de Pompee/ It is a fact, frequently observed in the history of the stage, that comedians, however richly endowed with humor, often long for a chance to reveal themselves in pathetic, and even in tragic, characters. From this error of judgment apparently not even Moliere was exempt, in spite of all his insight into human weakness. II Perhaps it is not quite accurate to describe the company of the Illustre Theatre as consisting entirely of ambitious amateurs. One of the actors who was to divide the heroes with Moliere was the brother of an actress, and he may very likely have had occasion to appear professionally. Assuredly, Madeleine Bejart was no novice; although then only twenty-five years of age, she had already acquired the theatrical experience which justified her claim to the choice of parts; and perhaps the elder of her brothers may also 26 MOLIERE have seen service c5n the stage. But Moliere himself was one of the amateurs; however rich in ambition, he was poor in experience. Although he was far better educated than any of the others, and although in time he rose to be the chief of the cor/pany, By force of character and ability, there is no doubt that at the start the dominant figure in the little band was Madeleine Be j art. She was the main- spring of tHe entejirise in-all the early years of dishearten- ing struggle. The other signers of the original contract of association might drop out and be replaced by new- comers, but the Bejarts, two sisters and two brothers, clung together, and Moliere clung to them. In many ways Madeleine Bejart was a remarkable woman. She was at least passably good looking, with luxuriant red hair. She Became an excellent actress, win- ning the praise of La Fontaine, for one. She wrote verse not inferior to the average of French poetry at that time. She may even have composed a comedy or two. She was the daughter of a man of affairs, connected with the law; from him she seems to have inherited her clear head and her capacity for business. Certainly she had a full share of that shrewd common sense which is not unus- ual in French women. Various documents reveal that she managed the money affairs of the little company, and also those of Moliere; that she did this with skill and with success is proved by the little fortune she was able to leave at her death, and by the ample means enjoyed by Moliere in the later years of his life. Yet she had failed to manage her own life satisfactorily; five years before the organization of the Illustre Theatre, when she was only a girl of twenty, she had borne an illegitimate daughter to the Comte de Modene, a rakish adventurer, who had soon left Paris in attendance on the Duke de Guise. As her HIS APPRENTICESHIP 27 lover had separated from his wife, who was known to be in failing health, and who died a few years later, it is likely that Madeleine Bejart had hoped to become a countess. While they were waiting for Metayer's tennis-court to be made ready for them, the company of the IllustreTheatre went down the Seine to Rouen and played there during the fair which began in October. Corneille was still residing in his native city; and Moliere may then have made the acquaintance of the elder poet, two of whose later plays he was to produce more than a score of years thereafter. He may also have essayed more than one of the lyric heroes of Corneille's tragedies, then in the springtime of their success. He may even have acted in the ' Menteur,' which had opened a new vein in French comedy, that Moliere was to cultivate himself in the years to come. But this is mere conjecture; and we have now no means of knowing whether or not the little band of actors prospered in this first engagement at Rouen. Before the end of the year they were back in Paris; and in the first month of 1644 they opened the doors of the theater which had been made ready for them. The new organization had rivals long established in popular favor, the older companies at the Hotel de Bourgogne and at the theater in the Marais. Very likely the young actors were not yet expert in their art, and assuredly they had not yet won public favor. Pretty certainly they were unable to bring out new plays by favorite authors, although they did what they could, buying pieces from du Ryer and from Tristan 1'Hermite, and taking into the company an actor- playwright, Desfontaines, whose dramas they produced. Possibly also the situation of the theater was not well selected. Whatever the reasons, the enterprise failed, in 28 MOLIERE spite of the fact that the associates acquired the right to entitle themselves the "comedians of the Duke of Orleans." It was the custom then in France, as it had been in England under the Tudors, for a company of actors to put them- selves under the patronage of some great noble; the actors of the Hotel de Bourgogne claimed the protection of the king himself. The members of the Illustre Theatre soon came to believe that the cause of their misfortune was the unsatis- factory situation of their theater; and at the end of the year they were able to cancel the lease. Early in 1645 they took possession of another tennis-court, that known as the Croix- Noire, which was not far from the Place Royale, and therefore nearer to the more aristocratic quarter of the city. But their bad luck followed them across the Seine; and they soon got deeper and deeper into debt. As the son of a prosperous tradesman, Moliere had pledged his own credit for money owed; and in the middle of the sum- mer, only two years after he had gone on the stage, he was arrested for various debts and locked up in the Grand- Chatelet. Here he remained for nearly a week; and he was set free at last only when a certain Aubry, with whom the Illustre Theatre had had business dealings, agreed to stand security for the amount due. That the company continued in difficulties is shown by the fact that eighteen months after Moliere's arrest, his father had to agree to indemnify Aubry, and that this debt was not cleared until 1649, l n g a ^ ter tne Illustre Theatre had departed from Paris. At last the ambitious young actors saw the futility of their attempt to establish themselves in rivalry with the two older companies; and they resolved to leave the capital and to see if provincial audiences might not be less exacting and HIS APPRENTICESHIP 29 more cordial. They had ceased to entitle themselves the "comedians of the Duke of Orleans." They were fewer in number than when they began; some of the original associates had deserted; and other performers, who had been welcomed in their ranks, had withdrawn after a brief experience. But the Bejart family was steadfast; and so was Moliere. He was now twenty-five, in the full strength of young manhood. With his native gift for acting, he had un- doubtedly made rapid progress in the art of which he was later to be received as the chief ornament. Apparently he had shown no ambition as yet to become a playwright; he seems to have been content then to be only a player, probably practising himself rather in serious than in comic parts. He had been growing, not only in skill, but in au- thority; and his force of character, his shrewdness and his faculty for winning friends, were beginning to make them- selves felt. His position in the little band was more im- portant at the end of their stay in the capital than it had been when the company was originally organized. The three years in Paris must have matured him and made him more resourceful. It was a stern apprentice- ship; and it fitted him to undergo the adventures and the misadventures of the next twelve years, while he was strolling in the provinces, visiting the city of his birth only at rare intervals. From this inglorious wandering he was to come back, long before he was forty, an accomplished comedian and the chief of a company of highly trained actors, all devoted to him personally; he was to return ripe for the swift outflowering of his genius as a comic dramatist. 3 o MOLIERE III There were then a dozen or fifteen companies of actors traveling from one town to another.' Several of these were more or less prosperous, settled in one or another of the chief provincial cities, from which they made frequent excursions into the neighboring country. Others had hard work to win a bare living and were often on the verge of disbanding in disgust. Few of them can have been as small in numbers or as poverty-stricken as the little band whose exploits and misfortunes are recorded in the * Roman Comique,' the first part of which appeared in 1651 and the second in 1657, while Moliere and his companions were still undergoing trials like those that befell the chief figures in the novel. In spite of its farce and its caricature, Scarron's story must be accepted as a fairly veracious portrayal of the existing conditions of a strolling player's career. This was a life of many privations, of many hard- ships and humiliations, of constant uncertainty and of occasional prosperity. &figured their material. In neither of the comedies which Moliere produced in the provinces did he display originality of invention in the construction of his plot. For the first of them, the 'Etourdi/ he found the suggestion of his story in an Italian piece; and he drew on other Italian pieces for separate episodes. His play is so closely patterned on the comedy-of-masks that it might be selected for study as the best possible specimen of the species. It has the incessant activity of the Italian farces, their sudden rever- sals of situation, their unfailing gaiety, their spontaneous fun, and their exaggeration almost to caricature, but never to burlesque. Its scene is laid in Italy, at Messina, in the public square, where all the personages can come and go at will. Its characters are fixed types, sharply pro- jected and highly colored. Its plot is artificial and arbi- trary, in which the same situation is ingeniously varied throughout a sequence of episodes. It is wholly unpreten- tious; its sole aim is to evoke laughter; and it does not aspire in any way to arouse thought. The 'Etourdi' takes its name from its hero, Lelie, who is a conceited and scatterbrained young fellow, for- ever doing the wrong thing, often from a right motive. He is the son of Pandolphe, who wishes him to marry Hippolyte, the daughter of Anselme. But Lelie is in love with a slave-girl, owned by Trufaldin; and this Celiq is sought also by Lelie' s friend, Leandre. Lelie 62 MOLIERE fortunately has for a valet Mascarille (the part Moliere devised for his own acting, and in reality the central figure of the play). Mascarille is an incomparable rascal, as ingenious as he is unscrupulous. He undertakes to get Celie for Lelie; and he arranges stratagem after stratagem to put the willing girl in his master's power. But no sooner has he successfully started an adroit scheme for bringing the lovers together than the babbling and blund- ering Lelie upsets it, to the increasing disappointment and the progressively comic disgust of Mascarille. By a report that Pandolphe is dead, the valet extracts money from Anselme; and then the feather-witted Lelie lets the spoil be taken back. Mascarille provides an op- portunity for carrying off Celie during a masquerade; and then the unthinking Lelie must needs warn Trufaldin not to let the maskers in. During the five acts, nine several enterprises of the quick-witted valet are wrecked by the chuckle-headed master. At last, when Moliere has got all the fun he could out of this shifting effect, he abruptly winds up the comedy, or, at least, cuts it short, by the careless expedient of a recognition a discovery that Celie is really Trufaldin's daughter, and therefore a fit and proper bride for Lelie. So Leandre kindly pairs off with Hippolyte; and the play is done. With such a story, the 'Etourdi' cannot be considered as anything but farce, in which situation conditions char- acter whereas in true comedy character creates situation. The figures are moved before us not by their own volition, but by the superior will of the playwright. What we ad- mire are the dexterities of the mechanism, not the strokes of nature. The author is seeking to arouse the emotions of surprise rather than to awaken the emotions of recogni- tion. Its humor is external to the character; and it arises HIS EARLIEST PLAYS 63 solely from the predicaments in which they are placed. Moliere was doing what the Italians had done before, even if he was doing it more cleverly. Indeed, clever- ness is what this first play most abundantly displays, cleverness for its own sake. So Shakspere, in his first comedy, 'Love's Labor's Lost,' was satisfied with an empty theme lending itsjelf to the parade of his youthful wit. The 'Etourdi' is like 'Love's Labor's Lost' in that it is the early effort of a brilliant young writer, who rejoices that he is young, and who is glad that he can be brilliant, and who reveals as yet no sign that he has ob- served life cautiously or reflected on it deeply. But it discloses his easy mastery of stage-craft; he has already learned his trade and he has all its tricks at the ends of his fingers. He is no longer an apprentice in play-making, /and his experience in putting together his half-score little farces has taught him how to build a plot and how to maneuver his types therein with instinctive certainty. Yet the immediate and enduring success of this earliest of Moliere' s comedies is as well deserved as it is easy to understand. The play is unpretending; but it does to perfection what it purports to do. It is captivating in its ingenuity; and it is irresistible in the torrent of its over- flowing animal spirits. It is animated throughout by the superb vitality of Mascarille, who joys in his own invent- iveness, carrying everything triumphantly on his shoulders and illuminating everything with his unquenchable energy. And, furthermore, the 'Etourdi^has greatjchainxof style; it is written with a variety of vocabulary, a flexibility of expression, a full flow of words and a richness of rime, that even Moliere never surpassed, and that extorted the ad- miration of Victor Hugo, the most accomplished of experts in all matters of meter and of rhetoric. At its best, 64 MOLIERE Moliere's verse is ampler and more vigorous than Racine's or even Corneille's; and in the 'Etourdi' it is at its best. VII The 'Depit Amoureux/ the second of the five-act comedies in verse, which Moliere brought back with him to Paris after they had approved themselves in the prov- inces, is at once superior and inferior to the 'Etourdi/ It is inferior, in that it lacks unity, since it contains two stories, juxtaposed rather than fused. It is inferior also in that the main story, also taken over from the Italian, is less simple and less plausible in its machinery. This main story sets forth the successive situations that result because a father had sought to bring up a girl as a boy; and it is not only less acceptable in its basis, it is also less profitable in comicality of episode. Yet the later play is superior to the earlier in the subordinate half of its plot, which gives the comedy its title and which presents to us the love-tiff of two pairs of young folks, a master and a mistress, humorously echoed by his valet and her maid, whose pleasant quarrel is only the reflection and reaction of theirs. While the main story may be dismissed as an unreal make-believe, which we are almost ready to reject for its improbability, the secondary story is delightfully truthful. It may have come into existence by itself as one of the little farces Moliere had earlier devised, and incorporated later in the more ambitious comedy because its author was certain of its success. Its several scenes are the first fruits of Moliere's insight into human nature. They may have been suggested to him by a scene in a play of Lope de Vega's or by an idyl of Horace's; as- HIS EARLIEST PLAYS 65 suredly they owe nothing to any Italian example, since they are founded on a deeper observation of life than the Italians displayed in their improvised pieces. This sub- plot presents the eternal commonplaces of young love, ever touchy and ever self-torturing. The two couples meet and flirt; they quarrel and part; they make up almost against their wills, and yet in accord with their secret in- clinations. And this presentation of the course of true love is as fresh to-day and as veracious and as delicious as it was two centuries and a half ago. The scenes in which these young couples appear still ring true, whereas the other half of the comedy is hope- lessly antiquated, since it belongs to a formula long out of fashion. Very wisely, therefore, has the Comedie- Francaise cast aside that part of the play which is no longer interesting, and preserved the episodes of perennial charm. For more than a hundred years now the 'Depit Amoureux' has been acted on the stage of the Theatre Francais as a comedy in two acts and not in five, a com- edy from which all of the extraneous matter has been cut out, leaving only the wooing and the bickering and the mating of the two pairs of lovers, the master and the mistress, tender, graceful, and almost lyric in their senti- ment, the valet and the maid frankly comic in their equiv- alent misunderstandings and misadventures. With these two comedies Moliere was able to win the favor of the Parisian playgoers for his company, and to gain for himself the large opportunity for his own en- suing development as a dramatist. Yet there is little in either of these pieces which can be held to foretell or to prefigure the variety and the range of that swift develop- ment. These earlier plays revealed no more than that he was an ingenious playwright, a pupil of the Italians 66 MOLIERE who could better their instruction. Even if the love-tiff might make it clear that Moliere had begun to study life with his own eyes and to import into a play the re- sult of his reflection, the two comedies taken together show chiefly that the new-comer had a vigorous vocabulary of his own, an unerring skill in handling comic situation and a hearty sense of fun. They contain small promise of his future mastery of comedy in its highest aspects. If Moliere had died in that first winter after his return to Paris, no historian of French literature could have suspected the loss the drama would have sustained. CHAPTER IV THE 'PRECIEUSES RIDICULES' I ALTHOUGH Moliere and his fellow actors long con- tinued to appear in the tragic repertory they had presented in the provinces, these performances were not so accept- able to the Parisian playgoers as were those at the two older theaters. That the company was able to win favor seems to have been due, partly to the popularity of the little farces which were played as after-pieces to the tragedies, and partly to the immediate success of Moliere' s two longer comedies, the 'Etourdi,' brought out in No- vember, 1658, as soon as the company began to appear at the Petit-Bourbon, and the 'Depit Amoureux,' pro- duced for the first time in Paris in April, 1659. As author, as actor, as manager, Moliere bore the burden of the enterprise, from his return to Paris until his death. He and his comrades were authorized to style them- selves "the company of Monsieur, only brother of the king," who promised them an annual pension of three hundred livres a subsidy which their princely patron always omitted to pay. The actors of the Hotel de Bour- gogne were entitled the "only royal company"; and those of the Marais theater called themselves the " come- dians of the king." It is evident that Moliere' s company had a position inferior to the other two, who were more 67 68 MOLIERE directly under the patronage of the sovereign. Perhaps this was one reason why two of the most popular players left the company toward the end of their first winter at Easter, which was the season when theatrical engage- ments were made. The two deserters were Du Pare and his wife; she was a most attractive woman who re- ceived at one time or another the attentions of both Cor- neille and Racine; and he was a broadly humorous comedian known as "Gros Rene." The defection of the Du Pares was a loss; and Moliere proceeded to strengthen his forces by engaging another comic actor of robust fun, Jodelet, who brought with him his brother, L'Espy. About the same time, Du Croisy and his wife joined the company. But the most important recruit was La Grange, upon whom Moliere soon learned to rely and to whom he was able in time to confide the onerous duty of acting as orator of the com- pany. La Grange was to play the lovers in all Moliere's later plays; and he must have been a most accomplished actor in these parts, which required youth and ease, breeding and bearing, gaiety and tenderness. In his private life he was resolute, trustworthy and painstaking. It was he who piously collected Moliere's plays in 1682 with a brief biography prefixed. And as soon as he joined the company, he began to keep a register, a day-book of the doings in the theater, with an exact record of re- ceipts, payments and profits. This register, still in the possession of the Comedie-Francaise, is the basis of our solid knowledge of the remaining years of Moliere's life. At the end of this first season at the Petit-Bourbon the Italian comedians went home, leaving the theater in sole possession of the new-comers; and at the beginning of his second winter in Paris, Moliere was able to shift his per- THE 'PRECIEUSES RIDICULES' 69 formances to what were considered to be the best nights of the week, Sundays, Tuesdays and Fridays. It was early in this fall that he brought out his third play, the 'Precieuses Ridicules,' the first of his comedies to be produced originally in Paris. Its success was immediate; and the profits were so satisfactory that the actors in assembly voted a preserft of five hundred livres to the author as La Grange has recorded for us in his invalu- able register. In this new play in one act, which seemed to be only a farcical trifle, we discover Moliere turning aside from the external and arbitrary method of fun-making which he had taken over from the comedy-of-masks. For the first time he ventured into social satire, finding a fit theme in the sayings and doings of a feminine cotery then in high repute throughout France. II The term precieuses is difficult to define with accuracy; but it was applied more particularly to the group of clever and cultivated women who were in the habit of frequent- ing the Hotel de Rambouillet. The Marquise de Ram- bouillet was a woman of unusual refinement, possessing a delicacy of taste which was possibly excessive. She had shrunk from what seemed to her the rudeness of the court of Louis XIII; and she attracted to her own home the more polished courtiers and the more presentable men of letters Balzac, the letter-writer, Voiture, the rimester of familiar verse, Menage, the scholar. She and her daughters, these nobles and these wits, with a little group of ladies of like tastes, including Madame de Longueville, Madame de Sable and, later, Mademoiselle 70 MOLIERE de Scudery, Madame de Lafayette, Madame de Sevigne, cultivated conversation as a fine art, setting topics for talk, and listening to poems and to papers prepared expressly for their appreciation. They vied with each other in the composition of madrigals, of maxims and of written portraits. They strove to avoid pedantry and to cast out vulgarity. They discussed the exact use and meaning of words, rejecting many which seemed to them coarse, and introducing others which they liked better. They held council over points of grammar and rhetoric; they desired even to improve orthography, seeking to simplify French spelling by dropping the useless letters which do not affect pronunciation, meaning or analogy. In the early years of the sixteenth century French had been considered an inferior idiom, almost unworthy of cultivation and incapable of expressing accurately and abundantly anything more than the commonplaces of daily life; but by the middle of the seventeenth century, when Pascal and Corneille and Moliere began to write, French had come into its own; it was accepted as a rich and varied tongue, fit for all uses. Its improvement had been due partly to the group of poets known as the Pleiade, partly to Malherbe (who corrected a grammatical error with his last breath), and partly to the exertion of the precieuses. There is no denying their influence in re- fining and polishing the language and in making it a better instrument of social intercourse. Equally indisputable is the influence exerted by Madame de Rambouillet and her followers in the amelioration of manners. It was in the Hotel de Rambouillet that there developed the Gallic type of perfect gentleman, the man of gallantry as distinguished from the more Italianate type of the courtier which had preceded it and made it pos- THE 'PRECIEUSES RIDICULES' 71 sible. In the group which gathered about Madame de Rambouillet there was habitual deference to the gentler sex, almost a deification of woman, which resulted in giving her a more liberal standing in society than she had held before. Gentlemen were led to acknowledge the spiritual superiority of woman and almost to admit also her intellectual equality. By the higher position allowed to women and by the larger share they were encouraged to take in society, French manners were purified and elevated; and in so far as the group that gathered around the Rambouillets helped to bring this about, its influence was wholesome. The language also benefited by the action of this cotery, which helped to develop the latent capabilities of French and to perfect it as an instrument of precision. The desire for more delicate expression and for decorative phrasing, which is identified with the precieuses, did not begin with them nor did it disappear when they ceased to be. It is a constant force in French literature, an ever-present reaction against that other French relish for frankness of speech, girding humor and Gallic salt. This latter tendency is displayed most abundantly in Rabelais, but it is visible even in Montaigne; whereas the former governs not only the letters of Balzac, the verses of Voiture, the interminable tales of the Scuderys, and on occasion even the tragedies of Corneille, but also the later sermons of Flechier and the still later comedies of Marivaux, in which there is a kindred supersubtlety of sentimental analysis. Even in Montesquieu we can perceive a will- ingness to be witty at any cost, to show off, to subordi- nate substance to style. And a similar tendency is to be detected in the writings of the Parnassians and the Sym- bolists of the nineteenth century. Only the greatest of 72 MOLIERE French writers, Moliere himself and Racine after him, have been able to make their profit out of both tendencies, and to combine taste and vigor, delicacy and freedom. The movement headed by the precieuses in France has its analogies in other literatures. It was closely akin to the Asianism of Greek, to the Elizabethan Euphuism and to the Victorian Estheticism of English, to the Gon- gorism of Spanish, and to the Marinism of Italian. In- deed, it was from Italy that the impulse spread to France, since Madame de Rambouillet was herself half an Italian. She seemed to have shared the feeling not uncommon in Italy that the simple word is too simple, lacking, as Stend- hal asserted, "that ingredient of pleasure which comes from difficulty conquered." There is an Italian flavor in the enjoyment which the precieuses took in their trivial toying with empty conceits, in their chase after metaphor, and in their deliberate search for unexpectedness of ex- pression. There is an echo of the Italian Renascence in their distaste for plain speech and for the plain people, in their purism and their pedantry, obvious even at the very moment when they believed themselves to be waging war on the pedants and the purists. Perhaps also the Italian influence was responsible for the pretentious prudery paraded by certain of the leading precieuses. Madame de Rambouillet herself was often shocked by words and phrases in which a less sensitive ear could perceive no impropriety. Her eldest daughter had a maiden modesty so excessive that it postponed for many years her wedding with the Duke of Montausier; and yet this prudish shrinking from a fit marriage to a devoted suitor did not prevent her later complaisance in facilitating the unlovely intrigues of Louis XIV, first with Mademoiselle de la Valliere and afterward with Madame THE 'PRECIEUSES RIDICULES' 73 de Montespan. As a wise humorist has declared, "there are no people so vulgar as the over-refined." It also needs to be noted here that two of the earlier precieuses were Madame de Longueville and Madame de Sable, whose efforts to reform manners were without effect on their own morals. When Moliere broughtjmt the 'Precieuses Ridicules' in 1659, the vogue of the cotery was declining, if it was not ' already decadent. Nearly half a century had passed since v Madame de Rambouillet had first opened her house to her little circle of followers; and her daughter had with- drawn after her marriage to Montausier. The survivorsV of the clique still met at Mademoiselle de Scudery's, but the movement had seen its best days and its glory was de- / parting forever. Moreover, it had been vulgarized by/ cheap imitators in Paris and in the provinces. There was effort and affectation enough in the exercises of the clever women and witty writers who had clustered about Madame de Rambouillet; and these unfortunate characteristics of the movement were inevitably exaggerated almost to caricature by those who copied only the externals without having felt the original impulse. The delicacy of taste of Madame de Rambouillet and her daughters and of their friends might seem at times a little over-sensitive; but in their imitators, who lacked the real refinement of the originals, it stood revealed as a parody of itself. Copyists are rarely restrained by discretion; and the copyists of the precieuses distorted language and manners to the verge of violence, just as fashions in dress lose all their dis- tinction when imitated by remote villagers with no sense of style and with no feeling for the fitness of things. For ^ffeftati^n^j3f_jmy kind, in language or in life, Moliere had ever a profound disgust. He disliked purists 74 MOLIERE as well as puritans. He detested any insistence upon outer forms; he distrusted it as a disguised attempt to distract attention from the inner spirit. With the prin- ciple of the original pr'ecieuses Moliere had little sympathy; and some of their practices could not fail to arouse his swift sense of humor. If he was ready to smile at- the originals in Paris, the antics of the awkward imitators in the provinces must have evoked his frank laughter. He would have been no comic dramatist if he had not seen that he had here a fit topic for comedy. He seized Jrtthe chance to expose the precieuses to ridicule, just as ^\\ Shakspere had chosen to make fun of the euphuists. Ill We can understand the development of Moliere as a dramatist only when we keep in mind the fact that he was also and always the manager of his company, the one on whose shoulders rested the duty of conducting the enterprise to prosperity, season after season. Here is the explanation of his clinging to the formula of the comedy- of-masks, which had an assured popularity, and of his frequent utilizing of its framework and its fixed types, and of his returning to it again and again to the very end of his career, even after he had taught himself how to construct comedy of a finer kind than the Italians had ever conceived. He had begun with little farces, aiming at laughter only and wholly without pretensions; and his first more ambitious comedy, the < Etourdi,' although in five acts and in verse, is almost as barren of personal observation of life as these farces were, however ingenious the larger play might be in its episodes and however abundant in humorous situation. Even in his second THE 'PRECIEUSES RIDICULES' 75 comedy, the 'Depit Amoureux,' the skeleton of the story is still Italian, although he put into its underplot a reality and a veracity wholly lacking in the 'Etourdi/ In this third play, the Trecieuses Ridicules,' only a farce in one act and in prose, he ventured for the first time to deal with contemporary manners. It was the earliest step in the career which was to be crowned with the 'Femmes Savantes/ For the first time he chose a theme which forced him to that criticism of life which is ever the mainspring of real comedy. Quite possibly it was his trained instinct as a manager which led the dram- atist to see the attractiveness of a topical play certain to make talk and to lure outlying playgoers to the theater. In choosing this theme he could make sure at least of a success of curiosity. But he had no desire to break with his past and to upset the expectations of his audience by overt novelty of form. So he retained the fixed characters of the comedy- of-masks, appearing himself as Mascarille, the voluble valet already seen in the 'Etourdi.' The scene was not laid in the open square customary in Italian pieces, but in the house of Gorgibus, who had come up to Paris with his daughter and his niece, Madelon and Cathos, the two precieuses ridicules, provincial imitators of Parisian originals^ Affecting to '"be snockecT "Ey~~ the straightfof- "ward wooing of La Grange and Du Croisy for these actors appeared under their own names only the girls rejected the advances of their lovers, hoping for the de- voted attentions of gallants of a subtler delicacy. La Grange and Du Croisy decide to revenge themselves by sending their valets, Mascarille and Jodeiet, to play the gallants that the girls are awaiting. This trick is like that which ruined the life of Angelica Kaufmann; it has 76 MOLIERE served also as the basis of 'Ruy Bias' and of the 'Lady of Lyons'; and although it seems rather tragic in its possibilities Moliere chose to deal only with its comic aspects. Mascarille presents himself as a marquis, and he pro- ceeds to captivate the two damsels by his intimate acquaint- ance with all the gossip of the town, by his knowledge of the jargon of the precieuses, by his unblushing flattery and by his imperturbable assurance. He is joined by his fellow valet, Jodelet, masquerading as a viscount. Then, when the two pretentious young ladies have been fooled to the top of their bent, La Grange and Du Croisy return and unmask their servants, forcing the fellows to strip themselves of their borrowed finery. Jodelet, after taking off his coat, has to remove waistcoat after waistcoat the same primitive device for provoking laughter that used to be permitted to the Second Gravedigger in * Hamlet,' and that probably was inherited by Moliere's play, as well as by Shakspere's, from some long-forgotten medieval farce. % The plot of the little piece is nothing; it is only an excuse for the talk of the two girls and of the two valets a conversation studded thick with all the affectations of the precieuses. But Moliere managed to avoid the chilliness of merely literary satire and to give his assault on pretension a varied and vivacious dramatic form, holding the eye as well as the ear. The little play has an essential struggle; its simple structure arouses the interest of expectancy; it is sustained by a conflict of contending desires; it presents that clash of character on character which is ever the core of comedy. Its theme is now outworn, for the literary fashions it satirized have long faded from memory, and the verbal eccentricities THE 'PRECIEUSES RIDICULES' 77 of the precieuses are absolutely unknown to the playgoer o"f~To-cfay7 Yet, after two centuries and a half, the fun Cf1S|olire's piece is almostjisfresh as ever; its aromlT is as pungent, and its gaiety is as irresistible. Even those who have never heard of the cotery Moliere held up to ridicule are now carried away by the contagion of laughter, by the high spirits, by Ae sheer fun of the modern per- formance. Of course, it^is byjjjdroll exaggeration that is almost caricature that Moliere made manifest the absurdities of those he was exposing to laughter. He drew in bold outline and he did not hesitate to lay on high color. After all, the 'Precieuses Ridicules' is only a farce just as the 'Comedy of Errors' is only a farce. It lacks the reserve and the sobriety, as it is also without the elevation and the largeness, of his later comedies. In this little piece Moliere revealed for the first time the union of his triple characteristics his dramaturgic dexterity, his inexhaust- ible humor, and his hearty detestation of pretense and [nsincerity. Although it was^oHIjTlTn outcropping that he had struck, it led to the vein of true comedy, and he had only to persevere to uncover the rich ore of the sterling plays that were to follow. He succeeded in putting into farce a veracity and a significance to which this humble form was unaccustomed; and thereafter his plays were to be as comic as this, but the best of them were to call forth a more thoughtful laughter. IV Although the vogue of the precieuses was passing and although the cotery was no longer sheltered in the Hotel de Rambouillet, its members were still alive, in cordial relation with the chief figures of contemporary literature, 78 MOLIERE and closely connected with people in power. It was a proof of Moliere' s daring that, even at the beginning of his career as a comic dramatist, he did not shrink from making enemies among the many friends of the precieuses. This was his earliest descent into the arena of contemporary society, where he was to fight valiantly against pretenders of all sorts; and it was by the 'Pre- cieuses Ridicules' that he began to arouse against him the malignant hostility which Was to pursue him to the grave. Any attack on the exaggerations and excrescences of a movement cannot fail to have the appearance of an assault on the movement itself, since contemporary opin- ion is rarely able to disentangle the essential from the non-essential. This Moliere could not help knowing; but it did not daunt him. Indeed, it is difficult to doubt /that he saw plainly what he was doing and that he was / well aware how his satire came home to the original "^ precieuses in Paris, even if it seemed to be aimed solely at their provincial copyists. It is true that in the apolo- getic preface to the play when he printed it, he took pains to explain that he had sought to keep within the bounds of permissible satire, asserting that the most perfect things are likely to have vicious imitators who have always ..been the fit prey for ridicule. He declared that the real precieuses had no right to take offense at his parody of N their extravagant imitators, any more than a truly brave man could properly resent the braggart coward who was a familiar figure in Italian comedy. But in spite of all this, we may be sure that Moliere, with his relish for simplicity and with his hatred of insincerity, had no real \ liking for even the least pretentious of the real precieuses. Their theory of literature was the antithesis of his; and so was their theory of life. He was willing enough to have THE 'PRECIEUSES RIDICULES' 79 them think that he was aiming only at the copyists; but he had no objection to see his shafts flesh themselves in the originals who stood within range. It is said that the whole cotery attended the first per- formance. One of the most sensible of them, Menage, declared that he took another of the group by the hand as they all came out of the theater and said that they had both of them approved the absurdities which had just been criticised so keenly and with such common sense, and that now, as St. Remi had said to Clovis, "We must burn what we have adored and adore what we have burnt." It is true that Menage did not put this remark on record until a third of a century later, a score of years after Moliere's death. It is true also that some other friend of the precieuses revealed immediate resentment and succeeded in having the little play prohibited at least for a fortnight. When its performance was again permitted, the rush to see it was so great that the com- pany took advantage of a custom of the time and doubled the prices of admission. It is asserted that the younger daughter of Madame de Rambouillet was always a partisan of Moliere's. That Madame de Rambouillet herself did not bear malice against him for his irreverent audacity, is proved by the fact that she invited him later to perform two of his plays at her own house. The scenery, the furniture and the properties needed for the proper representation of a play were then so simple that performances could easily be given in the residences of the dignitaries of the court on the nights when the company was not acting in the theater. Less than a year after the production of Moliere's little play, he was bidden to perform it before the young king. In his invaluable register La Grange records that the 8o MOLIERE 'Etourdi' and the 'Precieuses Ridicules' were acted at the Louvre before Mazarin, who was ill in his chair. "The king saw the comedy standing, incognito, leaning on the back of the cardinal's chair." And Louis XIV was so much pleased with the performance that he re- warded the company with three thousand livres, thus early testifying to his liking for Moliere, both as actor and as author. This regard may never have ripened into any real appreciation of Moliere' s genius; but the royal partiality was later to stand the dramatist in good stead when he ventured to deal with more dangerous themes. Every one knows, so Voltaire declared, that things of little value may make a success on the stage, although we should despise them in the study. The art of the dramatist does not lie wholly within the limits of literature ; and the immediate appeal of the playwright is to the eyes of the spectators and to the ears of the auditors in the playhouse itself. The dramatist is like the orator in that he is often satisfied by the success of this immediate appeal, and in that he cares little for the increase of fame which may result from the publishing of words composed to be spoken under special circumstances. Bossuet put into print only one of his powerful sermons; and both Lope de Vega and Calderon were almost as careless of purely literary reputation as Shakspere was. Moliere had the same feeling. He had not published any of his half-score of little farces; and he did not print either the 'Etourdi' or the 'Depit Amoureux' until several years afterward. He had no intention of issuing the 'Precieuses Ridicules' as a book. But his hand was THE 'PRECIEUSES RIDICULES' 81 forced by a piratical publisher who made ready a stolen opy of the piece; and in self-defense the author was obliged to give his little play to the press, if he wished to prevent its being misjudged by a mangled perversion. In the clever preface which he prepared for it, witty and easy in its modesty, he declared that it was a strange thing for a man to be printed, against his will. He asserted that he could not think ill of, his work now that it had been praised by many. But, he added, "as a large part of the charm which had been found in it depends on the action and on the tone of the voice, I was greatly con- cerned that it should not be deprived of these ornaments; and I found that the success it had had in the performance was quite enough for me to be satisfied with that." Whoever may have had the privilege of seeing Coquelin's performance of Mascarille in the 'Precieuses Ridicules' cannot fail to understand Moliere's feeling. Amusing as the play is in the library, it is far more amusing in the theater. Moliere had written the chief part for his own acting; and he had controlled and trained the other per- formers. Shakspere, also an actor, even if inferior to Moliere in histrionic equipment, shared Moliere' s belief that the true life of a play is in its performance and that any perusal can be little better than a betrayal at least we may assume that this was Shakspere' s opinion, from the fact that he took no trouble to have his tragedies and his comedies preserved in print. It is partly because they were both actors and because they both possessed a mastery of the allied art of the stage-manager, that Shakspere and Moliere reveal "the dramatic force that to-day animates their works," so Coquelin once asserted. "We feel that these plays were not written coldly in the silence of the closet, but thrown alive upon the stage. 82 MOLIERE This explains their indifference to the printing of their works. They did not recognize these on paper. 'Tar- tuffe' and 'Hamlet' existed for them only before the foot- lights. It was there only that they felt these plays to be bone of their bone and flesh of their flesh/' CHAPTER V FROM 'SGANAREI^LE' TO THE 'FACHEUX' I MOLIERE produced more than one new play by other authors, but few of them proved to be attractive to play- goers; and it was due solely to the success of his own comedies that the company was able to establish itself in rivalry with the two older organizations. Its membership remained substantially the same as it had been when it returned to Paris. La Grange had taken over the light- comedy parts previously acted by Louis Bejart, who had died just after the first performance of the 'Etourdi,' in which he had appeared as the blundering hero. Early in 1660 Jodelet also died; and his broadly comic char- acters were assumed by "Gros Rene" Du Pare, who returned to Moliere at Easter with his fascinating wife, after having spent a year at the Marais theater. Thus reinforced, the company was probably superior to either of its rivals; certainly it was incomparably better equipped for comedy, even if contemporary opinion continued to consider it inferior in tragedy. It was then the custom to bring out the more serious plays in winter, reserving the lighter pieces for the spring and summer; and in May, 1660, Moliere produced his fourth play, another one-act comedy, which is now generally known as ' Sganarelle,' the name of the character imper- sonated by Moliere himself. The piece is little more 83 84 MOLIERE than a farce, wholly without the richness of satire which almost raised the 'Precieuses Ridicules' to the loftier level of comedy. Its fun is the result of an artful yet arbitrary plot, not derived directly from any Italian play, but still retaining the rapid movement and the full color of the comedy-of-masks. Its scene is that customary in the Italian pieces an open street, with the house of Sganarelle on one side and on the other the house of Gorgibus. Moliere was never a slavish copyist of the Italians, though he borrowed from them the briskness of these earlier plays. Their actors clung each of them to a single figure, never appearing in any other part. But Moliere now changed from Mascarille to Sganarelle, as he was later to change to Scapin. Rather should it be said that after appearing as Mascarille in the 'Etourdi' and the 'Precieuses Ridicules' he returned to Sganarelle, which he had impersonated earlier in the little farce of the 'Medecin Volant.' The reason for the change is not easy to declare. It may be that, as he was now thirty-eight and not in the best health, he found the exuberant buoyancy of Mascarille too fatiguing. It may be that he was merely seeking for variety, fearing to weary his audiences by too insistent a reappearance of the same fixed type. It seems more likely, however, that he wanted a richer character for his own acting. Mascarille is the cleverest of intriguers; but he is only a deviser of tricks, the number of which is limited, whereas Sganarelle is a fool, and there is no end to the multiplicity of ways in which folly may be revealed. It must be noted also that Mascarille, however brilliant he might be, was always playing jokes on others; and on the stage it is not the victimizer but the victim, the butt, who has the broader scope for acting. FROM 'SGANARELLE' TO THE 'FACHEUX' 85 In this play Sganarelle is his own butt, the victim of his own blunders, led by chance to deceive himself into a belief in the infidelity of his wife. Gorgibus (whose function in this piece is very much what it had been in the 'Precieuses Ridicules,' merely to be a father) has a daughter Celie, who is in love with Lelie, characters not unlike those bearing the fame names in the 'Etourdi' another resemblance to the fixed types of the comedy-of- masks. Gorgibus tells his daughter that he wishes her to marry the son of an old friend. Celie is so overcome by this that she almost faints, dropping a portrait of Lelie. The wife of Sganarelle finds the picture and ad- | mires it, which leads her husband to believe that she is in love with the original. When Lelie comes on the stage, accompanied by his valet, Gros Rene, Sganarelle recog- nizes him and tells him that the woman who had possession of the portrait is Sganarelle' s wife, which makes the lover as angry as the husband is jealous. In time everybody is at cross-purposes, Sganarelle confirmed in his distrust of his wife, who is also suspicious of him, while Lelie and Celie are each of them convinced that they have been deceived in the other. And when Moliere has extracted all possible fun out of this prolonged equivoke, every- thing is swiftly made clear; the old friend of Gorgibus turns up at the right moment to explain that his son has contracted a secret marriage, whereupon Gorgibus promptly consents to the wedding of Celie and Lelie; and Sganarelle brings the piece to an end by warning all husbands not to be suspicious. * Sganarelle' is as unassuming as it is amusing; and it was long the most popular of all Moliere's plays, pro- voking continuous laughter, generation after generation. But except in a single particular it marks no advance on 86 MOLIERE Moliere's part. The plot is adroit yet artificial, the per- sonages are drawn in outline only, without subtlety or depth at least, with the sole exception of Sganarelle himself. In this character Moliere first undertook the analysis of a passion, the ugly passion of jealousy, which recurs again and again in his later plays. In this earliest attempt Moliere presents only the . more comic aspects of jealousy; yet the sufferings of Sganarelle are sincere, even if they are both needless and exaggerated. The spectators know that Sganarelle is foolishly self-deceived; they are aware that there is no solid foundation for his misery; they laugh at him abundantly and incessantly; and yet he wins something of their sympathy and he retains it in spite of his persistent folly. The laughter of the audience is aroused by character as well as by situation; and this is evidence that Moliere was making ready for his riper work. Yet there is in * Sganarelle' scarcely a suggestion of the deeper aspects of his humor and hardly a hint of the melancholy that underlay it. II Not long after 'Sganarelle' had strengthened the hold of Moliere's company on the Parisian playgoers, their career came near being cut short in spite of their pros- perity. They found themselves unexpectedly and un- ceremoniously turned out of the playhouse the king him- self had allotted to them. There had long been a project on hand for the reconstruction of the Louvre; and in October, 1660, without any warning, the royal superin- tendent of buildings began to tear down the theater of the Petit-Bourbon. There was neither reason for haste nor excuse for the discourtesy of not giving Moliere ample FROM 'SGANARELLE' TO THE TACHEUX' 87 time to make other arrangements. It is impossible not to suspect ill-will and an intention to inconvenience in this needlessly sudden dismantling of the playhouse assigned to Moliere and his comrades. Probably the court functionary was gratifying the grudge of officious friends of the pr'ecieuses or aiding the acute animosity of rival actors. Whatever the motive, this attempt to injure Moliere turned to his advantage. At the request of Monsieur, the patron of the company, Louis XIV graciously gave it permission to take possession of the theater in the Palais- Royal, the sumptuous hall built by Richelieu regardless of cost for the performance of 'Mirame/ the tragedy he had himself inspired. This theater, far more spacious than that in the Petit-Bourbon, had fallen out of repair; and the superintendent of the royal buildings was or- dered to make amends to Moliere by putting it in order as speedily as possible. The actors were allowed to remove from their old playhouse to their new home the boxes and other appurtenances necessary for their en- terprise. The repairs consumed three months, during which time the company was deprived of its domicile. It made out as best it could, giving many performances before the king and in the private houses of the nobility; but this must have been a period of perplexity and impoverish- ment, since the company had to forego its regular takings at the door. Its members received flattering proposals to desert to one or the other of the older organizations, that at the Marais and that at the Hotel de Bourgogne; but their loyalty to their leader led them to decline these offers. The devoted La Grange recorded in his register the result of these maneuvers: "The whole company kept MOLIERE )gether; all the actors loved the Sieur de Moliere, their chief, who united to an extraordinary merit and capacity, an honesty and an engaging manner which compelled them all to protest to him that they wished to share his fortune and that they would never quit him, whatever proposal might be made to them and whatever advantages they could find elsewhere." It is touching to find this heartfelt appreciation in what is really a day-book, in- tended mainly for the recording of receipts and profits. Only in January, 1661, was the company able to give its first performance in the Palais-Royal. It began with a double bill, composed of two of Moliere' s comedies, the ever-popular 'Depit Amoureux' followed by the more novel ' Sganarelle. ' The spaciousness of the theater where Moliere was to act during the remaining twelve years of his life can be gaged by the fact that it was to shelter the Opera for a century after Moliere's death. The hall was a double square, a little more than fifty feet wide and a little more than a hundred feet long. There were two galleries on each side, one above the other. The level space immediately in front of the stage was called the parterre, where some three hundred spectators could find standing room. Behind the parterre the floor rose, step by step; and it had benches running in straight lines from one side-wall to the other. The house was very badly lighted, both before and behind the curtains. Tallow candles were the sole means of illumination; and they had to be snuffed frequently during the performances. There were no footlights; in their stead were chande- liers suspended a foot or so above the heads of the actors, upon whom awkward shadows must have been cast. With the stage in semi-darkness and without the aid of the modern opera-glass it was not easy to follow the FROM 'SGANARELLE' TO THE TACHEUX' 89 changing expression on the faces of the performers. Most of the fourteen or fifteen hundred spectators must have strained their eyes in vain. Probably this is one reason why the lovers of acting liked the privilege of sitting on the stage, for which a higher price was charged. The straw chairs of these intruding spectators filled the two sides of the stage for perhaps fifteen feet back of the curtain. As the scenery immediately behind them could never be used, since they blocked all approach to it, it seems probable that the first and second wings were permanent and purely architectural in character, con- tinuations of the proscenium arch. If this was so, the scenery appropriate to the play which was being per- formed would extend from the third wing to the back- cloth. The actors were expected to come forward into the neutral ground between the two groups of spectators on the sides of the stage and to play the more important scenes of the comedy as close to the chandeliers as possible. This practice prevented the playwright from relying on properties or on furniture. It deprived him of the pos- sibility of relating character to environment in the mod- ern fashion. And it exerted a constant pressure on the dramatist to subordinate essential action to mere con- versation. The audience was supposed not to see the spectators on the stage just as the Japanese playgoer of to-day disregards the silent attendants clad in black who steal forward to tidy up and to hand whatever the performers may require. But in Paris in Moliere's time, as in Lon- don in Shakspere's, this theatrical convention was rudely broken when these spectators on the stage talked to each other so loudly that the leading actor had to interrupt the play to call them to order. Nor was disorder confined QO MOLIERE to those sitting behind the curtain; often it extended to those who had to stand in the parterre. It was long after Moliere's death before every spectator was provided with a seat, thus avoiding the occasional disturbance always likely to occur when men are kept standing for two or three hours, jostling each other in the effort to see and to hear. Ill All these earlier plays of Moliere were tentative; and we can now perceive that he was feeling his way a little doubtfully to a larger and nobler form of comedy, for which he had no model in any modern literature or even in the classics. And then he turned from the Italians fto the Spaniards. Corneille and Scarron had received inspiration from the playwrights of the more western peninsula; and Spain was once more in fashion at the court, since the king had just married a Spanish wife. A company of Spanish actors had recently arrived and had played both before the king and at the Petit-Bourbon. The younger Corneille was pleasing the public with tragi-comedies often Spanish in origin and generally Spanish in flavor. So in February, 1661, Moliere brought out 'Don Garcie, ou le Prince Jaloux,' which he called a heroic-comedy, but which really belongs to the hybrid type known as tragi-comedy, a drama with a serious plot and yet a happy ending. 'Don Garcie' is a long-drawn piece in five acts, in polished verse, setting forth the transports of the hero's self-deceived and self-torturing jealousy, rendered with acute insight into his sufferings. But the story is thin and strained, dealing as it does with Don Garcie's suspicion of a woman in male attire and with a supposed rival FROM 'SGANARELLE' TO THE TACHEUX' 91 turning out to be the heroine's brother. There is warm and genuine feeling beneath the sonorous declamation, phrased in the frigid vocabulary of contemporary gal- lantry, and there is subtle analysis of sentiment. But Moliere did not display here the lyricism demanded by a drama of this kind. His genius could flower abundantly only when it had its roots in reality; and tragi-comedy, however highly colored it might be, was an orchid. He was not at ease in the exalted artificial fictions which lesser men could handle more profitably. He needed the con- crete, the close grip on life as he saw it with his own eyes, keen to pierce below the surface. At his best he was not a lyric poet, but a burgher of Paris, dealing with the problems of life and character in straightforward fashion, sincerely and directly. Every one of us is necessarily, even if unconsciously, either a Platonist or an Aristotelian, an idealist or a realist. It is true that an idealist, with a firm hold on things as they are, is separated by no wide gulf from a realist, who has a deep appreciation of the mysteries of existence; and yet the gulf is ever too broad to be bridged. Moliere, beyond all question, was a realist, however much he may have brooded over the darker aspects of humanity. Al- though he could lift himself far above the externals of every-day life he was not essentially lyric; in fact, he could not fail to feel a certain distrust of the lyric mood with its basis of overt self-expression and excessive individualism. He was not only a realist, he was a humorist above all else, perhaps the greatest of modern humorists; and 'Don Garcie' is almost barren of laughter. In composing that heroic-comedy Moliere entered a blind alley; perhaps it was fortunate for him that the piece did not please, for the failure forced him back into the straight road that was to 92 MOLIERE lead to his comic masterpieces. It was his first disaster; and it was to be his last. That it did not please the public is proved by its with- drawal after only seven performances. That Moliere took this hard and hoped in vain for a reversal of the verdict is revealed by his presenting the play the next year before the king, and the year after before Conde, and again before the king, and by his attempting to revive it at the Palais-Royal in 1663, when he had to withdraw it finally after the second performance. Then he gave up the fight and accepted the decision. He did not publish the play, although he had taken out a permission to print it. He put it away; and when the public had completely forgotten it and nothing slips from men's memories more swiftly than an unsuccessful drama- he went back to it for passages which he was able to utilize in later comedies, notably in the ' Misanthrope/ It must be recorded also that 'Don Garcie' was for i Moliere a double failure as an actor as well as an author. He had written the chief part for himself; and perhaps his success in portraying the jealousy of Sganarelle may have led him to believe that he would be favorably received when he depicted the jealousy of Don Garcie. But if this had been his calculation it was an error, for, although Sganarelle must be acted with intense seriousness if it is to be effective, the result is intentionally comic; whereas the appeal of Don Garcie is solely to the sympathy of the spectators, and even a hint of laughter would be fatal. .Probably also this first appearance of Moliere in a serious part in one of his own plays disappointed the audiences he had trained to smile as soon as he showed his face on the stage. Only by successive steps can an actor long welcomed as a laugh-maker get the playgoers to accept FROM 'SGANARELLE' TO THE 'FACHEUX' 93 him in more heroic characters; and Moliere's change from the comic to the serious was too sudden not to be dis- concerting. Moreover, Moliere as an actor strove always to be simple and natural and to avoid the over-emphasis and mouthing to which the tragedians of his time were accustomed. But if he applied his theory severely in his own acting of Don Garcie, he was violating the sound principle that every play must be presented in accord with its spirit. 'Don Garcie' itself is not simple and natural; it demanded a bravura method of acting, a more flamboyant manner than Moliere was probably willing to give it. IV In spite of Moliere's disappointment at the failure of his tragi-comedy he was not discouraged; he soon made ready another piece more in accord with the anticipations and preferences of his audiences. The 'Ecole des Maris/ a three act comedy in verse, brought out in June, 1661, met with instant success and it has retained its popularity to this day. It was frankly comic and it contained a frankly comic character for his own acting. The story ;is original, although he made use of hints from Boccaccio |and perhaps also from Lope de Vega. The plots of Moliere's own devising are generally better than those he borrowed easier in their construction, and without the stiffness sometimes retained in those he took over ready-made. In this *play he availed himself also of a suggestion which he found in Terence, who had derived it from Menander the contrast of two brothers bringing up two wards, boys in the Latin comedy, girls in the French. Moliere had studied Terence at school just 94 MOLIERE as Shakspere had possibly read Seneca at Stratford; he may have even taken part in a performance of the 'Adelphi' when he was a pupil of the Jesuits. The impression made upon him by his study of Plautus and Terence is as evident in certain of his later plays as the influence of the Italian improvisers upon his earlier pieces. Original as it is in plot, the 'Ecole des Maris' is cast in the familiar form of the comedy-of-masks, with its fixed types, the lover and his valet, the pair of pretty girls, and the outspoken serving-maid a figure Moliere was often to employ again. He appeared himself as Sgan- arelle, for the second time, modifying the character to suit the new story, just as Mascarille had been modified a little to play his part in the 'Precieuses Ridicules/ So Falstaff is somewhat changed to fit into the intrigue of the 'Merry Wives'; and so Creon differs in the several plays of Sophocles in which he appears. One character only, Ariste, the elder and more tolerant brother of Sganarelle, \ has no relation to any of the fixed types of the Italians. Ariste is a burgher of Paris, the earliest of those embodi- ments of sturdy common sense whom Moliere was fre- quently thereafter to introduce into his plays, to serve i on occasion as the mouthpiece of his own sentiments and to afford a contrast to the more violent opinions voiced by the more strongly marked humorous characters. Ariste is an example of that burgher sobriety which Moliere knew intimately from his youth up and which supplied France with administrators like Colbert and with poets like Boileau, La Fontaine and Racine. It is in this bur-- gher class that Moliere now began to seek subjects for comedy, reserving always the right to return to the large liberty of the comedy-of-masks whenever he was moved to compose a play intended chiefly to provoke laughter. FROM 'SGANARELLE' TO THE TACHEUX' 95 Even Sganarelle becomes more than the fixed type of the Italianate pieces; he is enriched by characteristics which relate him to his own class in Paris. The 'Ecole des Maris ' is only a comedy of intrigue, yet it is almost a comedy of character. In fact, it might even be termed a problem-play, for in spite of its gaiety, its cheerfulness, its optimism, its healthy fun-making, it conveys its lesson, and the laughter it arouses leads to thought. Two theories of education are set over against each other; and their logical consequences are shown. Ariste and Sganarelle are the guardians of two sisters, and each of them wishes to marry his young ward. Ariste tries to win the love of Leonor by liberality of treatment; and he is rewarded by her affectionate regard. Sganarelle is narrow and hard and masterful; he is already a domestic tyrant; and Isabelle resents his domineering selfishness. With ingen- uous ingenuity she encourages a younger lover; and it must be confessed that, absurd and odious as Sganarelle may be, Isabelle is not an entirely agreeable figure; she is too forward, too sly, too ready to fall into the arms of a lover whom she really does not know. A little more, and we might be tempted to dismiss her as no better than a flirtatious minx. As it is, she disguises herself as her sister and tricks her guardian into consenting to her wedding with Valere, making Sganarelle believe that he is aiding the elopement of Leonor. Voltaire was only just in praising the way in which Moliere winds up this play, as "probable, natural, developed out of the plot, and what is even better, extremely comic." The 'Ecole des Maris' has not only the fixed types of the comedy-of-masks, but also the customary public square for the single scene needed by its three acts, with the house of Sganarelle on one side and that of Valere 96 MOLIERE on the other. It is here outdoors that Ariste and Sgan- arelle discuss their theories of education, and that Sgan- arelle and Isabelle talk over their private affairs. This open square that Moliere took from the Italians (as they had taken it from Latin comedy, which had inherited it from the Greek) was a most convenient convention for the comic playwright. Moliere was in time to learn how to forego its aid; but without it the plot of the ' Ecole des Maris' would have needed to be handled in very different fashion. In this comedy we see him using the framework and the fixed types of the Italians for a sincere portrayal of the manners and the people of his own time. He made a more or less farcical complication carry social criticism, vivid and veracious; and by so doing he took a long step in advance, allowing us already to foresee the day when he could afford to do without the devices of the Italians, from whom he had learnt how to give his earlier pieces the bustling animation the ordinary play- goer always delights in. It was not for the ordinary playgoer that Moliere pre- pared his next play, but for the king. Early in 1661 Mazarin had died; and Louis XIV was at last free to rule France according to his pleasure. Firmly resolved never to submit himself again to the control of any single minister, he had taken the reins of government into his own hands. The foremost of the cardinal's assistants in administration was Fouquet, superintendent of the finances, \vhose pockets were full to overflowing even when the coffers of the state were empty. Colbert had no difficulty in arousing the king's suspicion as to the source of Fouquet's wealth; and the superintendent began to FROM 'SGANARELLE' TO THE TACHEUX' 97 feel that his position was insecure. In the misguided hope of retaining the royal favor, the ill-advised official invited the monarch to visit his palatial residence at Vaux, where he provided an entertainment of the utmost luxury and prodigality. This ostentatious magnificence so out- raged the young sovereign that he was tempted to order Fouquet's arrest in the midst of the feast. Summary punishment was delayed only a few days; and the man who had misadministered the finances of France spent the remaining years of his life in confinement. The young king was already known to delight in every form of theatrical entertainment; and Fouquet did not fail to supply actors and dancers who were to appear together in a comedy-ballet, a hybrid form not unlike the English masque, but perhaps a little less elaborate. Mo- \ Here was called upon to devise a plot which would permit the frequent appearance of a group of dancers; and he had only a fortnight's notice in which to improvise his play. He worked against time and he was ready to the minute; and on August twenty-seventh the 'Facheux' was acted in the gardens of Vaux. Never did Moliere display his sheer cleverness more adroitly or more abun- dantly than in this three act comedy in verse, written to order and written in haste. He made a virtue of necessity and chose the*simplest of themes, which lent itself to the presentation of a series of contrasting characters. An ardent young lover, played by La Grange, is shown trying to get speech with his mistress; and his attempts to ap- proach her are thwarted and his interviews with her are interrupted by a succession of bores, who thrust them- selves upon him, each of them insisting upon the lover's attention while he talks about his own affairs with a prolixity which is as exasperating to the hero as it is amus- 98 MOLIERE ing to the spectators. Three of these obtruding characters were undertaken by Moliere himself, one in each act, allowing him to display his histrionic versatility. Even in the intermission between the acts the unfor- tunate lover was not left in peace, since it was then the turn of the dancers who came on as gardeners, as cobblers, as players of bowls, and who kept on getting in his way, forcing him to join in their sports, and preventing him from overtaking his lady-love. Dancing did not then demand the terpsichorean agility expected in the theater to-day. There was no sharp difference between the dan- cing of the drawing-room and the dancing of the stage. Dancing then consisted of a series of rhythmic and stately movements to music, steps and gestures in unison, by groups suitably attired. It was closely akin to the court- quadrille and the minuet; and it was possible to amateurs. In fact the class of professional dancers could then scarcely be said to exist; and those who took part in the ballet at Vaux were probably the dancing-masters of Paris. Moliere was always willing enough to borrow a plot (r a form suitable for his immediate purpose; but he ! 'was also fertile in finding new forms and in composing new plots. In the 'Facheux' he produced a play of a species never before seen on the stage. This unpretend- ing piece, little more than a succession of episodic scenes, has a backbone of its own; it has the contrast and conflict of character which comedy calls for. Its separate in- cidents may have each of them a likeness to the self- revelatory monologue long popular in the Middle Ages; but there was unexpected novelty and unusual daring in presenting to the assembled courtiers a series of sharply etched portraits of their own class, bores of high degree, caught in the act and held up to laughter. Here was FROM 'SGANARELLE' TO THE 'FACHEUX' 99 social satire brought home to the court itself, light yet firm, delicate yet vigorous. The production of the 'Fa- cheux' marks another stride toward the high comedy that Moliere was to attain in due season. The little play pleased the king, who took occasion to present the author to a courtier renowned for long tales of his own prowess in the hunting-field; and the monarch slyly suggested that here was an original the satirist had overlooked. The playwright was prompt to take the royal hint; and when the 'Facheux' was again adted before Louis XIV at Fontainebleau a few days later, the gallery of bores had gained another portrait, for which Moliere thanked the king in the neatly turned preface he put to the play when he published it. Here is yet another similarity of Moliere's career to Shakspere's, in that they both had royal collaborators if it is true that the exciting cause of the 'Merry Wives' was the desire of Elizabeth to see "the fat knight in love." The 'Facheux' was the first play that Moliere had written specially for the king; and in the following No- vember he brought it out at the Palais-Royal, ballets and all, so that the ordinary playgoers might profit by what had been prepared for the court. Slight as it was in its texture, it hit the taste of the town. Perhaps at first there was chiefly an interest of curiosity to gaze at an entertain- ment devised for royalty. Perhaps there was also a satisfaction in seeing the courtiers themselves exposed to ridicule. Yet the little play proved to have merits of its own, and it held the stage for sixty or seventy years. It was profitable to the company; and it was profitable to Moliere himself in that it brought him into closer relation with Louis XIV, whose support was to be necessary for his full expansion as a dramatist. CHAPTER VI HIS FRIENDSHIPS AND HIS MARRIAGE MOLIERE had now attained the age of forty; and his outlook on the future was brighter than ever before. After long years of wandering and experiment he had come into his own. He had not yet revealed the full possibilities of his gift as a dramatist; and probably very few of his contemporaries in Paris so much as suspected that he was a genius just as very few of Shakspere's asso- ciates in London had any intimation that he was to be revered later as the chief glory of Elizabethan literature. Very likely Moliere had himself no inkling as yet of the heights to which he was soon to climb. In all prob- ability he was for the moment well enough satisfied with what he had already accomplished. He was recognized as the foremost comic actor of his time; his enemies even liked to suggest that his plays were in themselves poor things made acceptable only by his own surpassing skill as a comedian. He was the manager of a prosperous theatrical enterprise; and the men and women of the company were loyal and grateful. He had brought out in Paris, within three years, a series of six successful plays, interrupted only by one swift failure, speedily for- gotten. He was already gathering about him a circle of 100 HIS FRIENDSHIPS AND HIS MARRIAGE 101 friends, worthy companions of his leisure hours. And he was at last looking forward to a marriage with one whom he had long cherished. In 1661, at Easter, when the company held its annual meeting to plan for the next sea- son and to engage new actors, he had asked his associates to allot him a double share of the receipts, this second share being "for himself or for his wife, if he should marry." He seems to have been on excellent terms with his father. His younger brother, also named Jean, had died in April, 1660; and in time the reversion of the royal appointment as valet de chambre tapissier, which Moliere had ceded back to his father, when he first went on the stage, was again confirmed to him. A few years later we shall find him lending money to his father, whose business was apparently less prosperous, although he had as customers many of the best people in Paris; and it y was characteristic of Moliere's thoughtful kindliness that this loan was made through a third person, so that the elder Poquelin might not know to whom he was indebted. What his relations were with his married sister we have now no information; but she survived only until 1665. Among his intimate friends were not a few of the most interesting figures of Louis XIV's reign. Chapelle he ^ had met in his youth; and the intimacy was promptly renewed on his return to the capital. During the wander- ings in the south he had become acquainted with Mignard, who was the foremost French painter of his time. The earliest of the new friends he made in Paris was La Fon- taine, who was always hearty in his regard for the man, and cordial as well as keen in his appreciation of the author. Even as early as the performance of the ' Facheux ' at Vaux for Fouquet, La Fontaine was outspoken in his praise, declaring that Moliere is "the man for me," com- 102 MOLIERE paring him with Terence and preferring him to Plautus. This high opinion grew with the years; and after Moliere' s death La Fontaine wrote an epitaph asserting that Moliere was the equal of Plautus and of Terence put together. Perhaps the author of the incomparable 'Fables' was the earliest of all to catch a glimpse of the genius of the au- thor of the 'Misanthrope.' It may have been through La Fontaine that Moliere was first brought into contact with Boileau, who became one of his best friends and who had many tastes in com- mon with him. There are no more typical French authors than Boileau the critic and Moliere the comic dramatist. They had the same intense relish for veracity and the same disgust for the unreal, the inflated and the exaggerated. They had neither of them any liking for excessive roman- ticism or for vulgar burlesque. What Moliere had already done in the drama and what he was to do, were precisely what Boileau was best fitted to enjoy. What Boileau attacked in his satires was what Moliere naturally de- tested and what he was likely himself to assail on occasion. Both of them recognized the importance of the social bond and distrusted excessive individuality. They both sought to set forth a general view of. life, rather than a particu- lar view. They both had a high regard for reality and sobriety, for balance and order and proportion. Nisard insisted that the dominant quality of French literature is its imposing on the individual writer the duty of acting as the organ of the general thought. Every literature, like every language, reveals the characteristics of the race, of which it is the richest expression; but no literature and no language does this more completely than French. The literature of France is not lyrical; it is not ethereal; it is rarely emotional, except in its moral HIS FRIENDSHIPS AND HIS MARRIAGE 103 or esthetic fervor; it is preeminently practical, with little tendency toward romanticist exuberance. Of this national type, Boileau is the exponent in criticism and Moliere in creation; they are the foremost representatives of these essential French characteristics. There is no reason for wonder that as soon as they met they understood and appreciated each other. They had the same foes and they fought side by side against pretenders of all sorts. For a season or two the young Racine made a fourth with Moliere and Boileau and La Fontaine; and the fabulist has left a record of their cheerful gatherings, a mutual admiration society, richer in genius than that earlier circle to which Vergil and Horace belonged. The four poets talked chiefly about the technicalities of their art, as artists are wont to do whenever they meet together with no alien spirits to misunderstand them. Different as they were in character and in conduct, they were united in holding the same artistic ideals. They were all lovers of veracity, of fidelity to nature as they severally saw it, of integrity in craftsmanship. They all accepted the code that Boileau was soon to declare in his 'Art of Poetry/ which may be regarded as the outcome and the summing up of their fraternal discussions. The ambitious young Racine could not fail to profit by the privilege of analyz- ing the technic of playmaking, the same in tragedy as in comedy, with Moliere, who was master of all its secrets. It was Moliere the manager who a little later ac- cepted and produced the first play that Racine wrote, and who also brought out the second tragedy 'Alexandre/ the earliest in which the young poet really revealed his great gifts. And Moliere was repaid with ingratitude, since Racine, disappointed at the acting of the Palais-Royal company, better fitted for representing comic themes than io 4 MOLIERE tragic, surreptitiously took his play to the company at the Hotel de Bourgogne, where it was performed more to his satisfaction. According to the usage of the time, this was not illegal; but it was a breach of custom as it was a breach of faith. It interrupted the friendship of the two dramatists, although Boileau managed to keep on good terms with both of them. Not long after, Racine again added to his ingratitude by persuading Mademoiselle Du Pare and her husband "Gros-Rene" to desert from Moliere' s company and to join that at the Hotel de Bour- gogne, to which he continued to give his plays. It is impossible not to find a narrow selfishness in these ma- neuvers of Racine, in marked contrast with the kindly generosity and the punctilious delicacy which always characterized Moliere' s conduct. II It was not only with his fellow poets that Moliere made friends, now that he was settled in the capital; he won the esteem also of certain of the foremost men of France. During his strolling in the south he had been on terms of intimacy with the Prince of Conti, who delighted in having him at his table and in discussing with him the affairs of the day. In Paris, Moliere came in time to be honored with the regard of Conti's elder brother, the great Conde, who found it easy to bridge the gap that separated a comic actor from a prince of the blood. Conde appreciated the simple dignity of Moliere's character, as he enjoyed the full humor of Moliere's plays. He was glad to have Moliere with him and to engage in familiar conversation with a man who might think in- dependently, but who never forgot the respect due to rank. HIS FRIENDSHIPS AND HIS MARRIAGE 105 Grimarest went so far as to assert that Conde Moliere to drop in whenever he had a spare hour: "just send up your name by a servant, and I will leave every- thing to be with you." With his social superiors, as with his social equals, Moliere was always simple and sincere, never self-asser- tive and never obsequious. He bore himself in manly fashion whether he was addressing Conde and the king himself, or whether he was talking shop with Boileau and La Fontaine. He was a stanch friend and a charming companion, loyal and broad-minded as a man, just as he was as an author. When he chose he could be a delight- ful talker; but more often he kept silent, listening intently, watching the several speakers, and storing up observa- tions of human nature. It was Boileau who, noticing this tendency to taciturnity, called Moliere "the con- templator." Shakspere also was good company and was highly esteemed by his many friends, who failed to suspect his overwhelming superiority. And Sainte-Beuve has dwelt on the curious fact that Shakspere, the tragic dramatist, seems to have been of a jovial temperament, taking life easily and lightly, so far as we know; whereas Moliere, the comic dramatist, was rather melancholy in his disposition, given to silent brooding, although always finding pleasure in the society of his friends. Moliere was fond of good cheer as well as of good company. Several of those who were entertained by him in the later and more prosperous years of his wandering in the provinces, have recorded their appreciation of his hospitality and have testified to the abundance of his table. After his return to Paris and after the success of the company had given him ample means to gratify his wishes, he was glad to gather his friends about him io6 MOLIERE and to treat them sumptuously. He lived largely and liberally. The inventory of his household goods dis- closed a home of more than comfortable ease, almost of luxury, with abundant plate and linen and with a few pictures. Yet he was always abstemious himself; and no floating anecdote charges him with any undue indulgence in meat and drink, like that carouse with Ben Jonson which is said to have carried off Shakspere. Long before his early death his health was so enfeebled that he had to put himself on a milk diet. But even then he freely spread before his friends the creature comforts he had to deny to himself. Conde was not the only one of the chief figures of the court with whom Moliere had the friendliest relations. Another was the Marshal de Vivonne, who was also an intimate of Boileau. Later the austere Marquis de Montausier was pleased to make advances to him. Some of these noble friends invited him to their own tables; others accepted his hospitality at one or another of the taverns where it was then, as it is now, fashionable to entertain more liberally than one's own home might permit. Moliere was no parasite, content to accept without giving. He was prompt in returning the courte- sies he had received; and many of the most interesting men of France were glad to be his guests. And yet a man of forty, however rich in friends and however absorbed in incessant labor in two different arts, may be lonely at his own fireside and may long for the companionship of a wife. That Moliere felt this is shown by the fact that he married not long after he had pro- duced the 'Ecole des Maris' and not long before he brought out the 'Ecole des Femmes/ MO LI ERE From a photograph by Hraun Clement & Co. of the painting by Mignard, in the Musee de Chantilly HIS FRIENDSHIPS AND HIS MARRIAGE 107 III In the marriage-contract the bride is called Armande Bejart, daughter of Marie Herve, widow of Joseph Bejart. She was therefore the sister of Moliere's old companion, Madeleine Bejart, and of the three other Bejarts who were, or who had been, members of the company. At- tempts have been made to maintain that she was not really the daughter of Marie Bejart, but her granddaughter, the second child of Madeleine. The evidence adduced in support of this contention is very flimsy; it is wholly circumstantial; and it has as its foundation only casual gossip. There is no real reason for disbelieving the various legal documents which declare her parentage. She was a woman of unusual charm if not of unusual beauty; and she became a very popular actress. From one cause or another she aroused bitter enmity; and a quarter of a century after her marriage and long after the death of Moliere and her own remarriage, she was the victim of an atrocious libel, purporting to set forth her intrigues a libel of a type not uncommon in the later history of the theater. The anonymous book in which she is insulted is absolutely untrustworthy; many of its specific assertions have been shown to be contrary to fact; and it may be dismissed as inspired by malignant envy. It deserves no credence; and yet it has stained her fame and even cast a shadow on the glory of Moliere. And when all is said, she remains an enigmatic figure, not easy to portray. At the time of her marriage she was scant twenty years of age, having been born after Moliere went on the stage and before he began his strolling with Madeleine Bejart and her brothers. Apparently she was the favorite sister of Madeleine, who was later to leave her the most of her io8 MOLIERE fortune. The elder sister may have undertaken to bring up the younger; but we do not know whether Armande's childhood was spent with her mother in Paris or with her brothers and sisters when they were wandering through the south. We have no information as to her education. She had a pleasing voice, singing charmingly both in French and in Italian, so that she could probably speak at least one other language. It is possible that Moliere had seen her grow to girlhood and that he had himself attended to her instruction. He was on the most intimate terms with the whole family, making his home in Paris with her mother and her sisters. After they had settled again in the capital she had flowered into womanhood under his eyes and perhaps under his care. She was not strictly beautiful, for her eyes were too small and her mouth was too large. But she was un- deniably fascinating; and there can be no doubt that Moliere was passionately in love with her. That she returned his ardent affection is unlikely. He was twice her age; and a man of forty was held to be far older then than he is now, as we can discover by a study of Moliere' s own comedies. He was not good-looking at lea^t he could not be accepted as distinguished for manly beauty. He was melancholy always, often moody, and even on occa- sion abrupt. He was very busy, being the manager of the theater and the stage-manager of the company, incessantly painstaking in his efforts to have his plays performed as he had conceived them. He was absorbed in his work as a dramatist, having to please both the king and the playgoers of Paris. There is no reason to suppose that this girl of twenty was competent to appreciate him. In other words, she was the ordinary wife of an extraordinary man, the commonplace companion of a genius. HIS FRIENDSHIPS AND HIS MARRIAGE 109 Even if she felt no romantic attraction toward him, she may well have liked him, respected him and admired him. There is no reason to suppose that the marriage was other than welcome to her. Many a girl of twenty has been willing enough to marry a man of forty. And to wed Moliere was for her a brilliant match. He was the most popular of actors; he was the most successful of comic dramatists; he was the skilful manager of a theater which he had established in the favor of the people. He was the friend of men of letters and of courtiers; he was encouraged by the king and in close relation to the court. He was making money, and he was living almost luxuri- ously. He could provide her with the appropriate back- ground that a pretty girl longs for. Above all, he could give her a prominent position in the theater, for the wife of the manager who is also the chief author is not likely to be put off with bad parts. Whatever histrionic ability she might be endowed with was certain to be en- couraged and displayed by an incomparable trainer. Coquettish certainly and possibly a little flirtatious also, the stage would bring her the abundant admira- tion she delighted in. Young and gay, light-hearted and perhaps even light-headed, the stage-door was to be the portal of the realm wherein she might parade that original and excellent taste in dress which was to make her an innovator in fashions, often followed by the great ladies of the court. Since her sisters and her brothers had won success on the stage, she might well look forward to theatrical triumphs of her own. And this hope was abundantly justified. Although she had apparently never before appeared as an actress, she developed rapidly under her husband's guidance. Her native endowment must have been ample; and she was intelligent enough and no MOLIERE docile enough to profit by Moliere's instruction. For her he composed a series of characters, which called for un- deniable versatility and which were fashioned to reveal the capabilities perceived by the keen and loving eyes of her husband. She became an incomparably brilliant ac- tress of the most difficult characters in high comedy. She revealed herself capable of rising to any height of histrionic achievement which Moliere pointed out to her. She was equally effective in the keen-witted and hard- hearted coquettes and in the women of a gentler type, endowed with tenderness and delicacy. Not a few of Moliere's biographers have seen fit to identify her with one or more of the characters that her husband devised for her acting, finding warrant for this in La Grange's assertion that Moliere often put himself into his plays and those closest to him. No doubt, it is possible now and again to suspect that this passage or that in one play or another may have derived its piquancy or its poignancy from the poet's own experience or even from his own sufferings. But this is always a most dangerous pastime, likely to lead us astray, since the playwright is never a lyric poet dissecting his own soul; he is and he must be always a dramatist, making his characters speak out of the fulness of their own hearts. Moreover certain of these critics have chosen to identify Moliere's wife only with the repellent characters he caused her to impersonate, and have refused to see her in the more attractive figures which make up the majority of her parts in his plays. It is true that she appeared as the unworthy heroine of the 'Misanthrope' and as the worthless wife in 'Georges Dandin'; but it is also true that he confided to her sympathetic and estimable charac- ters to portray in 'Tartuffe' and the 'Femmes Savantes,' HIS FRIENDSHIPS AND HIS MARRIAGE in in the ' Bourgeois Gentilhomme ' and in the 'Malade Imaginaire.' There is no justice in seeking to discover the real woman behind the character entrusted to the actress in the one set of comedies any more than in the other. It is safer to believe that Moliere, in writing parts for his wife, sought to provide her with characters which would enable her to display her varied charm, her contrasting qualities, her versatility. Like every other dramatist, he made his profit out of the manifold capacities of the actors and actresses for whom he was composing his plays; he gave them the parts he believed they could act most effectively, wasting no thought on the actual per- sonality of any one of them, but keeping in mind only his or her histrionic equipment. The marriage of a man of Moliere's years and of Mo- liere's temperament with a girl like Armande Bejart con- tained small chance of happiness for either of them. Yet there is little reason to suppose that it was more unhappy than might have been predicted. It was probably not any more unfortunate in its consequences than the mar- riages of Shakspere, of Milton and of Goethe. There is no valid evidence in support of the graver accusations brought against his wife. She was probably avid of admiration, and he was certainly of a jealous disposition; and this unworthy passion appears as the mainspring of the action in play after play of his. Naturally enough, his enemies, perceiving this weak point in his character, tried to hurt him by assailing his wife. Very likely he was acutely conscious of the differences in their ages. The time came when their incompatibility was manifest to both of them; and for a season they separated, only to come together again a little while before his fatal seizure. She bore him three children, of whom only a daughter ii2 MOLIERE survived him. At the time of his death she behaved with courage and with dignity. A few years later she married again; and she seems to have been a good wife to this second husband. She came out triumphant from a scandal which involved her reputation and which was a curious anticipation of the affair of the diamond necklace that came near compromising Marie Antoinette. She had one son by her second marriage; and he testified that she brought him up to revere the name of Moliere. The marriage-contract was signed on January twenty- third, 1662, with Moliere' s father as one of the witnesses; and the wedding took place on February twentieth. Moliere with his customary liberality shared his goods with his bride and allotted to her a dowry of four thousand livres. The young wife took her place at once in the company which her husband was managing. She was called Mademoiselle Moliere "Madame" being then reserved for persons of quality. She was a novice, with no theatrical experience; at least, there is no record of her ever having appeared on the stage. And there was no part for her in the new play which her husband was soon to produce, the 'Ecole des Femmes,' although it is not difficult to detect in that comedy the result of Moliere' s preoccupations at the moment of its composition. CHAPTER VII THE 'ECOLE DES FEMMES' AND ITS SEQUELS I IT was in the final week of 1662 that Moliere brought out the 'Ecole des Femmes,' a comedy in five acts in verse. Although he was later to produce as many as three plays in a single year, he had allowed an interval of fifteen months to elapse since his preceding pice. But these were the months of his courtship and of his honeymoon; and he may well have found more satisfaction in the society of Armande than in sitting solitary at his desk. And when the new play did come into being at last, it brought with it something of the springtime aroma of that happy season. It is full of zest and verve, full of sympathy for young love, and full of gaiety a contagious gaiety which won for it at once a popularity unequalled by any of the earlier pieces, successful as they had been each in its own way. With our completer knowledge of Moliere' s later work we may persuade ourselves, if we please, that we can perceive in these earlier pieces the promise that he actually fulfilled; but we have no right to be surprised that his contemporaries could not perceive this and that they still thought of him as a writer of amusing farces. He had displayed adroitness and resourcefulness as a playmaker; he had revealed himself as a humorist with unfailing "3 ii 4 MOLIERE facility in touching the springs of mirth; and once, at least, in the ''Precieuses Ridicules/ he had shown his ability to depict contemporary society. Yet not even the keenest and friendliest of his contemporaries could find warrant in what he had already done for foreseeing what he was soon to do. If Moliere had died on the day of his wedding, the historians of literature would not really be justified in suspecting that he had been cut off just as his genius as a comic dramatist was about to expand. So, if Shak- spere had died before 'Romeo and Juliet/ he would have left little to give any one the right to predict the nobler and deeper plays whereon his supremacy is based. In the 'Ecole des Femmes' Moliere took a long stride toward his future goal; and it is in this play that we first glimpse qualities he was later to reveal more abundantly. Yet to a contemporary it might very well seem to be only a Second Part to the 'Ecole des Maris.' The later play is indeed very much the same thing as the earlier; but it is also a good deal more, since the 'Ecole des Maris' was hardly more than a clever and amusing anecdote in action. The 'Ecole des Femmes' gives us the same pleasure by its artfully constructed story, with its expectancy, its suspense and its surprises. It holds our interest by its episodes, ingenious and humorous and graceful. But it also contains far more clearly than its predecessor that picture of life which provokes reflection. We laugh at least as frequently over the 'Ecole des Femmes' as over the 'Ecole des Maris'; and after the laughter has died down we find ourselves thinking. There is a larger lesson in this mirthful laughter than Moliere had ever earlier cared to suggest. Even though Moliere put more meaning into his work, 'ECOLE DES FEMMES' AND ITS SEQUELS 115 he kept fast to the approved formula of the comedy-of- masks, profiting by its freedom, but dropping now what he no longer needed. The scene is again the public square, in two houses of which two chief characters reside. All the talk, however intimate it may be, is exchanged out in the open quite in the Italian manner. And the several characters, while they have acquired a certain individuality of their own, are still more or less types. The young lover, Horace, is only a young lover; and Moliere borrowed from his own 'Etourdi' the effective device of letting this in- genuous youth babble the secrets of his wooing to the one person from whom they ought to be kept the same device we find in the 'Merry Wives' when FalstafF confides to Ford the particulars of his intrigue with Mrs. Ford. Arnolphe, the part that Moliere wrote for his own acting, is closely akin to the Sganarelle of the 'Ecole des Maris'; it might even now have borne the same name if Moliere had not been growing away from the more obvious char- acteristics of Italian comedy. The older method survives also in the full dozen of Arnolphe's soliloquies, so varied and so adroitly placed, however, that we listen to them all with interest, amused by the self-revelation. It must be confessed also that the new play by its struct- ure discloses itself as a transition between the comedy- of-masks and the comedy-of-character. Its framework is still Italian and its content is already French. The naked plot, detached and considered by itself, is as artificial in its conduct and as arbitrary in its conclusion as any Italian- ate piece, the final discomfiture of Arnolphe being brought about by a "recognition" in accord with the tradition of Greek comedy and perhaps justified by the vicissitudes of Greek society, although not at all warranted by the facts of life in the France of Louis XIV. Moliere was n6 MOLIERE C slowly learning how to put veracity into comedy, which had been frankly fantastic; and at first he did not hug reality too closely, finding his profit in the conventions which the playgoing public^had been trained to accept. His plot sets before us the wooing of a willing maid by a young lover almost under the eyes of a jealous elderly man who was reserving her for himself a plot often used before and since, notably by Scarron and by Beaumar- chais. For mere invention Moliere cared as little as Shakspere, taking his material wherever he might find it and borrowing from others as unhesitatingly as he bor- rowed from himself. Arnolphe, a man of forty, once bought a little girl of four, whom he has brought up to be his wife, keeping her in the densest ignorance and holding that a wife knows too much when she knows anything. Agnes is the em- bodiment of innocence, as frank as she is simple. Her ignorance has left her without protection; and when Horace makes up to her, during an absence of Arnolphe, she knows no reason why she should not accept these gratifying advances. Horace, as it happens, is the son of an old friend of Arnolphe's, and as he has just arrived in town he does not know that Arnolphe has taken another name, "M. de la Souche." So he unhesitatingly tells Arnolphe all about his meetings with the girl that "M. de la Souche" is hoping to marry. And when Arnolphe, thus informed, interrogates Agnes, the innocent girl is equally frank. Neither of the young people conceals any- thing from him; and yet he is powerless to prevent their lovemaking. Indeed, these successive confessions of Horace and of Agnes to Arnolphe, who cannot help dis- covering the very things he does not want to know, are increasingly amusing. They unite the humor of char- \ 'ECOLE DES FEMMES' AND ITS SEQUELS 117 acter to the humor of situation; and even if they are I brought about artificially, they are essentially natural. They explain Voltaire's criticism that the play seems to be all in action although it is in reality all in narrative. And Sainte-Beuve pointed out that we are kept interested through the five acts of a love-story in which the lovers do not meet before the eyes of the audience until the middle of the final act than which there could be no better proof of Moliere' s dramaturgic dexterity. II But there is much more in the play than mere ingenuity of craftsmanship. Technical skill serves here a larger purpose than in the 'Ecole des Maris' or the 'Etourdi/ There is a perfect clarity of exposition; and there is a perfect unity of plot, since the story is single, moving forward steadily, the division into acts being almost acci- dental. Willing enough to borrow the externalities of his play and to let his plot-making be more or less arbitrary, Moliere insisted on presenting life as he saw it and iH| creating characters in accord with human nature. The) scene is laid in the Paris of his own time; and the person- ages are chosen from the burgher class he knew bestj Scarron and the younger Corneille, who were the leading comic dramatists of France before Moliere came forward, not only took over Spanish stories, but they were content also to leave the scene in Spain, with no ambition to depict the manners of their own country; and Moliere himself had laid the action of the 'Etourdi' in Messina. But in the 'Ecole des Femmes,' even if the intrigue is more or/ less mechanical, there is a sense of reality. Here at last is the truth about life, even if the story itself is not a fact. > I ii8 MOLIERE The plot may be manufactured at will; the people, at least, are observed. Horace is drawn in outline only, a silhouette of the essential lover, existing only to adore and to be adored; yet he is a charming young fellow and we rejoice when his wooing prospers. Agnes has a little of the unthinking selfishness of youth, eager to have its own way and unsus- . picious of the cost to others. She has the transparent simplicity of Miranda, although his more poetic theme imposed on Shakspere a more imaginative treatment of maidenly ignorance. She is honest and open-hearted, with a candid delight in being wooed and a girlish inability \ to understand Arnolphe's suffering. Arnolphe himself is also selfish, in fact grossly egoistic, and finally foolish. He is fiercely jealous, not unnaturally; and in his opin- ionated blindness he cannot see why he should not be preferred to the young lover the girl scarcely knows. Moliere was always searching and acute in his analysis of jealousy, the one passion from which he himself suffered. Arnolphe is grotesquely absurd in his inability to see him- self; but he is intensely true and vibratingly human. He is akin to us all; and although we are glad that he fails to get his heart's desire, although we laugh at him inces- santly, as the author invites us to do, yet we are sorry for him also, and he has a share of our sympathy, simply because of our human brotherhood. He is no puppet to make empty laughter merely, he is one of us; and even while we smile, we recognize the solidarity of human nature. But even if Moliere managed to win casual sympathy for the sufferings of Arnolphe, whom he impersonated himself, he has left us in no doubt that he meant us rather to be interested in the wooing of the young folks; he is 'ECOLE DES FEMMES' AND ITS SEQUELS 119 on their side, plainly enough. Arnolphe was seeking what he ought not to have, since it is everlastingly or- dained that the young should mate with the young. We are what we are; and nature is irresistible. The course of true love may not always run smooth, but the current is charming. The attraction of a man for a maid and of J a maid for a man, if it is sincere, even if it is also very j sudden, had better be obeyed, whatever older heads andj colder hearts may object. That way, at least, happiness may lie, who knows ? And all^pther ways lead to dis- appointment. If the 'Ecole des Femmes' has a sustaining thesis, if it/ presents a problem for consideration, there is no doubt as to Moliere' s own solution. There may be a problem, but there is no enigma. Probably Moliere was not con- sciously and deliberately putting a moral into his play, even if the moral is there none the less for those who care ' to see it. Possibly, when he held up to scorn Arnolphe's attempt to secure the fidelity of his future wife by keeping her ignorant, Moliere was not aware that he was proffer- ing evidence in behalf of the belief that knowledge must precede morality, and that knowledge is in fact the only firm foundation for morality. If Moliere was a philoso- pher, he was a laughing philosopher, as a comic dramatist must ever be; and if the 'Ecole des Femmes' is a problem-/ play, it is also a comedy in which the author never preaches, however much he may teach. We may dispute about the meaning of the piece; but there is no question as to its merriment. It is not only charming and cheerful, it is gay with felicitous mirth. It is one of Moliere's most, amusing comic dramas, delightful in the library and everr more delightful in the theater, as a true comedy ought to be. The laughter evoked by its comic characters in comic 120 MOLIERE situations is effervescent and abundant, even if it arouses serious thought when the fun has faded a little from the memory. Ill While the popularity of the 'Ecole des Femmes'was indisputable, the new comedy aroused more abundant and more acrid criticism than any of its predecessors. The hostility which had shown itself when the 'Pre- cieuses Ridicules' was produced, now displayed itself with redoubled, vigor. The 'Ecole des Femmes' was denounced as indecent, as immoral, and even as impious. And for every one of these accusations there was just sufficient color to make a complete answer a little difficult. There was one brief equivoke, which derived part of its point from the threat of a latent indelicacy. Then there was the obvious support the author gave to young love, in revolt against its lawful guardian. Finally, there was the scene wherein Arnolphe laid down the sequence of commandments which a wife ought to obey; and some spectators chose to regard this as a parody of a sermon. But these three alleged lapses from propriety were trifles, every one of them, however malignity might seek to magnify them. They were not likely really to shock any open-minded spectator. Probably a certain part of the enmity aroused against Moliere by this play may be attributed to a vague per- ception that here was a comedy larger in its scope and deeper in its meaning than any that had preceded it. Many playgoers then went to the theater for empty laughter, as do many playgoers now, having left their minds at home, and resenting every effort to make them think. The older writers of comedy had been satisfied to deal 'ECOLE DES FEMMES' AND ITS SEQUELS 121 with the externals of life; and some spectators might hold it to be sheer impudence in Moliere not to be content with what had been good enough for Scarron and the two Corneilles. Perhaps these spectators did not object so much to the special lesson of the 'Ecole des Femmes' as they did to the attempt to slip any lesson at all into a comedy. They believed that comedy was for laughter and for laughter only; and that the writer of comedy^ had no business to smuggle a moral into his mirth. For; anything of this sort there was no precedent; and the comic dramatist who attempted it ought to be suppressed at once as a dangerous innovator. We can better under- stand this conservative attitude if we recall the violent protests raised at the end of the nineteenth century when a few modern dramatists began to deal conscientiously with the insistent problems of human conduct. These efforts to make the drama more literary by relating it more closely to life itself, were greeted by the strange proclamation that the sole function of the theater is to facilitate the digestion of "the tired business man." There must always yawn a wide gap between those who deem the theater to be only a place of idle amusement and those who rank the drama as the loftiest of the arts. But the opponents of Moliere included not only lazy souls who did not desire to be startled out of their lethargy, and not only prudish persons who affected to be dis- gusted by this episode or by that speech, they included also some men and more women who had no real liking for the broad common sense, for the hearty fun, and for the streak of earthiness which is as discoverable in the creator of Arnolphe as it is in the creator of Falstaff. Moliere and Shakspere have an animal side as well as a spiritual; they are healthily full-bodied and full-blooded. If the 122 MOLIERE 'Ecole des Femmes' was the first play in which Moliere made manifest his bolder characteristics, it was a comedy not likely to please those who never would relish his out- spoken frankness. These possessors of superfine delicacy were not prurient prudes, at least not all of them; they were sensitive creatures who looked to literature for sub- tleties of sentiment and etherealities of treatment of a kind wholly foreign to Moliere's masculine temperament. In the nineteenth century Poe emerged as a specimen of this class, declaring that La Motte Fouque was worth fifty Molieres. Men and women of an ultra immaterial- ity like Poe's want to see life sublimated; and they are not attracted to a writer who deals with it in out- spoken fashion. They do not care for Moliere, as they do not care for Montaigne or for Rabelais, with whom Moliere had so much in common. Their supersensitive shrinking from the actual leads them to avert their gaze from much that is healthily natural; and they remind us of Watteau, who said that nature put him out. Fortunately, those who did not enjoy the bluntness of tone, the frankness of humor, the fulness of flavor in Moliere's work were in a small minority, even though they included a few men and women of prominence. Those who were most capable of appreciating the full value of Moliere's new play were prompt in its praise. Boileau published a set of stanzas in which he encouraged Moliere to go on with the good work. To us to-day Boileau's critical code may seem unduly restricted; but the man himself was sincere and he had keen perceptions. It must be counted to his credit that he did much to make the public understand Moliere's merits. The satirical critic and the comic dramatist were not only 'ECOLE DES FEMMES' AND ITS SEQUELS 123 stanch friends, they were allies in a common cause; they worshiped nature as they severally understood the word, seeking veracity, shunning the fantastic, rejoicing in the real; and this attitude of theirs was a novelty then when tales and plays were laid in a world of unreality and when the hollow absurdities of the 'Grand Cyrus' were still acclaimed. The simplicity, the sincerity which 1 Boileau preached Moliere practised; and thus each of them buttressed the other. But it was not only by Boileau that Moliere was then heartened; Louis XIV also took sides with him and accorded him a signal mark of the royal favor. Late in the spring of 1663, while the controversy over the 'Ecole des Femmes* was still raging, the king gratified a large number of men of letters by granting annual pensions for their encouragement. Corneille received two thousand livres as "the foremost dramatic poet of the world." Racine, then an almost unknown beginner, received eight hundred, as a "French poet." And Moliere received one thousand as an "excellent comic poet." He was the only actor included in this royal benefaction; and the pension thus served to mark him as a man of letters, having an established position in literature. Probably this royal recognition at this time, when he was attacked on all sides, was as welcome as the money itself. In accordance with the custom of the time, Moliere rimed a copy of verses to Louis XIV, thanking the monarch for the royal gift. In his happily turned lines, bright and brisk, unpretending and easy, Moliere bade his muse disguise herself and make her way to court, to present his gratitude to the king. In these occasional verses there is nothing obsequious, nothing more or less than the cir- cumstances demanded. They are prettily clever, and 124 MOLIERE their rimes are prettily polished; but they do not display any new aspect of Moliere's genius. About the same time he published also the 'Ecole des Femmes' with a dedicatory epistle to Madame, wife of Monsieur. He had been allowed to inscribe the 'Ecole des Maris' to her husband, the patron of the company; and the king himself had accepted the dedication of the 'Facheux/ augmented by the character he had suggested. Moliere's next comedy, it may be noted here, was to be inscribed to the queen-mother, Anne of Austria. That these four plays could be presented in rapid succession to the four foremost figures of the kingdom is evidence that Moliere's position was then solidly established. That he should have selected his dedicatees so carefully may have been due to his desire to make friends at court, against the time when he might need them, after he had composed the stronger plays which were perhaps already beginning to take shape in his mind. IV To the attacks on the ' Precieuses Ridicules ' Moliere had paid no attention; to those on the 'Ecole des Femmes' he finally resolved to retort. He never lacked courage to hit hard when he thought it worth while; and he was now emboldened by the public praise of Boileau and by the receipt of the royal pension. But how was he to reply to his adversaries ? He might have accepted the custom of the time and prepared a pamphlet, which was the seventeenth century equivalent of the nineteenth century magazine article and of the twentieth century authorized interview. Moiiere, however, was an actor before he was a man of letters; and the printed page probably seemed to 'ECOLE DES FEMMES' AND ITS SEQUELS 125 him to lack the sharpness of the spoken word. He was a playwright, after all; and he felt that his own stage was the proper platform for his parry and counter-thrust. Although the habit of the rimed prologue and epilogue did not obtain in France, Moliere was the orator of the company and he was free to say whatever he pleased. A speech, however, could be spoken but once; it could survive only in the memories of those who might chance to hear it; it could not have either the permanence or the reverberation that Moliere was seeking. Yet he was not at a loss for long; with his habitual ingenuity he found a new way of accomplishing his purpose. On the first of June, 1663, ne brought out a one act comedy in prose, the ' Critique de 1'Ecole des Femmes,' presenting it immediately after the performance of the 'Ecole des Femmes,' still at the height of its popularity. In general, Moliere did not care to go far afield in search for novelty of form, content to use the framework which had already won the favor of the playgoers; but in this new venture he displayed the same originality which had enabled him to find the novel formula of the comedy- ballet, employed in the ' Facheux.' He devised a play of a \ new kind, a play which was only a series of conversations, a play without a plot and yet possessing that needed backbone of the comic drama, the contrast of character ' with character. Slight as it is, without any external ac- tion, with no love-story at all, with only a succession of dialogues setting forth the antithesis of critical theories, the 'Critique de 1'Ecole des Femmes' is a little mas- iterpiece of playmaking skill; and it is one of the most adroit and characteristic of Moliere's comedies. He managed to give this string of conversations a movement of its own and even to work up to a climax, 126 MOLIERE by the device of peopling it with a gallery of portraits taken from contemporary life, each of the characters com- ing on in turn just when its arrival would refresh the dis- cussion. In this comedy, as in the 'Precieuses Ridicules' in which he was also making fun of the foibles of con- temporary society, he laid the story in a drawing-room, relinquishing the street scene of the comedy-of-masks, most convenient for his plays of intrigue. In defending himself, Moliere is again assailing a sham, for he is hold- ing up to scorn the pedants who abused his play and the supersensitives who pretended to be shocked by his plainness of speech. Two cousins are receiving one of them Uranie, a little the elder, and endowed with the mature common sense of a healthy-minded woman; the other Elise, keen-witted, quick-tongued, possessing a sharp sense of humor and a pretty turn for irony. Their first visitor is Climene, a prudish precieuse, who pours out the vials of her wrath upon Moliere' s comedy. Next an absurd Marquis arrives, stuffed with prejudice, and incapable of thinking for him- self. Climene had, if not arguments against the play, at least opinions; but the Marquis, although consumed with conceit, can only echo the opinions he has chanced to hear. Then in comes Dorante, an accomplished man of the world, clear-headed and open-minded; and he takes up the defense of Moliere, coming to the rescue of Uranie, as Elise has pretended to be converted to the hostile cause. Finally, there appears one Lysidas, a rival poet, who begins by empty compliments for the play, and who ends by declaring it beneath contempt as entirely contrary to the rules of dramatic art. Dorante has no difficulty in demolishing this biased critic, exposing his petty pedantry and going to the root of the matter by declaring that the 'ECOLE DES FEMMES' AND ITS SEQUELS 127 one unbreakable rule is to please. And at last when every point of view has been presented a servant declares that supper is ready; and this brings the little piece to an end. Marvelous is the variety and the vivacity which Moli- ere managed to impart to what is, after all, only a con- versation, only a dialogued essay in criticism, only a debate over the principles of the dramatic art. It is a conver- sation, always keeping the tone of real talk, easy and unacademic, flowing and graceful. It is as abundant in humor as it is in good humor; and it is as fair as any one had a right to demand. Both sides are allowed to have the floor and at length; and while Moliere entrusted his defense to the more sensible and sympathetic characters, he let the foolish figures say their say in their own fashion. It is not only by its briskness of dialogue and of dialectic that the little play is sustained, but also by the skill with which several characters are contrasted. Specially inge- nious is the later attitude of Elise, pretending to go over to the enemy, and thus intensifying the feebleness of the accusations brought against the play. That Moliere him- self impersonated the egregious Marquis is highly probable, although not absolutely certain. It is certain, however, that he entrusted the clever Elise to his young bride, who apparently made her first appearance on the stage in this character, in which it was her chief duty to defend her husband against malicious attack. Moliere exercised his usual excellent judgment in thus bringing his inexperienced wife before the public in a part which was not too heavy for her young shoulders and which was likely to be sympa- thetic to the spectators. That a play without story or action or love-interest, with nothing but character-drawing and brilliant conversa- i 2 8 MOLIERE tion, dealing with a purely literary theme and discussing the technicalities of dramaturgy that such a play could hold the interest of Parisian audiences again and again, is high testimony to the alert intelligence and the diffused culture of the burgher class which supplied the main body of spectators. "Nor can he whose business it is to address the mind be understood where there is not a moderate degree of intellectual activity," so George Meredith de- clared. The more sympathetic response of his audience is one obvious reason for the superiority of Moliere over Plautus and Terence, who had to please the riffraff of the Mediterranean and the rude mob of Roman freedmen. If Moliere had vainly supposed that his clever retort would silence his assailants and leave them speechless, he soon found out his mistake. The assault was shriller and more envenomed than ever before; and now that he had shown his adversaries how to put dramatic criticism into a play, half a dozen little pieces, patterned on the 'Critique deTEcole des Femmes,' were performed or published. In the forefront of the attack were certain actor-authors of the rival company at the Hotel de Bour- gogne. They were annoyed by the sharp competition of Moliere's company, not only in the capital but at^court also. The Hotel de Bourgogne was the long-established theater, and its actors had the right to style themselves "the only royal company." Its members liked to think of Moliere's company as a band of new-comers fit only ror farce-acting and entirely without repute in the nobler art of tragedy. Moreover, these comic performers were not under the immediate patronage of the king; they were only 'ECOLE DES FEMMES' AND ITS SEQUELS 129 the "company of Monsieur/' And yet Louis XIV had taken a fancy to Moliere's troupe and had ordered it to act before the court far more often than the company of the Hotel de Bourgogne, which was directly under his royal patronage. Their bitter attacks on Moliere did not win back the favor of the king to the rival company; indeed, they may have aroused in him a curiosity to see how Moliere would meet them. Louis XIV again ordered the company of comedians to perform before him at Versailles; and a week before they appeared he told Moliere to take this opportunity to retort on his adversaries. This is the ex- planation of the title and of the content of the * Impromptu de Versailles/ a comedy in one act in prose, produced on October fourteenth, 1663. It was the earliest of Moliere's plays to be originally acted at Versailles, and composed especially for Louis XIV the 'Facheux' having been per- formed first at Vaux by request of Fouquet. That it was written in haste by the king's command Moliere is very careful to make plain in the play itself, wherein we find three times repeated a formal assertion of the royal re- sponsibility for the little play. The * Impromptu de Versailles' is almost the slightest of Moliere's pieces; but it is not the least significant or the least interesting. It is only an unpretending trifle, and the haste in which it was put together would prevent its being anything more. But it is adroit and ingenious; it is, indeed, exactly what it ought to be for its special occasion. It has a certain likeness to the 'Frogs' of Aristophanes, to the 'Rehearsal' of Buckingham and to the 'Critic' of Sheridan; and it shows Moliere discussing the art of acting, just as Shakspere made Hamlet discuss it with the Players. Its scene is laid on the stage of the 130 MOLIERE theater at Versailles. The characters of the play are Moliere himself and all the other members of his company. The king will be there in a few minutes to witness the performance of the new play Moliere has written to order in a hurry; but the actors have not had time to learn their parts properly and they plead for postponement unavail- ingly, since the king has commanded, and the king must be obeyed. Moliere encourages them all, describes to each the character he or she is supposed to be representing, explains how he wants this or that speech spoken, and ! lets the rehearsal lapse every now and then while they talk 'over the predicament they are in and the imperativeness jof the royal desire. We see Moliere the actor imitating the chief per- formers of the Hotel de Bourgogne; we see Moliere the stage-manager conducting a rehearsal; we see Moliere the author discussing the reason why he has chosen to do one thing and not another; we see Moliere the man de- fending himself and his family in manly fashion against unworthy attacks. We see the various members of the company, devoted to their chief, and yet chafing against the necessity of acting before they are ready. We see the important position held by Madeleine Bejart, who does not hesitate to give advice and who is always listened to courteously. We see the impeccable La Grange, with whom the author is always so well pleased that he never needs to give him any direct instruction. We see Moliere' s own wife, young and gay and happy, teasing her husband with the suggestion that he ought to write a play in which he could act all the parts; and when he tells her to hold her tongue, she retorts that he would not have spoken that way a year or two earlier, and that marriage changes a man for the worse. This amusing little passage at arms 'ECOLE DES FEMMES' AND ITS SEQUELS 131 is evidence of the good feeling which still governed the relations of the bride and groom. It remains to be said that there are a few lines in the 'Impromptu de Versailles' which we cannot help regretting for Moliere' s sake. He chooses to mention by name one of those who had attacked him, a little-known playwright, Boursault. However irresistible his temptation, this hold- ing up to public obloquy of a fellow-writer seems unworthy of Moliere. He is wiser when he puts into the mouth of one of his company the assertion that the best retort to his assailants was to write a new play which should succeed like its predecessors. This advice which Moliere thus gave himself he acted on for the rest of his career. He had paid no attention to any attack before he wrote the * Critique de 1'Ecole des Femmes'; and he did not return to the charge again after he had brought out the 'Im- promptu de Versailles.' Never again did he trouble or turn aside to pick up any of the quarrels that were thrust upon him. He went on his own way and he did the work he found ready to his hand. VI Unimportant as these two little plays may be, we should greatly regret not to have them. They may add little; to his enduring fame; but they add materially to our acquaintance with Moliere himself. We might deduce from them Moliere' s theory of dramatic art. It is herqf that he put himself on record as holding what Corneille and Racine also held, what every practical playwright must hold that the chiefest rule of all is to please the public. Here he was in agreement with the Aristotle whom his opponents threw up against him; Aristotle dis- 132 MOLIERE trusted the verdict of specialists and preferred the judg- ment of the cultivated public. Moliere showed that he, could talk about the rules as well as any one else; and he I asserted that he kept the spirit of theVlaw eVen if he might seem sometimes to break the letter. Thus he is in accord with Ben Jonson, when he asl^ed, "Let Aristotle. and. oth- ers have their dues; but if we can make further discov- eries of truth and fitness than they why are we envied ?" Moliere had also the courage to declare his conviction that comedy is more difficult than tragedy, both to act and to write, since comedy deals with everyday life with which we are all familiar, whereas heroic pieces surpass our ordinary understanding and we have no standard to gage them wisely. He proclaimed that it is the business of comedy to represent all mankind, especially in the comic author's own century. Furthermore he denied that he had ever put into a play any individual baldly reproduced from actual life a denial that some of his commentators seem stall imwilling t~-acc0pt. CHAPTER VIII MOLIERE AND LOUIS XIV I THE ' Impromptu de Versailles/ the first play of Moli- ere's written to the king's order, was speedily followed by others, commanded by Louis XIV and composed espe- cially for performance at court. It would be idle to main- tain that these plays, prepared for particular occasions and cramped by the rigorous limitations of the court- ballet, have greatly contributed to raise Moliere's reputa- tion with posterity. But the cleverness and the ease with which he carried out the king's wishes did raise him higher in the favor of the monarch, who had taken all power into his own hands. Perhaps we must consider these lighter trifles, put together hurriedly to meet the caprice of the king, as the price that Moliere paid for the privilege of writing his later and nobler plays to please himself, the ampler and deeper comedies in which he was able to express himself more completely. Yet there is no reason to think that Moliere was work- ing against the grain in trying to gratify the monarch, or that he did not find amusement in the exercise of his inventive ingenuity. Probably the association with the sovereign and with the court was as pleasant to him as it was profitable. Louis XIV was then young; he had only recently come into power; he was ardent in the pursuit 133 i 34 MOLIERE of pleasure. He enjoyed every kind of theatrical enter- tainment, delighting more particularly in musical spectacle. He was good-looking and graceful; and he liked to figure in the court-ballets. Popular at court for several reigns, these ballets had been mostly mythological in theme, as unreal as they were elaborate, setting in action Minerva and Venus, the muses and the graces, satyrs and nymphs. Their plots were almost always forced and fantastic; and the interest of the spectators was centered on the groups of dancers, who came on at intervals to sing and to caper in character. In the 'Facheux' Moliere had shown how it was pos- sible to get away from the frippery of mythology and to devise a genuine play, which would justify a succession of songs and dances quite as well as the earlier and emptier schemes introducing gods and goddesses. In that comedy- ballet, simple as it was, he had proved that a web of true comedy might be embroidered at will with the interludes of singing and dancing which characterized the ballet. The comedy-ballet, as Moliere thus presented it, was less pretentious and less fatiguing than the earlier type with its exaggerated grandiloquence; and it was more amusing, because it contained within the spectacle what was after all a real play, however slight this might be. Stripped of these needless accessories the 'Facheux* is but a single act. So is the first comedy-ballet, which Moliere devised for the king himself, the /Mariagejlctfce^- It is in one act, in prose; but it was firstTjperformed in January, 1664, at the Louvre, with a variety of songs and dances, which expanded it to three acts. It was written for the king; it was produced before him; and it was also performed by him for he himself appeared as a gipsy in one of the interludes. The plot has the needful sim- MOLIERE AND LOUIS XIV 135 plicity; it turns on a single suggestion, presented from a variety of aspects. Sganarelle, the same fixed type that Moliere had impersonated more than once before, is a man of fifty, and he is thinking of getting married. But he does not know his own mind two minutes together. He consults a friend; he consults two philosophers, one after the other; he even consults a pair of gipsy girls; he has a disquieting interview with his chosen bride; and he overhears a still more disquieting interview between her and one of her admirers. Finally he resolves to break off the match; and the chosen bride's father sends in her gentle-spoken brother, who insists either on a duel to the death or a marriage on the spot. And Sganarelle accepts immediate matrimony in preference to immediate mor- tality. This is the story of the play in one act; yet it lends itself to a host of other consultations and of other mis- adventures of Sganarelle, episodes of singing and dancing, which Moliere ingeniously scatters through the action, and which could be omitted without loss when the play had to stand on its own merits. There is genuine comedy in the perplexities of Sganarelle; and there is rich humor in the two philosophers whom he seeks to consult. The pedant with his mouth crammed with scholastic phrases was one of the accepted types of the comedy-of-masks; but in the hands of the Italians it presented only a carica- ture of external characteristics. Moliere had had a solid training in philosophy himself; the vocabulary of the schools was perfectly familiar to him; and here he turns it to humorous uses, caricaturing the essential qualities of the philosophy then going out of fashion. Having utilized what are really three of the fixed types of the comedy-of- masks, Moliere employs again its customary and con- 136 MOLIERE venient scene, the open square, with the houses of four of < the characters all on the stage together those of the two philosophers, that of the bride, and that of Sganarelle himself. As usual, the acting took place in the neutral ground between the houses, very much as it had taken place in the 'Ecole des Femmes/ ii Moliere's young wife, who had made her first appearance in the 'Critique de 1'Ecole des Femmes,' and who had appeared again in the 'Impromptu de Versailles/ had no part in the 'Mariage Force.' Two years after the wedding she had borne him his first son, only ten days before the 'Manage Force* was performed at the Louvre. A month later this child was baptised, the king and his sister-in-law, Madame (the wife of Monsieur) being godfather and god- mother, both of them by proxy. It was not uncommon for the sovereign to stand godfather to the children of his servants; and this is not the exceptional honor that it might seem. Yet, in this instance, it had special signifi- cance in that it testified to the king's disbelief in certain vile calumnies which had been heaped on Moliere and which need not be recalled. If Mademoiselle Moliere had to forego the pleasure of appearing before the court in the 'Mariage Force,' her husband more than made this up to her in the part he prepared for her in the following play, the 'Princesse d'Elide,' the first good part she had been entrusted with, a precursor of the important characters which her husband was soon to devise for her. The new play was written to take its place in the most sumptuous entertainment yet given at Versailles, the week-long spectacle, called the MOLIERE AND LOUIS XIV 137 'Pleasures of the Enchanted Island/ Day after day, there were processions, maskings, concerts, tiltings and bravery of all sorts, in which Moliere and his company bore their share, appearing by the side of the most brilliant nobles of the court. Ostensibly the entertainment was for the queen and the queen-mother; actually it seems to have been a delicate attention of the young king for his mistress, Mademoiselle de la Valliere. It was on the second day of the festival, on May eighth, 1664, that Moliere's new play was performed. The 'Princesse d'Elide' was called "a gallant comedy"; it was in five acts; and it was to have been in verse, but Moliere had time to rime only the first act and one scene of the second, leaving the rest in prose and not working out the later scenes as elaborately as he had intended. Possibly there is little loss in this haste, since the 'Prin- cesse d'Elide' never could have been worthy of its author. Perhaps because both the queen and the queen-mother were Spaniards, Moliere chose to take over a Spanish plot, that of Moreto's 'Desden con el Desden/ While he borrowed the story he dealt with it very freely, simplifying the structure and harmonizing it with French taste. But the result is not satisfactory; for the admirers of French comedy there remains too much Moreto, and there is not enough Moliere. The lyrical luxuriance of the Spanish play is attenuated; and we do not get in return the flavor of Moliere's own humor. His handling of the rather highflown theme cannot be called perfunctory, but it is not sympathetic. There was no kinship between Moliere's genius and that of the peninsular playwrights; and he lost far more than he gained when he tried to follow in their footsteps. After 'Don Garcie/ the 'Princesse d'Elide' is the least interesting of all Moliere's plays; it is rarely* 138 MOLIERE read, and it is never acted. No doubt it filled its place on the program acceptably enough; and probably few of the spectators were bored by its rather strained sentiment and by its rather mechanical fun. Warned by his failure in 'Don Garcie' Moliere himself did not attempt the heroic part, even though the heroine was to be impersonated by his wife. He gave the lover to La Grange and he made over for himself the low comedy part; but the gracioso of Moreto did not lend itself to Moliere's histrionic veracity. Moliere is at his best as a humorist only when he is dealing with human nature as it is; he may exaggerate almost to caricature indeed, he often does this deliberately; but he needs always a basis of reality. Quite possibly this part of the court- fool, Moron, that Moliere himself performed, was amusing in the acting; but on the printed page its fun is pale. In the summer the play was repeated several times before the court at Saint-Germain; and in the fall Moliere brought it out at the Palais-Royal, allowing the playgoers of Paris to behold the spectacle which had pleased the king and the courtiers. In spite of the fact that it was set off with all its interludes of singing and dancing, it could not long retain the favor of spectators who had paid their way into the theater, and after twenty-five perform- ances it was withdrawn, not to be acted again during Moliere's lifetime. When the novelty of its spectacular accessories had worn off, the thinness of the piece itself was revealed; and the playgoers of Paris were proba- bly disappointed at not finding in a play of Moliere's the qualities he had accustomed them to expect in his comedies. MOLIERE AND LOUIS XIV 139 III Four days after the performance of the 'Princesse d'Elide' and also included in the 'Pleasures of the En- chanted Island' there was the first performance of three acts of 'TartufFe/ The 'Princesse d'Elide' was only task work, undertaken to meet the wishes of the monarch; but 'Tartuffe' was of all Moliere's plays the one nearest to his own heart, the one in which he put the most of him- self and the best he could do. It was also the one play of his the performance of which was allowed at last only by the direct intervention of Louis XIV himself. Yet the king began by prohibiting it. In the official account of the * Pleasures of the Enchanted Island/ there is a very care- fully composed paragraph setting forth that "although the play had been found very diverting, the king knew that there was so great a likeness between those whom a veritable devotion has put on the road to heaven and those whom a vain ostentation of good works does not prevent from the guilt of evil deeds, therefore his extreme delicacy in matters of religion would not suffer this liken- ing of vice to virtue, one of which might be taken for the other; and although there was no doubt of the good in- tention of the author, the king forbade its public per- formance and deprived himself of a pleasure, that others, less capable of a just discernment, might not be led astray." The monarch did not absolutely deprive himself of the pleasure, since there was a second performance of these three acts before him in September of that same year, 1664. Yet this official explanation testifies to a desire to treat Moliere with the utmost courtesy. But none the less was 'Tartuffe' forbidden by royal authority; and nearly five 140 MOLIERE years were to elapse before the king was finally to permit its performance, overruling the prohibitions of the arch- bishop of Paris and the president of parliament. It was not without good reason that Moliere showed himself always ready to put aside his own work and to undertake the odd jobs of playmaking which the pleasure-loving young monarch imposed on him from time to time. IV "The best title of Louis XIV to the recollection of posterity is the protection he extended to Moliere," so Lord Morley has declared; "and one reason why this was so meritorious is that Moliere' s work had a markedly critical character, in reference both to the devout and to the courtier. But Moliere is only critical by accident. There is nothing organically negative about him; and his plays are the pure dramatic presentation of a peculiar civilization/' The civilization that Moliere portrayed was peculiar, partly because of the conditions which had prevailed in France during the infancy and youth of Louis XIV, and partly because of the personal character of the ruler himself. Francis I had already established the royal authority, breaking down the influence of the feudal nobles in the provinces, and seeking to center all power in Paris in the hands of the sovereign. Richelieu took up the work of Francis I and made ready to substitute autocracy for mere monarchy. He overrode violently all laws and all cus- toms which might in any way limit the might of the sover- eign. So completely did he consolidate the kingly power that it survived the weak rule of Mazarin, marred by the petty bickerings and murderous intriguing of the Fronde. MOLIERE AND LOUIS XIV 141 Louis XIV lived through the Fronde and suffered from it and was humiliated by it. What he was then forced to see intensified his resolve that he himself, when he took the government into his hands, should be supreme, with no one to gainsay his royal will. He meant to be the focus of everything; to hold all command in his own control; to let no one shine except by reflected light from the throne; to be the center of the solar system. It was as though he had taken to heart the saying set him as a copy for his boyish writing-lessons: "Homage is due to kings; and they may do whatever they choose." The reign of Louis XIV, like the reign of Solomon, began magnificently; and both kings, the Frenchman and the Hebrew, survived to see the failure of their rule, the misery of their people, and the pitiful diminishing of their glory. There were not a few great men in France, while Louis XIV sat on the throne; but the king himself was not one of them. He was not a man of much more than ordinary ability; and yet he was not without a cer- tain sly cleverness. He had a shrewdness of his own; he had abundant taste; he had the knack of saying the right word at the right time; he was wise enough never to uncover his immense ignorance, the result of his neglected education. He was as lacking in depth of understanding and in breadth of outlook as he was in solidity of knowl- edge. His dominant characteristics were pride and self- ishness; and they united to give him a monstrous egotism, even surpassing that of Napoleon, without being sustained by the soaring imagination and the superb energy of the Corsican adventurer. He was supremely proud and also superlatively vain, although in most men who are proud the larger vice in- hibits the pettier. He set up statues to himself in his own i 4 2 MOLIERE lifetime; and during his reign he did not allow a single statue to be put up to any of his predecessors. He erected Versailles, where he was free from all comparison with the past splendor of France, and where he caused to be strewn broadcast throughout the decorations his own boastful emblem, the sun, and his vainglorious motto, declaring that he had "no equal among many." At Versailles, which he had created, he saw only his own creatures, the courtiers who hung on his nod and who prostrated themselves at his beck. He was jealous of the ablest of his ministers, Colbert and Louvois, at times treating them harshly, while he was more affable toward their feebler successors who had no will of their own and whom he preferred because he believed that he had trained them himself. He was ever greedy of flattery, although not so insatiable in his youth as he became in his old age, when the only way to the royal favor was by groveling servility. Yet even when he had just ascended the throne he was always expecting a compliment, almost demand- ing fulsome eulogy, and never declining it, however gross or abject it might be. He took himself so seriously that this incense seemed only what was due to him. He was so well pleased with it that he seems never to have despised those who proffered it. His selfishness was appalling. In all France he cared for no one and for nothing but himself and his own glory. In public affairs he held himself above all law, overruling every other authority in the state without scruple or hes- itation. In his private life he disdained to be bound by any code of morality or even of decency. In his youth he was an ardent sensualist; and in his old age he naturally became a narrow-minded bigot. He flaunted his amor- ous intrigues, sometimes two or three at once, in the face MOLIERE AND LOUIS XIV 143 of the queen, in the eyes of the whole court and even before the people of France. He punished severely the lady in charge who sought to prevent his having access by night to the apartments of the queen's maids of honor. He legitimated his bastards, even those he had by Madame de Montespan, the fruits of a double adultery, which he thus forced on the gaze of the world. He had no con- sideration for the fatigue or the health even of those whom he cherished, his intimates, his own family. He had no regret, no kindly feeling, no gentle word for the van- quished or for those who no longer pleased him. His own personal caprice was his sole law. What his sluggish mind and his arid soul most delighted in was the empty ceremonial of Versailles. He found un- failing pleasure in the pettiness of it all. He enjoyed the routine of royalty; and in the incessant direction of all its details he was as hard-working as he was hard-hearted. He was glad to submit himself to the rigorous slavery of elaborate etiquet and he subjected all the nobility to it, enforcing their attendance upon his person, to the neglect of their estates and the ruin of their fortunes. He did everything in public, the cynosure of an adoring group of courtiers. He got out of bed and washed his hands and put on his shirt, while a throng of nobles filled his bedroom. Every day had its regulated duties and every hour had its prescribed occupations. Life at Versailles was monoto- nous and servile; and the sole relief for the emptiness of this parade was the spectacle of envious rivalry for the favor of the sovereign. The king himself did not care that everybody was uncomfortably lodged in the ill- planned and unhealthy palace; he was himself in reality little better ofF than they were. The outward show with its gaudiness gratified him daily and hourly, so that he i 4 4 MOLIERE gave no thought to the discomfort, the dirt, and the ever- present possibility of disease. He had no more regard for the convenience or the health of the courtiers whose presence there was due to his direct command, than he had for the well-being of the populace of the kingdom, crushed beneath the taxes constantly increasing to pay for the palace, for the support of the courtiers, for the lavish wastefulness of the royal existence and for the indefensible wars to which he was urged by his lament- able avidity for glory. In the beginning of his reign he gave France what it most needed, order and stability and unity, that it had never had before. Toward the end he laid waste the Palatinate, he ordered the ruthless religious persecutions executed by brutal dragoons; and he revoked the Edict of Nantes, which broke up countless homes, sowed dis- cord in countless families, drove out of the kingdom hundreds of thousands of most useful and orderly citizens; and by so doing he deprived France of a most precious element in its population, an element that might have wisely guided the revolution which his despotism made inevitable. Louis XIV was the perfect embodiment of the king by divine right. In him we see this autocratic principle reduced to the absurd. He acted selfishly al- ways, seeking glory in ostentatious living and in useless war; and he never felt any obligation to consider the cost of this glory, such as it was. He has been acclaimed as a great king; but assuredly it is only as a king that he is great. He was despicable in the meanness of his ambi- tion and he was contemptible in the intensity of his selfishness. Behind all his grandeur his essential pettiness stands forth. MOLIERE AND LOUIS XIV 145 If Louis XIV was the king whose character has been* summarily indicated in the previous paragraphs and if Moliere was the man whose character has been portrayed at length in the preceding pages, how was it possible that they should ever have worked together, that the play- wright should have pleased the sovereign and that the monarch should have sustained the dramatist ? The question must needs be put; and it is not easy to answer. First of all, it must be noted that Moliere saw the king only in the earlier years of his reign before the worst characteristics of the monarch had had time to be made plain or even to be developed. When Moliere died the king was only thirty-five; and it was after Moliere' s death that the royal selfishness stiffened into inexorable habit. The defects of the king's character and the ap- palling results of these defects were scarcely visible during the lifetime of Moliere, who shared with his contem- poraries an inherited regard and admiration for the sov- ereigns of France. Moliere had seen the meanness and the misery of the Fronde; and he was glad to behold the reins of government firmly held by a strong hand. In the beginning of the young king's rule there was peace and prosperity in the land; and the monarch got the credit even if Colbert had done the work. There was a general gladness in the air, and the buoyancy of hope. Moliere, like the rest of his countrymen, was captivated by the glamour of Louis XIV's youthful grace. Then Moliere was a burgher of Paris, with no love for the arrogant nobles; and he was gratified to see the king take power from them and keep it for himself. This action of the sovereign, while it might raise him t6 a still 146 MOLIERE loftier position, tended toward a juster equality among his subjects. Moliere was no republican; he was no pre- cursor of the revolution; he was no advanced thinker; he had no aptitude for political speculation; he accepted the framework of government as he found it, glad that the king gave to the country the internal peace it sorely needed. He was no sycophant; he had manly self-respect; but he was his own contemporary, after all; and like his con- temporaries in France he unhesitatingly accepted the inequalities of society, whatever they might happen to be. There is no reason to suppose that he perceived the empti- ness of rank and the danger that comes from the existence of privileged classes. He had no respect for place in itself, for the foolish courtier, for the dissolute noble; and he took every occasion to laugh at the one and to hold the other up to scorn, pleased that the king permitted this. For the rest, for the system of caste, for the autocracy of the monarch, he cared little, accepting a state of things which must have seemed to him natural. Furthermore, Moliere had a hereditary appointment in the monarch's household. Chaucer was a "valet of the king's chamber" to Edward III; and Moliere had the humbler post of the valet de chambre tapissier to Louis XIV. This royal appointment gave him a personal re- lation to the sovereign; it imposed on him the occasional task of making the king's bed; it may even account in some measure for the protection now and again extended to him by the monarch, whose pride led him to look with favor on all those attached to his own person. For this protection, however, it is easy to find other reasons. The king in his youth was very fond of the theater; and Moliere brought back to Paris a type of broadly humorous play, which the monarch greatly relished. This accounts for MOLIERE AND LOUIS XIV 147 the bestowal first of the Petit-Bourbon and secondly of the Palais-Royal. Then, as Moliere grew in stature as a comic dramatist and began to put more of the realities of life into his comedies, the monarch found himself pro- vided with a new form of pleasure. The records show that Louis XIV, as might have been expected, greatly preferred comedy to tragedy; and in the acting of comedy Moliere' s company was far superior to the rival organiza- tions. This in itself was a reason why the ruler should later take the company under his own royal patronage. This would explain the king's suggestion of a new char- acter to be added to the 'Facheux'; and also his com- manding Moliere to retort on his enemies with the * Im- promptu de Versailles.' Probably Louis XIV, entrenched in his own pride, found pleasure in Moliere' s exposure of the precieuse and of the marquis and of the hypocrite. Probably again the sovereign was so secure in his supremacy that he felt no fear of any social disintegration, such as would have influenced a usurper like Napoleon, who declared at St. Helena that he would never have permitted the first performance of 'TartufFe/ Under Napoleon 'Tar- tuffe' would have been suppressed and its author exiled; and under Louis XIV it was performed and its author rewarded. This much must be set down to the credit of Louis XIV. That the king really saw and felt the full purport of that play is very unlikely; and it is still more unlikely that he ever suspected its author to be more than a clever contriver of comic plays. Moliere was manly always, and never servile; but when he was in the pres- ence of his sovereign he knew his place and kept it. Not for nothing had he cultivated his insight into human nature; and we may be sure that he had formed a pretty 148 MOLIERE shrewd guess as to the best way to win the regard of the monarch and to gain the royal support for the more daring comedies he had resolved to write. The most open road to the young king's good will was to minister to his pleasures; and it was along this road that Moliere advanced. He was prompt to obey the royal wishes and even to anticipate the royal desires. However important the work on which he might be en- gaged, he was ever ready to lay it aside to devise the kind of play that the sovereign wanted, comedy-ballet or spectacle, as the case might be. Whatever the incon- venience to himself, the insufficiency of time, the haste with which he had to fulfil his task, he never hesitated and he never complained. Whatever the monarch had commanded was executed at once by Moliere as best he could. Swift obedience was a quality Louis XIV could well appreciate as he could also the inventive fertility that Moliere revealed in the succession of plays written to order. It is no wonder that the sovereign was willing to do what he could for a servant of his pleasures who met his wishes at once. To say this, is not to say Louis XIV overlooked the difference of rank any more than Moliere forgot it. There is a pretty anecdote setting forth the king's dis- covery that Moliere was once breakfastless because his fellow valets de chambre refused to eat with an actor, and narrating the monarch's magnanimity in thereupon in- viting the dramatist to join him in his own royal meal. It is a picturesque legend which has been illustrated in paintings by Ingres and by Gerome. But it is quite impossible to believe, without surrendering all we know about the inevitable etiquet and the invincible ceremonial of the court, and without denying the haughty arrogance MOLIERE AND LOUIS XIV 149 of the sovereign, who was served alone, and who did not allow even the princes of the blood to sit at meat with him. It could not have happened; but if it had happened, the report of an event so monstrous would have reverberated through all the abundant letters and journals of the time. As the case stands, the simple story first emerged just a century and a half after Moliere's death; and it appeared then only in a memoir of slight historic validity, wherein it is credited to the doubtful recollection of an unnamed physician. There are two other anecdotes, of which one at least is more solidly authenticated, and which reveal more clearly the sovereign's opinion of the dramatist. Grima- rest, Moliere's second biographer to whom we are more indebted than many later scholars have been willing to admit, and who displayed a desire to collect all the informa- tion accessible Grimarest, writing in 1706, declared that "within the year the king had occasion to say that there were two men he could never replace, Moliere and Lulli." Now Lulli was a wily Florentine, who composed the music for the court-ballets, and who also shone as a buffoon, evoking spontaneous laughter by his antics. Grimarest would not have dared to publish this in the lifetime of Louis XIV if he had not believed it to be true. And it sounds highly probable, for it confirms the belief that Louis XIV saw in Moliere, not so much the supreme comic dramatist, as the deviser of court-ballets, the adroit minister to the royal pleasures. The other anecdote is to be found in the life of Racine, written by his son. The assertion is there made that Louis XIV once asked Boileau who was the rarest of the great writers that had given glory to France during his reign, and that Boileau at once named Moliere. To i 5 o MOLIERE which the king replied, "I should not have thought it," adding with the gracious condescension he seems often to have shown to Boileau, "but you know more about these things than I do." Probably, it had never before struck him that Moliere was either a great writer or a rare genius, since he had always regarded from a very different point of view the dramatist who was also an actor. CHAPTER IX 'TARTUFFE' I THE first three acts of 'Tartuffe/ originally acted in 1664 as one of the * Pleasures of the Enchanted Island/ fell under the royal interdict at once; and not until 1669 did the king finally authorize the continuous performance of the complete play. In these five years Moliere was incessantly seeking permission for the production of his masterpiece before the public of Paris. He brought out half a score of other plays during this interval, including at least two of his most important comedies; but he never relaxed for a moment his effort to win the royal sanction for the acting of 'Tartuffe.' Although only three acts were included in the ' Pleasures of the Enchanted Island/ there is no reason to suppose that this performance was incomplete because Moliere did not know how to end his play or even that he had not planned it to the fall of the final curtain. Quite possibly the later acts may not have been versified when the earlier acts were performed, or at least may not have received the author's finishing touches. But it is inconceivable that he had not clear in his own mind every detail of the comedy complete from beginning to end. The construction of a play is like the construction of a building; and the foundations must always be what the upper stories will 152 MOLIERE necessitate. A plot must needs be coherent and logical; and Moliere never took greater pains with his planning than he did in 'Tartuffe.' All dramaturgic experts are agreed in praise of its straightforward movement and of its masterly unity. The three acts originally produced before the king imply the two later acts, since the end of the comedy is the necessary consequence of its beginning. And therefore 'Tartuffe,' although often considered as a later play than 'Don Juan' and the 'Misanthrope,' demands consideration before them. Indeed, it is only by dealing with it as representative of Moliere's develop- ment in 1664 that it can be rightly appreciated. When considered in its proper chronological order, 'Tartuffe' is seen to reveal an extraordinary advance in Moliere's conception of comedy. It has a largeness of theme and a boldness of social satire which nothing in his preceding plays had led us to suspect from him. In the 'Ecole des Maris' and still more obviously in the 'Ecole des Femmes' he had posed a problem and he had sought to deal sincerely with life as he saw it. But in both plays he had depended for interest on intrigue as much as on character; and in neither of these pieces, ingenious as they were, was the intrigue without an element of mechani- cal artificiality. But in 'Tartuffe' the adroitly articulated story does not exist for its own sake, since the interest is centered in the characters, and in what they are rather than in what they do. The plot is what it is, solely be- cause the characters are what they are. In his earliest pieces Moliere had revealed little more than his cleverness, his dramaturgic dexterity, his abun- dant sense of fun, his overflowing spirits. It is true that in the Trecieuses Ridicules/ in the 'Ecole des Maris,' and in the 'Ecole des Femmes' he had also a thesis 'TARTUFFE' 153 which served to stiffen and to enrich his plot. Yet none of these comedies contained anything which really prefig- ured the sudden development displayed in 'Tartuffe.' In this play, as in the later 'Misanthrope/ Moliere enlarges the boundaries of comedy and raises it to a more exalted level. He gives us comic plays which are more than mere comic plays. They arouse laughter, no doubt, the thought- ful laughter that deep comedy ought to evoke; but they make us think even more than they make us laugh. They are not brisk and bustling like his first pieces; they are less gay, less joyous; they are serious and .they are charged with meaning. It is on these grave and almost somber comedies, wherein Moliere, by main strength, imposed a comic aspect upon themes in themselves far from comic, that his reputation is now solidly founded. It is in these plays that he most completely discloses the richness of his endowment as a comic dramatist. It is by them that he stands forth a successor and a rival to Pascal, whose ' Provincial Letters/ published less than ten years earlier, are the model of epistolary comedy, and who may have pointed out to Moliere the path that led upward to the full freedom of social satire. II Although 'Tartuffe' may seem serious to us nowa- days, it was comic enough to Moliere' s contemporaries; and the clever playwright did not violently break with his past, however swift his advance. He gave the playgoers of Paris the abundant laughter he had led them to expect from him, even if he also gave them something more. Most of the characters in 'Tartuffe' are vigorously drawn in high colors, certain to meet the desire of the public 154 MOLIERE for broad comedy. Moliere's own part, Orgon, is one of the most amusing he ever put on the stage; and the char- acters of Madame Pernelle, his mother, and of Dorine, his wife's companion, are both of them exuberantly comic in conception and in execution. Even Tartuffe himself, although sinister at heart, is amusing on the surface; the spectators begin by laughing at him; and the character was entrusted to Du Croisy, an actor of sustained comic force. The play, so far as its earlier acts are concerned, is almost as full of fun as any of Moliere's preceding pieces; but this fun is not now the result of reliance on the methods of the comedy-of-masks. 'Tartuffe' does not contain any of the fixed types of the Italians, nor is its scene laid in the convenient public square. The atmosphere of this larger comedy is French; the scene is the interior of a French household; and nearly all the characters belong to a single French family. It is true that the members of this family excepting only Madame Pernelle bear the conventional stage-names customary in comedy in those days; yet impersonal as their names may be, they have each of them an indispu- table personality. This and their family relationship gives to the comedy an intimacy, a suggested reality, a solidity of texture not discoverable in any earlier play. Pleasant folks are those who make up the household qf Orgon; and they were a happy family before the arrival of Tar- tuffe. Orgon is a worthy burgher, who had behaved well during the Fronde; he is well-to-do and he lives with comfort, if not with luxury. He has a rather hot-headed son, Damis, and a more docile daughter, Mariane, whom he has affianced to Valere (played by La Grange). Although well on in years, Orgon has taken a second wife, Elmire 'TARTUFFE' 155 (a charming character written by Moliere for his own wife). Elmire is young and pretty; she is fond of dress and fond of society; she is placid in temperament and kindly in disposition, being on the best of terms with her two step-children, and bearing with tolerant equanimity the taunts and reflections of Orgon's old mother, Madame Pernelle, who must have been a little hard to get on with. Elmire's brother, Cleante, is like her; he has the same placidity and the same common sense. The household is completed by the outspoken and plain-spoken Dorine (played by Madeleine Bejart), a companion, not a menial, who has evidently served the family for years, and whose position is so secure that she never hesitates to give her opinion on all subjects even before it is asked. The type was one that Moliere was to employ more than once in later plays; it was based on observation of the conditions of life in the burgher class in Paris. Dorine lightens up all the scenes in which she takes part, just as Mascarille had enlivened all the episodes in which he appeared. Dorine, however, is veracious, while Mascarille, brilliant as he was, can be praised only as a later variation of a traditional stage-type, going back through Italian to Latin comedy and even to Greek. In general, the valets of Moliere are figures of fantasy, in- herited from his predecessors in playmaking, whereas his soubrettes are nearly always truthfully and even realis- tically copied from life. Into this burgher family, which must have resembled a hundred others in Paris under Louis XIV, an evil spirit has entered in the person of Tartiiffe, the self- seeking adventurer, hiding his greed behind the mask of piety. Orgon, hitherto a sensible man, has experienced a change of heart; and religious fervor has made him 156 MOLIERE selfish and foolish. Having met the seemingly devout Tartuffe in church, he has taken the hypocrite into his home as his spiritual director. When the play opens, Orgon is seen to have fallen absolutely under the sway of Tartuffe, and so has his opinionated old mother, Madame Pernelle. In vain do the rest of the family protest against the presence and the power of this outsider. So infatuated is Orgon that he makes-a deed of gift to Tartuffe; and he even plans to bestow his-daughter in marriage to the adventurer, cruelly breaking off Mariane's engagement to Valere. Tartuffe had given no thought to Osgon's insignificant daughter; it was on Orgon's charming young wife that he had cast longing eyes. And to save her step-children, the calm and kindly Elmire consents to lure Tartuffe into an avowal which her jiusband in hiding may overhear. When this scheme is successful, when Tartuffe has betrayed his evil designs and when Orgon has ordered him out of the house, the impostor throws off the mask and with brazen impudence claims the house under the deed of gift. Tartuffe, to whom Orgon had also confided a compromising secret, is even foolhardy enough to denounce his benefactor to the king; and Orgon would be ruined, if Louis XIV himself did not in- tervene (almost like the god from the machine in a Greek drama). The messenger of the monarch declares the royal will, restores the house to Orgon and hales the villain to prison. Ill This unexpected intervention of the sovereign has been severely criticised; and the charge has been made that Moliere is often careless in the winding up of his plays. Taine declared that "the art of playmaking is as capabk 'TARTUFFE' 157 of development as the art of clockmaking," and that the hack-playwright of to-day sees that "the catastrophe of half of Moliere's plays is ridiculous." It may be admit- ted at once that Moliere is often satisfied to end a play in the easiest fashion. Here his practice is in accord with Shakspere's; and there is a certain likeness between the end of 'Tartuffe' and the end of 'Measure for Measure,' another somber comedy in which lust assumes the mask of piety. Moliere was no Ibsen and no Dumas fils with a thesis, which he was trying to prove in a play, and which im- posed a logical and inevitable conclusion. He was a writer of liberal comedy, picturing the world as it was mirrored in his imagination, with no desire to drive home a narrow moral. He called characters into being; he set them in contact with one another; he let them reveal themselves completely; and then when the five acts had run their course, he sometimes stopped the action short, making use of the device nearest at hand. Often he did not trouble to untie the knot, he cut it abruptly. Yet it may be recorded that the past-master of modern dramaturgy, Scribe, was loud in his approval of the ending of 'Tartuffe.' "First of all, it has one great merit: with- out it we should not have had the piece, for Moliere would probably never have been allowed to produce it, had he not made the king an actor in it. Then, what a startling picture of the period this ending gives us! Here is an honest man who has bravely served his country, and who, when deceived by the most open and odious of machinations, does not find anywhere, in society or in law, a single weapon with which to defend himself. To save him the sovereign himself must needs intervene. Where &&. 158 MOLIERE can a more terrible condemnation of the reign be found than in this immense eulogy of the king?" This is shrewdly suggested, and yet we may rest assured that Moliere meant no reflection on Louis XIV, on whose vanity he was playing to win permission for the play. Probably, if it had not been for the proud monarch's desire to listen to public laudation of his wisdom and his justice, the acting of Moliere's masterpiece might never have been authorized. A message from Louis XIV was also the means used to bring to a finish the 'Impromptu de Ver- sailles'; and thus we find Moliere invoking the direct intervention of the monarch to wind up two very dis- similar plays, one of his slightest pieces and one of his solidest comedies. Whatever view may be taken of the propriety of this untying of the knot, the conduct of the plot is masterly. In no other comedy does Moliere more abundantly dis- play his technical skill, his sheer craftsmanship. The action is powerful in its conception, unswerving in its steady movement, and simple without bareness. The story unrolls itself without any wilful tricks, with no reliance on the convenient conventions of the Italians; and yet with a clarity which even the Italians never sur- passed. Goethe was lavish in his praise of Moliere's constructive skill, and he dwelt especially on the adroit- ness of the exposition: "Only think what an introduction is the first scene! From the very beginning everything is highly significant and leads us to expect something still more important which is to come. It is the greatest and best thing of the kind which exists." And from the exposition on there is increasing tensity of cumulative interest up to the sudden turning and self-assertion of Tartuffe at the end of the fourth act one of the most 'TARTUFFE' 159 effective scenes ever shown in a theater, startling when it comes, and yet perfectly prepared for and immediately plausible. 'TartufFe' adequately fulfils Voltaire's requirement that "every action, every scene ought to serve to tie or untie the plot, every speech ought to be a preparation or an obstacle." It fulfils also Gautier's stricter require- ment that the skeleton of a good play should be a panto- mime. When the Comedie-Fran^aise made its memora- ble visit to London in 1879, Sarcey noted how easily and how eagerly the English audiences followed the per- formance of this play, with its single plot, all in action and with no "" digressions which needed long-winded ex- planations. And the acute critic then suggested that 'TartufFe.' was perhaps the only one of the French classics which spectators, ignorant of the language, could watch with unfailing interest. Here 'TartufFe' is like 'Hamlet' in that its story is so clear that if the play were acted in a deaf and dumb asylum the inmates would be able to follow it with appreciation. Like 'Hamlet,' again, it is, in the stage phrase, "actor-proof," that is to say, it retains its power of holding the attention of the spectators even when the performance is barely adequate; and yet it will always repay the finest acting. Moliere's masterpiece, like Shakspere's, again, is a model of play- making skill, and therefore it moves every audience before which it is presented, whatever the merit of the actual performance. The foreigner can follow the acting of 'TartufFe' with- out difficulty, partly because of the sharp contrasts of the boldly projected characters, and partly because of the swift simplicity of the story in which these characters are involved. The plot is not far-fetched or extraneous; it 160 MOLIERE is the direct result of the visible contact of character with character. Orgon and the several members of his family being what they are, then the obtrusion into the circle of Tartuffe, he being what he is, is certain to bring about the several situations that Moliere has set on the stage. Yet clear as the story is, it is strong and tense; indeed, it is so moving that at the end the comedy almost stiffens into tragedy. And the source of this strength is in the subject of the play, in the central figure of the religious hypocrite, in our common knowledge that nothing is more disintegrating to the family, nothing is more dangerous to society, than the impostor who hides evil designs beneath the outer garb of piety and devotion. Moliere spent his utmost skill in so presenting Tartuffe that there could be no doubt about the impostor's true character, even though the evil schemer never for a minute lays aside the mask or speaks in other than the language of saintliness. It is by delaying the first ap- pearance of the adventurer until the third act, and by making him the topic of every earlier conversation that the dramatist artfully arouses in the mind of the spectators the unerring suspicion that the still unseen Tartuffe must be a hypocrite. Having created this conviction, Moliere leads the audience to see through the impostor, although he does not permit Tartuffe to have a single aside, such as Shakspere allotted abundantly to lago, whereby that villain might unveil his black soul. Tartuffe has never a monologue to make clear his secret thoughts; but his tortuous nature is as visible to the spectators in the thea- ter as lago's, which Shakspere has disclosed with a less delicate art. Even when Tartuffe is baffled at the end and borne away to prison, he has no exit-speech, in which to unpack his heart. Indeed, he never speaks out; he is 'TARTUFFE' 161 ever assiduously playing his part; and yet we have no difficulty in discerning the evil hidden beneath the veneer of piety. With such certain strokes has Moliere pre- pared for his first appearance that the spectators cannot help seeing his foul self behind his fair words* IV Many of Moliere' s commentators have fatigued them- selves and their readers in an idle effort to designate some one of his contemporaries as the possible original of Tartuffe, just as they have sought vainly to discover the original of Alceste in the 'Misanthrope.' To assume that a really vital character in a play or in a novel can have been slavishly copied from any existing human being, is to misunderstand the method of the creators. Moliere was not a photographer taking likenesses; and no one man sat to him for the portrait of the hypocrite or of the misanthrope. In Tartuffe the dramatist is not drawing an indictment against any individual; he is bringing in a true bill against the body to which the im- postor belonged. Into the mold he had conceived in his imagination, Moliere cast various metals, derived from all sorts of sources. He had a dozen or a score of models for Tartuffe; and he may have availed himself of stray hints from many a living man, as he did also from many of hfs literary predecessors, more particularly from Reg- nier and Scarron. If Tartuffe is to be taken merely as the reproduction of some real person, readily recognizable by his contem- poraries, then the play must lose much of its largeness; and it could scarcely escape the pettiness of mere per- sonality. Moreover, it would be far less satisfactory as a 162 MOLIERE work of art. In this comedy Moliere first discloses him- self as really an artist in the full meaning of the word. In all the preceding plays it is easy enough to pick flaws; but 'Tartuffe' at last withstands criticism. When all is said, it is a model of high comedy, of the humorous play of contemporary manners, the action of which is caused by the conflict of character with character. This model Moliere had to find for himself, since he would have sought it in vain in any earlier dramatist, whether French or Spanish, Latin or Greek. Of course, it is dimly possible that Menander may have anticipated Moliere in the composition of true and lofty comedy, dealing vera- ciously with actual life and charged with social satire; but even if this had chanced to be, it could not profit the French comic dramatist, since no single complete work of the Greek comic playwright had yet been replev- ined from oblivion. Even the supersubtle theorists of dramatic art in the Italian Renascence set up no very exalted standard for the comic drama. Scaliger, for example, distinguished only three elements in comedy a story with complica- tions, a happy ending, and a familiar style. These simple requirements are met in many a farce; and no insistence on them would have aided Moliere to attain that fine fusion of the comedy-of-character and the comedy-of- manners which we discover for the first time in 'Tartuffe/ and which Moliere was to achieve again in the 'Mis- anthrope' and in the 'Femmes Savantes.' He had to devise this model himself, with but little aid from his predecessors in playmaking; and he transmitted it to ali- bis successors. That high comedy of this elevated type is exceedingly difficult to attain is proved by its extreme rarity in the history of the theater; and there is signifi- 'TARTUFFE' 163 cance in the fact that whenever later dramatists have most amply succeeded in achieving this high comedy, it is when they have most closely clung to the model Moliere set in 'TartufFe' and in the later 'Femmes Savantes.' The ex- amples easiest to cite are perhaps the most conclusive the 'School for Scandal' and the 'Manage de Figaro,' the 'Gendre de M. Poirier' and the 'Monde ou Ton s'ennuie.' The third of Scaliger's requirements for comedy is "a familiar style"; and here again Moliere is a master. Purists and pedants have found fault with Moliere's use of language as they have with Shakspere's. To the eye of the modern reader there may be trailing phrases here and there in Moliere's lines, as well as constructions unauthorized by strict usage. But his dialogue was not written for the eye of the modern reader; it was com- posed for the ear of the contemporary audience. It has the rhythm of the spoken word, and not the balance of the sentence intended to be read. His is an oral style, as the style of every dramatist must be; and no oral style was ever better fitted for its purpose. It lends itself to delivery by the voice; it falls trippingly from the tongue; it is varied in its cadences and in its color. Boi- leau wondered at the ease of Moliere's riming; and a later French poet-critic has praised the art with which Moliere adjusted his manner to his matter, pointing out that the rimes are brilliant and amusing in themselves v in the early artificial pieces, in the 'Etourdi,' for example which may account for Victor Hugo's preference for this play whereas in the later and more serious comedies, 'TartufFe' and the 'Misanthrope,' the rimes are unob- trusive, modestly refraining from attracting attention to themselves. 1 64 MOLIERE Full and rich and flexible as Moliere's verse is, his prose is even better suited to its purpose or at least so it seems to those of us whose ears are accustomed to the strong beats of Teutonic poetry, and who fail to find in the rimed alexandrine a wholly satisfactory meter for dramatic dialogue. Balzac and d'Andilly, in the genera- tion before Moliere, had laid the foundation of modern French prose; they had done a great deal to give the language its clarity and its precision. The precieuses also had aided in the effort to make French sharper and more direct. Much had been accomplished in season for Moliere to profit by it; but he preserved his liberty and refused to be bound by the fleeting fashions of the hour. He had been nourished on Rabelais and on Montaigne and he relished their vivacity and their vigor. Darmesteter noted that the language of Moliere and also that of La Fontaine, whose genius was closely akin to his is far less Latin than that of most of the great writers of the seventeenth century; it has a more vernac- ular freedom and ease; it is nearer to the speech of the people; and thereby it is more truly French. One admission must needs be made. However truly French his vocabulary may be, Moliere could not get away from the conventional language of love-making, which was the only acceptable vehicle of courtship in the Paris theater under Louis XIV. In his love-scenes, whether in verse or in prose, he has perforce to use the jargon of gallantry and to let his lovers talk of their flames, their chains, their fires and their torments, the same frippery of outworn phrases which annoys us also in the impassioned speeches of Corneille's heroes and of Racine's heroines. But there is in the love-making of the young wooers in Moliere' s comedies a sincerity of 'TARTUFFE' 165 emotion which we can feel even through the unreality of the traditional figures of speech. The feeling is genuine, even if the phrase does not ring true. Behind and beneath the shabby and threadbare expressions, we can detect the throbbing of the human heart, restrained by decorum, but pulsing with ardor. Even if the riming couplets of the lovers' quarrel of Mariane and Valere may sound a little sophisticated, the sentiments of the young couple are transparently simple and truthful; and even if the seductive appeal of Tartuffe to Elmire may seem a little stilted in its sublimated phraseology, there echoes all through it the strong note of overmaster- ing desire. The 'TartufFe' which was finally permitted to be per- formed in 1669 is apparently more or less different from the original 'TartufFe/ of which three acts were presented in 1664 as part of the 'Pleasures of the Enchanted Island/ When the play was prohibited, Moliere did not hesitate to make concessions which might render it easier for the king to permit its performance. He modified his comedy so that it might give less offense to those who objected to it in good faith. As the result of these successive , alterations, there seem to have been three acting versions of the play. Of these only the last survives, and yet we can guess at the other two from Moliere's own state- ments and from a contemporary report describing the single performance of the second version. In the original play TartufFe was apparently an ecclesi- astic; at least he wore a costume which suggested a con- nection with the church. And as a priest could not marry, we may assume that Orgon's project of giving 166 MOLIERE his daughter to Tartuffe had no place in the first version. Probably one of the things which seemed most shocking when the three acts were originally represented before the court was this use of ecclesiastical costume on the stage, an abhorrent novelty in France, although common enough in Italy, where the church was taken as a matter of course. Indeed, more than one of the Italian comedies had a violence of satire and a coarseness of attack, going far beyond anything in Moliere's play; and these pieces had been often acted without protest in Italy and even in France. This is what gives point to the anecdote with which Moliere concludes his preface. A few days after the interdiction of ' Tartuffe ' the Italian comedians per- formed before the court a piece called 'Scaramouche Ermite'; and the king said to Conde, "I should like to know why those who are so scandalized by Moliere's play do not object to this 'Scaramouche' ?" To which Conde replied, "The reason is that this 'Scaramouche' shows up religion and heaven, as to which these gentlemen care nothing; whereas Moliere's comedy shows them up and this they will not permit." Both the queen and the queen-mother were devout Spaniards; and they may have taken offense at the broader strokes of the first version of the play, of which they had seen only three acts. Perhaps the royal in- terdiction was due to the monarch's desire to please his mother and his wife, whenever he could do so without sacrificing his own private pleasures. But he himself found no fault with the play; and after a Parisian priest had put forth a violent diatribe against the author, the king listened to Moliere's protest and censured the libel. When a papal legate, a nephew of Alexander VII, came to Fontainebleau, Moliere seized the occasion and read 'TARTUFFE' 167 'Tartuffe' to the visiting cardinal and to the dignitaries of the church who accompanied the envoy of the pope; and these high authorities on all religious matters did not disapprove the forbidden drama. During the five years of the interdiction, the author read the play repeatedly, seeking to win friends for it and to discount the hostility of those who thought it more dangerous than it was. In giving these readings Moliere was employing the same tactics as Rabelais before him, and as Beaumarchais after him. Against these readings no protest was raised for a long while; and the sovereign even tolerated three several performances of the entire play given for Conde at one or another of the family residences. That Louis XIV, while maintaining his interdiction of the play from motives of policy, did not wish to discourage or disavow Moliere, is made evident by his taking the Palais-Royal company under his own patronage in 1665. He asked his brother, Monsieur, to let him have the company; he allotted it an annual pension of six thousand livres; and he authorized it to entitle itself "the company of the king." This was a gratifying testimony of the monarch's favor, even though the actors of the Hotel de Bourgogne continued to be the "royal company" and to draw a pension twice as large as that granted to Moliere and his companions. Perhaps it may be well to note here that on the accession of James I, the company of actors, in which Shakspere was a sharer, were authorized to entitle themselves "the king's servants." Three years after the first performance of the earlier acts at Versailles, Moliere seems to have believed that the royal interdiction was lifted; and in August, 1667, he brought out at the Palais-Royal the second version 168 MOLIERE of the play, calling it the 'Imposteur' and changing the name of Tartuffe to Panulphe. The next morning the play was forbidden by the first president of parliament, who was in authority in Paris while the sovereign was absent with the army in Flanders. Within a week the archbishop of Paris also forbade the performing; the reading, or the reciting of the comedy, publicly or pri- vately, under penalty of excommunication. Moliere had already closed his theater and had sent La Grange and another actor to bear a petition to Louis XIV. The messengers were kindly received by the king," who prom- ised to take the matter up again when he returned from the war. And yet Moliere had to wait more than a year longer before the sovereign accorded him permission for the uninterrupted performance of 'Tartuffe' in the theater. It was in February, 1669, that the third version of the comedy, the only one known to us now, was acted at the Palais-Royal under the original title; and at last Moliere had the reward of his labor and of his long years of struggle to achieve the right to be heard. VI In the ashes of a dead controversy there may still be a little heat but there is rarely any light. Yet a proper consideration of Moliere's comedy requires a discussion of the motives for the violent hostility it aroused. Nowa- days, we are all agreed that hypocrisy, contemptible in itself, may be a menace to the community; and we are grateful to the man of genius who sets its characteristics before us and who puts us on our guard. Of all hy- pocrisies, religious hypocrisy is the most despicable and 'TARTUFFE' 169 the most dangerous. It is religious hypocrisy that Moliere assaulted, and he asked the honestly pious to recognize the importance of the warning he had raised against those who used religion only as a cloak. His own good faith is beyond question; and yet his appeal for support met with no response. Sincerely devout men of high character, the first president of parliament and the archbishop of Paris, were among his most aggressive opponents. Moliere's portrayal of the religious hypocrite is appallingly veracious. No one ought to have been able to perceive this better than the truly devout; and yet they did not come to his aid, standing aloof if not hostile during the five years of his long struggle. Sainte-Beuve pointed out that Moliere in 'TartufFe' attacked religious hypocrisy before its full outflowering in the later years of Louis XIV, when the royal sensualist had become a narrow bigot, just as Le Sage in 'Turcaret' assailed the predatory financiers before they had risen into the power they enjoyed during the Regency. Brune- tiere insisted that there were few religious hypocrites when Moliere wrote, and that therefore his play was directed against the genuinely pious. But since Sainte- Beuve and Brunetiere expressed these opinions we have been put in possession of further facts; we have been made acquainted with the so-called "cabal of the devout," which had been gaining power in the forty years preceding the composition of 'Tartuffe.' This was a secret organi- zation started by men who wished to further the cause of religion, as they understood religion, and who sought to support and to control the leaders of the church. At first the movement may have been more or less tinctured with Jansenism; but its chiefs had in time prudently turned against this sect and had aided the ultimate 170 MOLIERE triumphs of the Jesuits. These chiefs were so well assured of the honesty of their intentions and of the worthiness of their ends, that they saw no reason to be scrupulous as to the means they employed to attain their objects. Vague and disquieting rumors in regard to this mys- terious conspiracy were in circulation about the time when Moliere was writing the 'Ecole des Femmes/ The leaders of this shadowy league made no public defense; they continued their labors in silence; and very naturally they came to be suspected of, and to be held responsible for, whatever ecclesiastical intriguing and for whatever puritan intolerance might become manifest. Very likely Moliere had good warrant for believing that something of the bitterness and violence of the outcry against the 'Ecole des Femmes' was due to the cabal of the devout. Men who were bent on strengthening the authority of the church, who were themselves increasingly austere, and who looked with reprobation upon the fleshly spec- tacles of the stage men holding these views were not likely to approve of the 'Ecole des Femmes' or of its author. And Moliere, in his turn, was not likely to have high regard for puritanism in any of its manifestations. Even in the severity of morals of the sincerely religious Moliere would be inclined to see exaggeration if not affectation; and to him all affectation was offensive. Even if he had believed in the honesty of purpose of those who advocated a more rigid code of manners and of morals, he would have had scant sympathy for them. The puritan is ever the foe of the playwright; and the playwright is never the friend of the puritan. In 'Twelfth Night,' and in 'Measure for Measure/ Shakspere did not conceal his dislike for the conversation and for the 'TARTUFFE' 171 character of the Puritans; and here is another point of contact between the English Mramatic poet and the French. Shrewd observers of humanity, both of them, spectators of its manifold weaknesses and pettinesses, recorders of its invincible selfishness, Shakspere and Moliere could not help distrusting all those who denounce worldliness and who parade otherworldliness. Their healthy suspicion is shared by many a plain man, and it leads him to look with doubt on the Pharisees who pray at street-corners and who make broad their phylacteries. Shakspere, not less than Moliere, would have smiled with silent approval at La Bruyere's biting assertion that "a man who parades his piety is a man who, under an atheist king, would be an atheist." In matters of religion Moliere was not militant; rather was he tolerant. He conformed to the custom and accomplished the minimum of the duties prescribed by the church. But religion did not interest him greatly; he took it as a matter of course, asking no questions and letting sleeping doctrines lie. Indeed, he cared too little foi these things to feel any hostility toward them. He had few beliefs and fewer illusions. His tempera- ment was not exalted or mystic; and his philosophy was easy-going, commonplace and rooted in common sense. His religion, what there was of it, was of this world, and not of the next. It did not expect too much of man{ a poor creature at best; and it believed in making the most of life, and in enjoying its good things in moderation as occasion served. It rejected and resented any doctrine of the total depravity of man, for it held that humanity generally meanjt well, however completely it might fail of its purpose. It believed in being natural,' as Moliere himself understood nature; and it was afraid to lift man 1 72 MOLIERE aloft into ethereal heights where the moral atmosphere might be too rarefied for him to draw a long breath. In this philosophy of Moliere's, unformulated as it may be, and yet unmistakable in its larger outlines, there was little detachment, and little that was unsub- stantially spiritual. It loved good, no doubt, and it hated evil; but it hated especially the evil which sought to disguise itself by vaunting its own goodness. It had as its basis a morality which was only humdrum at best; and it would have confessed to a fair share of epicure- anism. It may have been derived in some measure from Rabelais and from Montaigne also, skeptics both of them, who also conformed to the usages of the church. To say this is to say that Moliere was not profoundly religious, like his ardent contemporary, Pascal, and also that he was not profoundly irreligious like his early admiration, Lucretius. Rather was he like the gentle and kindly and honest Horace; he had the religion of a man of the world, a religion good enough to guide him through many complexities of conduct, but incapable of sustaining him or strengthening him or even solacing him, in the darker moments of discouragement and conflict, those solemn hours of which Moliere experienced his full share. At the foundation of Moliere's humor there was melan- choly. Despite his exuberance of sheer fun he was at bottom less frolicsome of spirit than Montaigne. He took life as seriously as Pascal; and it may be that he was even sadder at heart. VII When a comic dramatist has as a dominant char- acteristic an abomination of all pretenders, when he has experienced the opposition of the puritans, and when he 'TARTUFFE' 173 is restrained only by the religion of a man of the world, he may easily be tempted to voice anew what Emerson called "the oldest gibe of literature, the ridicule of false religion." And he is likely to overlook or to disregard the warning which Milton phrased solemnly: For neither man nor angel can discern Hypocrisy the only evil that walks Invisible, except to God alone, By His permissive will, through Heaven and Earth. Here indeed is the insuperable difficulty. It is im- possible to set on the stage a religious hypocrite and not lend him the language of piety absolutely the words which he would use if he were sincerely devout. The outward and visible signs must be the same, whether or not the avowedly religious character is speaking in good faith. This cannot fail to strike the truly pious, none too friendly to the theater at best, as a scandalous des- ecration of godly phrases. Furthermore, it suggests to the worldly, willing enough to clutch at the suggestion, that any one who employs this sanctified vocabulary may be a hypocrite. The truly pious suspect this and resent it; and with not a little show of justice they pro- test that an attempt to tear the mask off religious hypoc- risy must necessarily take on the occasional aspect of an assault on religion itself. The truly pious may them- selves abhor hypocrisy, but they are likely also to object to any attempt to expose it in a play; and for this ob- jection there is abundant justification. Furthermore, they cannot help feeling that a comedy like 'Tartuffe' must have been written by an uncongenial spirit, by a man wholly out of sympathy with spiritual sentiment. Sometimes their humility before God is accompanied by 174 MOLIERE a jealous pride before men, which inclines them to see an enemy where they do not find an ally. That the truly pious are not altogether at fault in this attitude is shown by the fact that the opponents of the church hold the same view of the full meaning of 'Tar- tuffe' as is held by the adherents of the church. Those who are aggressively hostile to ecclesiasticism in any form have always shown themselves ready to use Moliere's attack on the pretender to religion as though it were an assault on religion itself. Whenever there has been a tension in the relation of church and state, in Canada under Frontenac, or in England in the days of the non- jurors, then and there has 'Tartuffe' been made to play his part. That this partisan use of the comedy goes far beyond Moliere's intention is obvious, since he put Cleante into the play especially to voice his own respect for those whose piety is as sincere as it is unpretending. Still there is little doubt also that Moliere would not have been greatly annoyed if he could have foreseen what happened. He had combined in 'Tartuffe' the austerity of the Jansenist and the casuistry of the Jesuit; and he must have smiled when he discovered that each sect saw in his play the picture of the other and refused to perceive its own portrait. But he could not have been surprised that neither party really relished his play. CHAPTER X 'DON JUAN' I DURING the months that followed the production of the first three acts of 'Tartuffe/ in May, 1664, Moliere struggled with public disappointment and with private sorrow. One of his intimate friends was the skeptical physician, La Mothe le Vayer; and when that octo- genarian lost his only son, in the early fall, Moliere sent to the grieving father a sonnet of lofty consolation, one of the very few of his minor poems which has come down to us. He accompanied it with a letter, which is almost the sole surviving specimen of his prose not directly con- nected with his work as a dramatist. For his friend's loss he could find words of cheer, little foreseeing that the same bereavement was soon to be his own. His first child, Louis, born in January, 1664, two years after Moliere had wedded Armande Bejart, died in November, on the tenth, the day after the first performance of the 'Princesse d'Elide' at the Palais- Royal. The funeral took place the next day; and on the morrow the stricken parents had again to play their parts in the new piece. Moliere's health was not strong; and he seems to have felt at last the burden of his many duties in the theater. To the trustworthy La Grange he now relinquished the post of orator of the company, 176 MOLIERE which he had held since the distant days when the com- pany had been strollers in the south of France. It may be noted that Moliere's sister died in the follow- ing April; and also that his second child, Madeleine, the only one who was to survive him, was born in the following August. It is pleasant to record furtjher that in this winter of public contention and of private grief, Moliere may have found relief in the agreeable gather- ings at Boileau's which gave him the consoling companion- ship of Boileau himself, of La Fontaine and of the young Racine. It was in June, 1664, that he brought out Racine's first play, the 'Thebaide/ to be followed in December, 1665, by a second, the 'Alexandre/ which its ambitious and ungrateful author was surreptitiously to take over to a rival company. Tradition tells us that Shakspere opened the stage-door to Ben Jonson, as Mo- liere opened it to Racine; but Ben Jonson, self-willed as he was, did not turn against the elder author who lent him a helping hand in his eager youth. II The company had brought back to Paris a few of the comic and tragic plays by the older dramatists in which it had won success in the provinces, and it gladly wel- comed new pieces by younger writers; yet its main dependence was ever on Moliere's own comedies. This is made plain by La Grange's register in which the pro- gram of every performance is set down. When the com- pany went to one or another of the royal palaces to give a series of performances for the king and the court, plays by any other dramatist than Moliere were very rarely included in the list. He was the stock-playwright 'DON JUAN' 177 of the Palais-Royal, as Shakspere had been the stock- playwright of the Globe. As author no less than as actor, Moliere was the mainstay of the enterprise; and his comrades kept looking to him to keep them supplied with new plays to attract the Parisian playgoers. It was a severe disappointment to him that 'Tartuffe/ the most original and the most effective comedy he had yet written, could not be performed in Paris; but to his associates, as well as to him, this deprivation was also a pecuniary damage. It left the theater without any novelty to proffer; and the company had to do the best it could with plays of which the public might be begin- ning to weary. For a while, Moliere seems to have hoped that the royal interdict on 'Tartuffe' would be raised; and it was not until early in the next year that he made ready a new play to take the place of the forbidden comedy. His choice of a subject for this new piece re- veals his desire to meet the wishes of his comrades and to supply the theater with an alluring spectacle. The legend of Don Juan had been set on the stage in Spain; and the Italian comedians had promptly borrowed the Spanish play. It had achieved immediate popularity wherever it was performed, partly in consequence of its picturesque and powerful story, and partly in consequence of its spectacular effects, the coming to life of a marble statue, and the descent of the blasphemous hero into the flames of hell. The original Spanish drama may have been presented in Paris by one or another of the Spanish companies which had come to France from time to time. An Italian alteration had been produced by the company which shared the Palais-Royal with Moliere and his comrades. Two different French adaptations had been performed in Paris, one of them at the Hotel de Bour- 178 MOLIERE gogne. Moliere was justified in believing that if he should prepare a version in his turn, it would be assured in advance of a hearty welcome from the spectacle-loving playgoers. He no more shrank from the task of making over a popular play than Shakspere had hesitated to handle anew the worn material of 'Henry IV and 'Henry V.' We may doubt whether a lyrical legend, evolved by Spanish mysticism and tricked out with sensational trappings, would ever have tempted Moliere for its own sake; it was too foreign to his temperament to have allured him, if there had not been pressing need of a new play to serve as a stop-gap until 'Tartuffe' might be performed again. Chappuzeau, the contemporary his- torian of the French theater, cited Moliere as a rapid writer, who "could prepare in a few days a play that was greatly followed"; and Moliere may have rapidly made ready the easy prose of his new version of the old story. Even if the impulse to write 'Don Juan' was external, he did not shirk the labor needed to make the play as interesting as might be; and he seized the occasion to carry on the attack on hypocrisy which he had begun in L. 'Tartuffe.' 'Don Juan' was first acted at the Palais-Royal in February, 1665; and it was performed fifteen times in the following five weeks before the theater closed. These performances were highly profitable; and there is no rea- son to doubt that the popularity of the piece would have kept it in the repertory for several seasons. But its career was cut short after this fifteenth performance. It had aroused a bitterness of animosity almost equal to that evoked by 'Tartuffe.' The malignant assault of a bigoted lawyer on 'Don Juan' was quite as offensive as 'DON JUAN' 179 that made on 'Tartuffe' by a bigoted priest. To this attack friends of Moliere retorted; but the play was held to be dangerous by those who had been shocked at the boldness of 'Tartuffe/ All this leads to the conviction that the author must have received a royal hint not to bring the play forward when the theater reopened; and it is possible that this withdrawal of 'Don Juan* was made a condition for the ultimate approval of 'Tartuffe/ It is noteworthy that Moliere, who was unceasing in his demands on the monarch for permission to perform the comedy which lay close to his heart, made no public protest against the suppression of his later adaptation from the Italian-Spanish, although this could not but cut into the profits of the theater. Probably he was satisfied that the king had made amends pecuniarily, when the company was taken directly under the royal patronage with a comfortable annual subsidy. And possibly he was not greatly interested in 'Don Juan/ looking down on it as merely a job of hack-work, done under pressure of necessity to please his fellow-actors. He may have felt that this version of a Spanish story, not really congenial in its theme, was not representative of the kind of work he was anxious to produce. Very likely he would not have been indignant if he could have foreseen that only four years after his death, the younger Corneille would be employed to turn his alert and vivid prose into tame alexandrines and at the same time to make the play harmless by smoothing away the traces of Moliere's indignation with hypocrisy. 1 86 MOLIERE III Although Moliere chose to call 'Don Juan' a comedy, it is not comic in its theme, and the laughter it may arouse is evoked only by episodic incidents here and there. The original Spanish play was a high-flown, lyrical melodrama, full of religious fervor. The Italian adaptations had retained the central situations, while warping the story to fit the traditions of the comedy- they had attenuated the perfervid romanticism ofjthe original, and they had elaborated the_ low-corn ejy part and airihose passageswhere they felt at liberty to be^r^nny. Moliere followed^ one or another of these Italian versions^ or of the earlier French adaptations of these Italian pieces; and he may not have been familiar with the Spanish original. He simplified the tangled sequence of events; yet he could not but be subject to his source; and he was unable to give to the story the logi- cal unity of 'Tartuffe' and of the 'Misanthrope/ The piece remains almost as loose-jointed as an English chronicle-play, 'Richard III,' for example to which, indeed, it has more than a superficial likeness. jt_ is a string of detached episodes, exhibiting successive facets of Don Juan's character and leading up to the banquet with the^statue and to the hery ingulfing of the wicked herpT^ The construction being ratheF fragmentary, the sole unity is in the development of the character of the hero; but Molierewas able to bring the SpanishjtajiaiL-&tQJX^ into a Crtain^nformit)Twith ibe con temporary customs of the French theater. He made no reference to the passage of time; and therefore the several intrigues of Don Juan may be supposed to have taken place all within the limits of twenty-four hours or a little longer. He 'DON JUAN' 181 changes the scenery only between the acts and he leaves these backgrounds rather indeterminate. He entrusted the impersonation of Don Juan to La Grange; and him- self took the part of the hero's servant, whom he called Sganarelle. The opening of the play is a skilful specimen of ex- position, an adroit preparation for all that was to come after. To one of the minor characters Sganarelle sets forth what manner of man his master really is, declaring that "a great lord who is a wicked man, is a terrible thing." And immediately thereafter Don Juan, with characteristic cynicism, sets forth his own theory of life, appalling in its selfishness. This immoral code is then shown in action, when Don Juan repulses one of his victims, Elvire 2 _whQ.m hp hag gprhir^d fjrjom^a^ convent, and whom he now casts from him without disguising his impertinenT disregard for her feelings v In the second act we see him at work, cajoling two peasant girls and in making each of them believe that she is his choice, even when they both claim him at once. In the third act he rescues one of Elvire's brothers from an attack by robbers; and thenfinding himself in front of the tomb of the Cony manderwhom he had killed a few months earlier, he orders Sganarelle to invite the statue of the dead man to jupper. The statue bows his head in acceptance of the invitation. In the fourth act Don Juan humorously pacifies an insistent creditor, and listens impatiently to his father, who predicts divine vengeance on his incessant wickedness. Elvire, who has now made her peace with heaven, appeals to him to repent while there is yet time. Finally, the ^statue of the Commander comes_to_ujpper, and then in- jc nrt cf t^ sup with him th^ n^rt night 7 And in the , i8 2 MOLIERE fifth and last act, Don Juan gives another proof of his impenitence by turning hypocrite and by pretending to have seen the error of his ways. He even pleads his conversion when a brother of Elvire insists on his marry- ing his victim or giving to her champion the satisfaction of a gentleman. Then a ghost appears and changes into Time with its scythe. At last the statue of the Com- mander enters, T^glL^ ] jgh tn i ng JLa&kgg an (\ ^ fa* m ing chasm opens and Don Juan is precipitated to hell. Sgan- arelle briefly points the moral and the play is over. IV From this outline of the story it is clear that 'Don Juan' cannot be considered a well-knit play, when it is tried by any severe standard of dramaturgy. Its action is casual and inconsequent, with more than one incident which is quite unnecessary. Having undertaken to make over a play of proved popularity, Moliere contented^ himself with adapting or transposing the Spanish-Italian stojy^ he^jidjiot assimilate it and make it his own ab- sobitfily. Possibly he did not feel free to modify the plot too much, and possibly again his heart was not in his work, since its subject matter was not really to his own liking. It :was_j^_jhpmp romantic and fantastic; and with these characteristics Moliere had little sympathy. His ^wn jglish was ever for the concrete realities of life. He liked to deal with the men and women he saw around him in his own country and in his own time. His own taste would never have led him to make a play having for its hero a remote and legendary character. This must be admitted frankly, and 'Don Juan* must be considered primarily as a piece of hack-work accom- 'DON JUAN' 183 plished to meet special conditions in the theater; none the less the play demands discussion, if not as one of Moliere's masterpieces, at least as a striking product of his genius. Just as Shakspere took over the earlier 'Hamlet/ preserving its plot intact, and then elevated it by purging away its baser horrors and by filling it with his own ampler poetry and philosophy and psychology, so Moliere took over 'Don Juan' a far less congenial subject for him than 'Hamlet' had been for Shakspere, who had a leaning toward the supernatural and elevated it by a transformation of Don Juan himself. The shallow jdiaracter of the universal lover, mocking heaven and \ going to "Hell, disappears, to bej-eplaced by the terrifying portrait of a great lord who is a wicked man. It is in the projection of this sinister personality that Moliere put forth his full strength; and it is because of his portrayal of the steely iniquity of Don Juan, because Don Juan himself is a figure of incarnate evil, to be set by the side of lago, that this play ranks itself by the side of 'Tar- tuffe.' And we can now see that the subject which Moliere chose because of its spectacular element, he so handled that these spectacular elements ceased to be significant or even important. In several of the plays written between the first appear- ance of 'Tartuffe' before the king and its final produc- tion five years later in the Palais-Royal, one can perceive the same impulse which had driven Moliere to compose 'TartufFe' itself; and in some of them we can discover traces of his disgust at the interdiction of his great com- edy. Perhaps he might never have written 'Don Juan' if 'TartufFe' had not been prohibited; and probably this prohibition is partly responsible for the deeper traits of Don Juan himself. i8 4 MOLIERE is the embodiment of primitive sejomMn- nct, selfish, lawless, and corrupting Advancing civili- ation has found it needful to control this instinct^ and the insatiable seducer has come under the ban of morals and of religion which certifies morality. And therefore Don Juan is moved in his turn to scout religion and to see only hypocrisy in any manifestation of morality. He has shifting caprices and perverted desires; but his in- grained selfishness keeps him cold to the sufferings of victims perhaps it even leads him to find a voluptu- ous satisfaction in their writhings. His amorous egotism, joying in the dexterity of his devices, makes him proud of his inconstancy, as an evidence of his superiority over the rest of mankind. It is this type of essential energy, however misguided and misplaced, that Moliere sets on the stage with deep erstanding of its possibilities. The dramatist lends to his frightful yet fascinating hero the finer qualities which belong to the type; and his Don Juan is no mere butterfly wooer of maid, wife and widow; he is gay and clever, quick-witted and sharp-tongued. Above all he is brave; this much at least must be counted to his credit that he is devoid of fear. A type of essential energy could not be a coward; and Don Juan has a bravura bravery, Ie displays an unconquerable courage in the f*C^ nf...A>atTi ar^iT^fJTfijj^pRjftnrp of damnation. He has a final impenitence in full view of eternity which may lend to him for the moment a likeness to Milton's Satan. We are made to see Don Juan not only as he appears before us, but also as he reveals himself to the servant who has witnessed his misdeeds and who knows his secrets. Moliere found this humble companion of the 'DON JUAN' 185 hero in his Spanish-Italian original, wherein he was no more than ^low-comedy part, a mere fun-maker, like a h u n dred other clowns ? expected_jo get his laughs at all hay.arHsjn order tn rpliVvp the snmhpr rnmpWinn nf the main story. This low-comedy part Moliere transposed for his own acting; and he called it Sganarelle, although the character differs widely from any Sganarelle pre- sented in the earlier plays in which he appears. _He is no longer the obstinate creature whom we have already laughed gf again xnA sgsLo He is now a cowardly j/' servant endowed with penetrating shrewdness. He has the hard-headed simplicity of Sancho Panza; and it is he who acts as chorus, and who here serves as the mouth- piece of the author. His duty it is, not only to enliven the action by his blunders and by his jests but also to comment on what takes place, and to suggest to the f spectators the repugnance which they ought to feel for the eternally charming hero, so handsome and so brave, so cruel and so callous. It is Sganarelle who brings out the moral again and again in the course of the play. ' V Rarely has the morality of a play been confided to a / /character to whom we more willingly listen, for all that * he is timorous, mendacious and servile. He is the em- bodiment of French common sense, as Don Juan is the incarnation of French wickedness. And all the other characters in the play are equally swift to reveal their birth in France, even though they take part in a Spanish story with its scene laid in Italy. Moliere took a Spanish legend, rilled with characters fundamentally Spanish, and he made it French. He i86 MOLIERE allowed the action of his play to take place in an alleged Sicily, but the persons of his piece are French, all of them, inherently French. Shakspere had also laid the scene of a story in an alleged Sicily, but his Beatrice and his Benedick are quite as English as his Dogberry and Verges. Shakspere and Moliere, both of them, reproduced char- acters they knew at first hand, and made no vain effort after local color; neither of them fatigued himself in an idle endeavor to step off his own shadow. Alien as the theme of ' Don Juan ' might be to his sympathy, Moliere modified it to suit his own intention; and then peopled the borrowed legend with characters like those he had observed himself in the capital and in the provinces. He puts into the mouths of the peasant girls and of the country bumpkin who is in love with one of them, a pro- vincial dialect such as he had picked up in the days of his strolling. And his knowledge of the peasant, male and female, goes far deeper than mere dialect, for he was familiar also with their modes of thought, with their narrow-mindedness and their obstinacy. The creditor whom Don Juan wheedles is a worthy burgher of Paris, a contemporary of Moliere's father. The outraged Elvire might have stalked straight out of one of Cor- neille's lofty tragedies, and so might her fiery and eloquent brothers. Don Juan's father is a gentleman of the old school, austere and unbending, a survival from the rule of Louis XIII, such as Moliere may often have met in his father's shop. And Don Juan has suffered a change in crossing the Pyrenees and the Alps. Heisajvery_different figure_iii Moliere's play from the rather vnlgarjTem..vi]jajn of the turEidand violent Spamsh__piece t Less affected and less artificially lyric, he has become more truly poetic. 'DON JUAN' 187 Above all, he has gained in distinction; he is now a gentle- man, in externals at least, in breeding, in courage, and in overbearing self-confidence. Moliere had not to go far afield in search of a model. There were a host of young gallants at the court of Louis XIV, who might have sat for the portrait well-born, graceful and unscrupulous. The comic dramatist was no respecter of persons, no flatterer of rank. He might be the servant of the king, but he was not a blind admirer of the king's courtiers. In play after play he had made fun of these danglers after the person of the monarch; in the 'Facheux' he had etched a gallery of grotesques, and now he held up to scorn where all the world might see, burgher as well as courtier, a figure more despicable and more dangerous, the great lord who is a wicked man. Here is an appalling portrayal of impious selfishness and of mocking cynicism, never more splendidly set forth than in the episodic scene in which Don Juan seeks to tempt a hapless beggar into blasphemy, only to be rebuked by the simple piety of the poor man, to whom, at last, he flings his proffered coin "for the love of humanity." He was here aiming at a loftier mark than the precieuses and the pedants, the bigots and the hypocrites. It had taken courage to do what he had done before; and no other dramatist of that day had dared to follow in his footsteps. To do what he did in 'Don Juan' revealed a deeper audacity; and there is no need to wonder why the career of the play was cut short. VI Spanish origmal was religious; its author was sincerely devout; he in- tended his drama to be edifying; and his ingenious piece i88 MOLIERE had a close kinship with 'Life is a Dream/ with the 'Devotion to the Cross' and with other examples of^Cal- nf combining mystic emQtionaljsmwM-h lar ijipatrirfllify^ This religious impulse was^no,, longer potent in the adaptations of the Italians, whose devotion had little spirituality and who preferred to de- velop all the comic possibilities of the plot. In the two French versions which preceded Moliere's, and which he laid under contribution as was his custom, the spectacu- lar element was emphasized and the characters remained unreal and exaggerated. It was left for Moliere to sharpen the outlines of these characters, to make them obey the logic of their own natures, to give them the reality which they lacked. Keeping as much as he must of the framework of the legend, Moliere profoundly modifies the figures involved in it, by making them veracious, by bringing them back to our common humanity. In endowing them with vitality, he enlarges their significance and he makes possible the later cosmopolitan travels of Don Juan. The Spanish quality of the play disappears or is at least greatly reduced; and the subject is made French, with the gravity which the French derived from the Latins and with the gaiety which descends to them from the Gauls. Thus enlarged, thus lifted up, the theme became capable of universality, and it was ready to wander from land to land and from art to art. A story essentially jTLgdieval 1 thusjbecame modern and-CQ^mopoljtai} . It is the Don Juan of Moliere who is the immediate ancestor of the conscienceless_Jascinator of Byron aruL Merimee. of Mozart and Musset. It is to Moliere that the perversely attractive figure of Don^u^n owes its elevation,, its largeness, its mnjur meaning/ It is ^n^ DON JUAN' 189 play that the real Don Jngn r as now in story, in song and in picture, f^rst emerges a freethinker and a libertine, an atheist who is also a hypo- crite, a lordly seducer whose desire after woman is physical, of course, but psychological also, and to almost an equal extent. It is in Moliere's play that we first find the virtuoso in seduction, whose insatiable curiosity causes him to take keener pleasure in the delayed pursuit than in the ultimate possession, and who is therefore con- demned to lose all interest in his conquest as soon as the final resistance is overcome. It is in Moliere's play that we can first perceive the Don Juan who devotes his life to loving, who (because he loves every woman equally) loves no one of them with all the unforgetable appeal of an overmastering passion, and who therefore has to die without ever suspecting what love may be. It is only after Moliere rehandled the legend that the .supernatural element out of which the story had arisen originally lost its importance and became^ indeed almost negligible. Thereafter what holds our attention and focuses our interest is not what happens to Don Juan, but what Jie is^ He ceases to be a mere wooer at large, commonplace and unconvincing. He fixes himself in our memories as a human being, immeshed in the realities of life, subtler than his Spanish-Italian forerunner, more N| significant and far more sinister^ Moliere may have composed 'Don Juan' in haste to serve a temporary purpose, accepting a theme which he might never have chosen of his own free will, and his conduct of his plot may be as careless as his construction is straggling, but he here revealed a power of dealing with the deeper aspects of human nature, a power not displayed as pro- foundly in any other of his plays. CHAPTER XI MOLIERE AND THE DOCTORS EARLY in the fall of this same year Louis XIV again called upon Moliere to minister swiftly to his pleasure, and the dramatist responded with a celerity which was extraordinary even for him. In five days he devised, wrote, rehearsed and produced a comedy-ballet, the 'Amour Medecin,' which was acted before the king at Versailles in the middle of September, 1665, and brought out at the Palais-Royal a few days later. It was in prose and in three acts, but by omitting the interludes of danc- ing it could be presented easily as a single act. In this merry trifle, improvised hastily at the monarch's desire, Moliere returned to the familiar and convenient frame- work of the comedy-of-masks. The action takes place in the open air in front of the house of Sganarelle. The plot of the little play is as simple as may be; but however slight in texture it is sufficient for its immediate purpose. Moliere himself appeared as Sganarelle, not here the shrewd servant of 'Don Juan,' but the more narrow-minded and obstinate type seen earlier in the 'Ecole des Maris.' He is now a widower with one daughter, Lucinde (probably impersonated by Mademoi- selle Moliere). The father wishes to keep his daughter for himself, but the daughter prefers to be married to a 190 MOLIERE AND THE DOCTORS 191 young man who has sought her hand, Clitandre (acted by La Grange). She pretends to be ill and Sganarelle seeks advice, first from various friends, and then finally from four physicians called in consultation upon her case. The doctors disagree, and two of them, after pro- posing radically different treatments, quarrel violently. A little later Lisette, the maid, brings in Clitandre dis- guised as a physician. The young lover deceives the father into consenting to his daughter's marriage, Sgan- arelle supposing that this is only a pretense, likely to arouse Lucinde out of her melancholy. When he discov- ers that she is really wedded to Clitandre the play is over. This unpretending little farce, significant only as an example of Moliere's fertility and facility, is brisk and lively in its movement. It was probably effective enough on the stage when performed by Moliere and his com- rades; and it is in the theater that its merits would be most evident. In the preface, wherein the author ex- plains that the piece was written to order at topmost speed, Moliere modestly asserts that it contained much which was dependent chiefly on the skill of the performers. And he adds a remark characteristic of the professional playwright who has planned his work for the actual theater: "Every one knows that comedies are written only to be acted." But the interest of this amusing little piece when it was first performed did not lie in the adroitness of the acting or in the humorous ingenuity of its situations; it resided rather in the four physicians who meet^in_ con- sultation. To us in the twentieth century they seem to be artfully contrasted types of the practitioners of medicine '. of those remote days; but to the Parisian playgoers in the later seventeenth century they were recognizable carica- 192 MOLIERE tures of living men, somewhat exaggerated portrayals of four of the leading doctors of the court, each of them endowed with the individual peculiarities of the original. This was an Aristophanic license of personal caricature, which is here without offense or ill-will, for Moliere was not here attacking the persons or the characters of these physicians. He was using them only as the means of showing up the hollowness of the pretensions of the whole medical profession of his own day. II It was in 'Don Juan' that Moliere had first girded at the practitioners of the healing art. When Don Juan and Sganarelle have to disguise themselves, the latter appears in the flowing robe of a physician, giving his master an occasion for a few bitter gibes against the doctors; and this shocks Sganarelle, horrified to find that Don Juan, a skeptic in religion, is also a skeptic in medicine. It was in the 'Amour Medecin' that Moliere first declared open war against the faculty, that guerrilla warfare which he was to keep up for the rest of his life, returning to the attack in play after play, as though he were as bitter against the doctors as he was against the pedants and the hypocrites. The explanation of this . hostility is to be found in the fact that Moliere held the physicians of his time to be both pedants and hypocrites. For affectation in all its phases, for pretenders of every kind, for humbugs of all sorts, Moliere had a keen eye and a hearty detestation. On them and on them only he was always swift to pour the vials of his wrath; and he was never moved to assault unless his hostile contempt was awakened by his acute instinct for a sham. MOLIERE AND THE DOCTORS 193 In every period there are certain callings or professions, as the case may be, which the average man of that epoch delights in abusing; and we are not to-day prompter to make fun of the plumber than the people of the Middle Ages were to crack jokes at the expense of the miller. The source of the irritation which thus seeks vent in humorous girding is the same: it is the result of our knowledge that we cannot control the accounts rendered by the miller and b^the plumber. We must accept them as they are rendered; and the only revenge open to us is to take away the character of the craftsman who has us at his mercy and whom we cannot help suspecting. In all ages, at least ever since law and medicine were first recognized as professions, the average man has been prone to resent the air of mystery assumed by the lawyers and the phy- sicians, and to be annoyed by their professional self- assertion. Hosts of merry jests, directed at the conceit of the members of these two professions, have been handed down from century to century or are born again by spontaneous generation. Moliere's immediate predecessors in the comic drama, the French farce-writers and the devisers of the Italian comedy-of-masks, had drawn unhesitatingly from the inexhaustible arsenal of missiles directed against the two professions; and in attacking the practitioners of medicine Moliere was only doing again what had been done before him. And here the question imposes itself, Why did he neglect the lawyers to concentrate his fire on the doctors ? The answer is not far to seek; the lawyers, whatever faults they might have, were not impostors, and Moliere's resentment is fierce only against a humbug. The law might lend itself to chicanery, and to annoying delay and ultimate injustice, its procedure might be complicated i 9 4 MOLIERE and vexations; but the lawyers did not pretend to be in possession of mysterious secrets, and they did their work in the open for all men to see. The physicians made the most exalted claims for their art and they demanded to be taken on faith, however helplessly their practice might fall below their preaching. Ordinarily the lawyer deals only with losses of money; and he does not lay hands upon the body nor require us to submit our minds to his that he may control our bodies. And this is what the physi- cian does now, always has done, and must always do. This is therefore why the practice of the law, sharply as we may dwell on its defects, does not come home to us as closely as the practice of medicine, which must ever be a matter of life and death. But there were also special reasons peculiar to his own period why Moliere was moved to pour out his contempt on the physicians. The reign of Louis XIV 'marks what is perhaps the lowest point in the history of fnedicine in France, far lower than it had been a century earlier when Rabelais had studied the art of healing. The men who represented medicine were narrow and bigoted conservatives, accepting blindly all that they had inherited from the ancients and refusing resolutely to depart from the practices of their forefathers. They re- jected every new discovery without investigation, scout- ing it scornfully. They were determined to maintain their ancient landmarks. They believed that medicine was an exact science, that they were the custodians of all its mysteries, and that what they did not know was not knowledge. They held fast to a body of doctrine, a purely theoretic conception of their art, which was almost as closely reasoned and as compactly coordinated as was the contemporary doctrine of Calvin in matters of MOLIERE AND THE DOCTORS 195 religion. Behind this they intrenched themselves, and in defense of this they were prepared to die in the last ditch and to let their patients die also. In Paris the faculty of medicine was a close corpora- tion, bound together by the loyal traditions of a trade- gild and possessing a solidarity more substantial than that of any modern trade-union. There were only about a hundred physicians in the capital and not more than four were admitted in any one year. The cost of a medical education was onerous, and therefore the faculty was recruited only from the middle class. At the ex- aminations special privileges were granted to the sons of physicians; and the profession thus tended to be heredi- tary, with all the obvious disadvantages of persistent inbreeding. The training of the youthful aspirant to the doctorate was philosophic, not to say scholastic; and the questions propounded to the candidate were often foolish. Medicine was not considered as an art, neces- sarily more or less empirical, but rather as an exact science, lending itself abundantly to scholarly disputation. The doctors were generally more interested in medicine as a code of tradition, and in their own strict obedience to its precepts and precedents, than they were in the art of healing and in the condition of the individual patient. They were indeed far more conservative than the ancients whom they bound themselves to follow; and the oath of Hippocrates had a large liberality which was lacking in the pledge subscribed by the young doctor in Paris, which was little more than a promise ever to defend sturdily the rights of the faculty itself. The Parisian faculty of medicine rejected the circula- tion of the blood, as we are told by one historian of medi- cine in France, because this came from England, and 196 MOLIERE also the use of antimony and of quinine, because one came from Montpellier and the other from America. It refused to have anything whatever to do with surgery, which it despised; and students of medicine were not allowed to dissect. The physicians held surgery to be a mere manual art, unworthy of a learned profession. Any physician who had ever practised surgery was re- quired to promise that he would never again descend to this craft fit only for an artisan. There were numberless other absurdities accepted by nearly all the physicians of the time. Bleeding and purging were, of course, the foremost of remedies, since they were necessary to rid the body of its "humors/ 1 Patients took medicine or were purged not only for any ailment they had but also for the ailments they might have in the future, merely as a precautionary measure. And to these ridiculous prac- tices every one who consulted a physician had to submit, including the king himself. Ill Since these absurdities and artificialities were patent to all, Moliere could not help seeing them. He was moved to mirthful indignation by the empty pretensions of the physicians. He might not know better than any other layman what ought to be done; but he was too sharp-sighted and keen-witted not to see that these things ought not to be done. He had also here as elsewhere an abiding faith in the power of nature to take care of itself and to work out its own salvation. This led him to abhor the endless drugging which every physician then resorted to. It led him also to anticipate the modern practice of letting a disease run its course. In the * Amour MOLIERE AND THE DOCTORS 197 Medecin' the nimble-tongued Lisette tells how the house- hold cat had recovered from a fall into the street, after lying three days without eating and without moving a paw; and then she adds that there are no cat-physicians, luckily for the cat, or it would have died from their purg- ings and bleedings. A similar attitude is taken by other characters in the later plays, in which Moliere returned again to the attack. Moliere had had thorough instruction in the official philosophy, as the Jesuits imparted it to their students; and he had been made familiar with a more modern school of thought by Gassendi. He was by training fitted to understand the philosophic foundation on which were raised all the theories promulgated by the faculty of medicine; and his objection to the practices of the French physicians of his time seems to be due not more to the absurdity of these practices than to the absurdity of the philosophy which justified them. He did his own thinking in his own fashion; and he was not a blind worshiper of authority. He was not overawed by the revered name of Hippocrates, outside of which there was no health. Even the citing of Aristotle was not to him conclusive, if his own observation revealed to him an experience not obviously in accord with the saying of the great Greek. It is not without significance! that he makes one of his characters declare that "the,- ancients are the ancients, and we are the men of to-day." Moliere was no iconoclast, no violent revolutionary, no rejecter of tradition solely because it was an inheritance. On the other hand, he was ready to prove all things so that he might hold fast that which was good. So it was that he detested vain theorizing, and the building up of formulas and of classifications into rigid systems, false 198 MOLIERE to the facts of life as he saw them with his own eyes. The medicine of his day was a rigid system of this sort; and the moment he perceived this clearly he could not help exposing it. But his detestation of the contemporary perversions of the doctrines of Hippocrates and of Galen did not lead him to misrepresent them. On the contrary, he strove to reproduce them with the most conscientious exactness. If the discussions of his doctors, their dissertations, their disputations, seem to us almost inconceivably ridiculous, this is because Moliere had assimilated the theory that sustained them and had absorbed the vocabulary in which they were habitually set forth. To bring forth abundant laughter all that Moliere had to do was to show the doctors in action, to isolate this principle and that, and to set this forth in their own jargon, with only the slight heightening necessary to make it clear. The result is inevitably laughable, because of the fundamental ab- surdity of the originals thus faithfully portrayed. The scholars who have investigated the history of medicine in France are united in their admiration for the accuracy with which Moliere has dealt with the doctrines he was denouncing. They have constant praise for the certainty with which he seized the spirit that animated the French physicians of the seventeenth century, and for the skill with which he caught the very accent of their speech. His was no haphazard criticism; ' it was rooted in knowledge. The consultation in 'Monsieur de Pour- ceaugnac' is declared to be almost phonographic in its verisimilitude. Even when the comic dramatist was moved to frank caricature and overt burlesque as in the ceremony of the 'Malade Imaginaire/ he was only exag- gerating what actually took place on similar occasions. MOLIERE AND THE DOCTORS 199 His satire, however grotesque it may seem, however broadly humorous, has philosophic truth to sustain it. IV Moliere put into the 'Amour Medecin' four figures of fun which his contemporaries recognized as copied from certain of the more prominent physicians of Paris; but there was no bitterness of personality in this. It was the whole faculty he was attacking and the spirit that governed this trade-gild of those who trafficked in medicine. He had no quarrel with any individual doctor; indeed, he was on the best of terms with several practitioners of the healing art with La Mothe Le Vayer, for one, with Bernier, for another, and with his own doctor, Mauvillain. The only favor that Moliere ever craved from the sovereign was that a vacant canonry might be bestowed on Mauvillain's son. This request he addressed to the king on the joyful day when Louis XIV at last permitted the public performances of 'Tartuffe.' In his appeal he told the monarch that the physician had promised and was ready to bind himself under oath to keep his patient alive for thirty years if this boon could be obtained from the monarch. The petitioner explained that he had not demanded so much and that he would be satisfied if the doctor merely promised not to kill him. Grimarest recorded that the king once asked Moliere how he got along with his physician, and that the dramatist answered, "Sire, we talk together; he prescribes remedies for me; I do not take them; and I get well." These talks together were probably the source of Moliere's accurate and intimate acquaintance with the principles, the procedure, and the vocabulary of contem- 200 MOLIERE porary medicine. Mauvillain was a man of marked individuality, who had had his own troubles in his youth, but who rose in time to be dean of the faculty. Ardent defender of the rights of his gild, he seems to have had a sense of humor; and it may be that he took a malicious pleasure in supplying Moliere with material for caricaturing other members of the faculty and even the faculty itself. Moliere's uncertain health must often have given oc- casion for these talks with Mauvillain; and although he may have told the king that he did not take the remedies his physician prescribed, it is a fact that when he died he owed a heavy bill to his apothecary. That his health was uncertain is beyond all question. His lungs were weak, and he had a chronic cough, which he even gave as a peculiarity to one of the later characters he wrote for his own acting. He came of a feeble stock; his mother died young and few of her children attained long life. Moliere's younger brother died before he did, and he himself was to survive only until he was fifty-one. Two of his three children died before him; and his only surviving child, a daughter, died at last without leaving issue. It is only after he became conscious that his health ivas failing and after he had to call on physicians for relief, only then that he began to make fun of them, when he had had personal experience of the futility of their efforts. Perhaps we may find the exciting cause of his hostility to the contemporary practice of medicine in the inability of the contemporary practitioners to alleviate his own ailments and to restore him to strength. He continued his attacks on them to the end of his life; and the last play he lived to produce, the 'Malade Imaginaire/ was It IS MOLIERE AND THE DOCTORS 201 contained the most vigorous of all his assaults, far more searching than the comparatively mild satire of the 'Amour Medecin.' Early in the very winter when this little play was in the flush of its success the theater had to be closed for nearly two months, partly because of the death of the queen-mother and partly because of Moliere's own ill- health. That he was not in the full possession of his powers at this period of his career seems to be proved by the unusually long interval which elapsed between the production of 'Don Juan' and the first perform- ance of his next important play, the 'Misanthrope/ a period of sixteen months, broken only by the improv- isation of the 'Amour Medecin' in five days. It is true that he was still constantly hoping for the removal of the interdict on 'Tartuffe,' and that this hope may have delayed his undertaking a new play. But the delay is significant, none the less, since Moliere was always a swift worker, and since he had the abundant productivity of affluent genius. Once, at least, he brought out three of his larger plays within the space of a single calendar year. The total number of his pieces and also the aver- age of his annual production, may be compared with Shakspere's. The English dramatist, as it happens, gave up playwriting when he was about the age at which the French dramatist had his career cut short by death. But Shakspere's work was spread over a longer period of time than that of Moliere, whose achievement was concentrated within the final fifteen years of his life, from thirty-six to fifty-one. CHAPTER XII THE 'MISANTHROPE* I THE play which Moliere produced after this pro- tracted interval was worth waiting for; and it may well have demanded an unusual time for its conception, its construction and its verbal perfecting. It was the 'Mis- anthrope,' a comedy in five acts, in verse, brought out at the Palais-Royal in June, i^^ when Moliere was forty- four years old, and in the ripe plenitude of his powers. This new play, long in its incubation, was composed while its author was undergoing unusual strain. He was not in good health and he was worn by the deferred hope that 'Tartuffe' might still be permitted; and it is easy to perceive the^ffects of this struggle agal in the 'Misanthrope/ He was also suffering from discord in his own household. The incompatibility of temper between himself and his young wife had at last declared itself violently. He loved Armande Bejart passionately and jealously. She appears to have been incapable of appreciating this ardent devotion; and perhaps it is not too much to say that she was unworthy of it. She was light-hearted and headstrong; and she seems to have been rather chilly in temperament. Moreover, Moliere was probably not easy to live with, often silent, sometimes 202 THE 'MISANTHROPE' 203 moody, and always busy. The breach between them had now brought about a temporary separation, although husband and wife had to meet in the theater. Perhaps these daily meetings at rehearsal and during the perform- ances intensified the husband's sufferings; and traces of his exasperation from this cause also can be discovered in the 'Misanthrope/ B^jpostjjrench critics this play of ,MoIiere!s,js held Jto be the loftiest achievement of French comedy, the inap- proachable masterpiece of the foremost of comic drama- tists. This high opinion is shared by many critics of other nationalities. George^ Eliot described jt as "the foremost and most complete production of its kind in the world"; and Lord Morley called it "that inscrutable piece where, without plot, fable or intrigue, we_see_a^ection of the polished life of the time, men and women paying visits, making and receiving compliments, discoursing upon affairs with easy lightness, flitting backwards and forwards with a thousand petty worries, and among them one strange, rough, hoarse, half-somber figure, moving v solitarily with a chilling reality in the midst of a world of shadows." And yet this masterpiece, in which Moliere has most completely expressed himself, did not win the immediate popularity in the theater which had been attained by several of his earlier plays of a far slighter importance. The best judges saw its merits at once and praised it un- hesitatingly; but it had no proportionate attraction for the public as a whole. It was not performed before the king, because the court was in mourning for the queen-mother during the comparatively brief period when the play was kept on the boards. It had an honorable run when first produced, and it remained in the repertory for two or 204 MOLIERE A three seasons; but rarely was it really remunerative to the treasury of the theater. And in the two centuries and a half since it was first seen, it has never proved as in- teresting to the plain playgoers as have other of its au- thor's comedies which are far less highly acclaimed. Every French comedian of distinction has aspired to play Alceste, as every English tragedian of distinction has aspired to play Hamlet; but whereas Shakspere's master- piece sustains the actor, even if he is not really equal to its performance, Moliere's masterpiece, even if it richly rewards the efforts of the actor, rarely arouses the en- thusiasm of an average audience. The reason for this relative failure of the 1 public to re- spond to Moliere's noblest achievement is not far to seek. The ( Misanthrope' lacks the powerful structure of *Tar- tuffe,' and the variety of incident of 'Don Juan.' As Lord Morley put it, perhaps a little too strongly, the play is "without plot, fable or intrigue." .Its qualities literary rather than theatric, philosophic and psych logic rather than dramaturgic. On the stage literature must be sustained by drama. If the play itself, the plot, the fable, the intrigue, grips the attention of the spectator, then it can be surcharged with all the philosophy and with all the poetry that the author may please to put into it. But in the theater psychology is never acceptable as a sub- stitute for dramaturgy. And in the composition of the 'Misanthrope,' Moliere for once forgot the lesson which he had learned from the Italians and which he had kept in mind while he was building the solid foundation of 'Tartuffe.' He seems to have been so absorbed-. 1 '" f he x projection of the congenial figure of Alceste that he did not trouble to invent a story strong enough to serve as a supporting frame for it. o- -- .xdi< THE 'MISANTHROPE' 205 So it is that the play, superb as it is, wants progressive intensity of movement. Indeed, it is almost open to the charge of monotony, since its incidents are devised mainly to afford Alceste a succession of opportunities for the dis- t play of his hostile contempt for social hypocrisies. The action of 'Tartuffe' rolls forward steadily with increasing force and with cumulative interest, whereas the action of the 'Misanthrope' may be said to revolve around Alceste himself, leaving most of the characters at the end very much where they were at the beginning; in other words, the 'Misanthrope' is a picture of society, with more or less 1 of the immobility of a painting. Moliere is not only a playwright, he is a philosopher also, as a true dramatist must ever be; and in 'Tartuffe' and in the 'Femmes Savantes/ we can see the philosopher and the playwright working together on equal terms, each aiding the other, whereas in the ' Misanthrope' we suspect that the philos- opher for once got the better of the playwright, tempting him to be satisfied with a story which is at once a little too empty and too episodic. II The history of dramatic literature reveals to us also the significant fact that most successful dramatists, the un- disputed masters of this form of literature, have often begun by being little more than adroit- playwrights, un- ambitiously providing the public with the kind of piece it had been accustomed to enjoy. Thus Shakspere first followed modestly in the footsteps of Marlowe and Kyd, of Lyly and Greene; and thus Moliere himself accepted e model of the unpretending comedy-of-masks. Then, as these authors grow in authority, their ambition wakens 206 MOLIERE and they cease to be imitators. They find themselves able to educate their audience to accept plays richer and deeper than it had desired. They still give the public what it wants, while also giving it what they themselves want. At last, there may come a period in their careers when the need of pleasing the audience is less imperative than their desire to express themselves abundantly and to body forth their own interpretation of life, as they feel it in the full maturity of their genius. And here is the moment of danger, since the more completely a dramatist puts himself into his plays the more likely he is to separate himself more or less from the main body of his contem- poraries, because his own individuality is necessarily set apart from their collective personality. At this stage of his development the dramatist is unex- pectedly lucky if he happens on a plot like that of * Ham- let,' which is broad in its appeal to the myriad-minded public, and yet fit to carry the poet's own message with all its profundities of meaning. And here Moliere was not so fortunate as Shakspere, and the play into which he put the most of himself is far from possessing the many elements of theatrical popularity which we perceive in the play in which Shakspere expressed himself most satisfac- torily. The French dramatist overestimated the ability of the spectators to be interested in what was most inter- esting to him. And it is proof of his ability to profit by experience that he never repeated the mistake he had made in the 'Misanthrope,' as he never repeated the mis- take he had made in 'Don Garcie.' The unwillingness of his public to be entertained by his masterpiece of comedy because it was not supported by a story which gripped their sympathy, served as a warning to him; and in no one of his later plays did he fail to remember it. In these THE 'MISANTHROPE 5 207 subsequent comedies he might do what he wished and say what he wished, but he took care also to provide the spectators with what he knew they expected. Ill In 'Tartuffe' Moliere puts on the stage a family of the middle class. In the ( Misanthrope' he presents a picture of the "best society" of his time, and his characters are courtiers and women of fashion, frequenters of the Louvre ,. and Versailles, claiming acquaintance with the sovereign himself. Appropriately the successive episodes of the play take place in the drawing-room of Celimene, a young widow who has a host of admirers and who seems to be on the point of accepting Alceste, in spite of the violence with which he expresses his abhorrence for the company in which she shines. In the very first scene we behold % Alceste holding forth to his friend, Philinte, who does not disagree with his condemnatory opinion of the circle in which they move, but who disapproves of the exaggeration of Alceste' s speech and action. Philinte is possessed by the social instinct which makes him almost as tolerant to the knave as to the fool. Alceste>is plain-spoken to excess, and sincere almost to absurdity^ When Oronte, another of Celimene's suitors, chances in, and after flatter- ing him elaborately, asks his opinion of a newly written sonnet, Alceste is frank to the verge of brutality, insisting on the worthlessness of the little poem. Oronte is natu- ^^^^"l*. ..... i H - rally outraged by this direct discourtesy. And this is the first act. When the curtain rises again, Alceste is making love to Celimene by jealously protesting against her complacent acceptance of attentions from other of her admirers, Cli- 208 MOLIERE tandre and Acaste. Just then these two are announced; and with them come Philinte also, and Eliante, a cousin of Celimene's, who lives with her, and whose hand Philinte is seeking. Celimene insists upon Alceste's remaining. It is with an indignation that boils over again and again that he listens to the ensuing conversation, in which Celimene takes the lead lightly, as if glad to display her cleverness, and in which she wittily sketches a series of satiric portraits of her acquaintance in the fashion of the time, everyone of them brilliantly colored by her gay malice. (This effective scene obviously served as the model for the similar episode in Sheridan's 'School for Scandal.') Then Alceste is unexpectedly called away to a court of honor, convoked by the insulted Oronte. And this is the second act. When the play begins again we are introduced to a new character, Arsinoe, a mature prude, who also is in love with Alceste, and who is therefore jealous of the woman to whom he is devoted. She has come to have it out with her rival; and there and then the two ladies have a bout with the buttons off, each of them getting home more than once under her adversary's guard. When Alceste returns, Celimene leaves him with Arsinoe, who promptly informs him that she can prove that her rival is engaged in a flirta- tion with one of his rivals, and she carries him off to get the letter which will substantiate her accusation. But before going, she intimates, with unexpected directness, that if he should break off with Celimene, she might be willing to console him herself. And this is the third act. When the interact is over we find Philinte and Eliante in conversation. They both express their high regard for Alceste, and she admits an even tenderer feeling for him. But this does not prevent Philinte from asking her to ac- THE ' MISANTHROPE' 209 cept him in case Alceste should finally marry her cousin. Then Alceste comes back again, infuriated by the letter of~~~ Celimene' s which Arsinoe has given to him. When he is left alone with the woman he loves, he confronts her with the evidence of her duplicity and overwhelms her with reproaches. She meets him calmly and disarms him by asking him what right he has to assume that her letter was written to a man, since it bears no address and it might have been sent to a woman. For this he has no response; and in the ardor of his passion he overrules his suspicion and his jealousy, and urges his suit once more. At this moment his servant comes in to inform him that a paper has been served on him, a paper which obviously refers to an important lawsuit and which the blundering lackey has left at home. Alceste goes perforce to learn what may be the contents of this document. And this is the fourth act. At the opening of the final act Alceste tells Philinte that he has lost his lawsuit, merely because he had refused to comply with the corrupt custom of cajoling the judges. He is highly indignant at this miscarriage of justice, and he refuses to take an appeal, preferring to be a martyr to the iniquity of procedure. Then Oronte appears and asks Celimene to decide once for all between him and Alceste, who accepts the challenge. Celimene refuses to declare herself on a summons so peremptory. Finally Acaste and Clitandre return with Arsinoe. They have got possession of another letter of Celimene's, in which her satiric wit has ]ed Jier to hold all her admirers up to ridicule, one after another, including even Alceste. Thus suddenly betrayed, Celimene expresses her contrition to Alceste, who forgives her on condition that she will give up society and come with him to live in a desert far from 210 MOLIERE the pestilent insincerity of the fashionable world. In spite of her genuine love for Alceste this unattractive pro- posal does not tempt her; and he breaks away to rush forth alone into the solitude which will spare him the spectacle of human meanness, Philinte begs Eliante to accompany him in an effort to dissuade Alceste from this exile. And this is the end of the play. IV The first comment evoked by this meager outline of the 'Misanthrope' is that Moliere's contemporaries acknowl- edged its accuracy as a picture of the "best society" of the time. They would have conceded that it conformed / to the idea of comedy, accepted by Ben Jonson, as "the imitation of life, the mirror of manners and the image of truth." And Taine, in his estimate of the 'Ancien Regime,' continually called upon Moliere as an unim- peachable witness. Now, if it is a fact that this play reproduces, as exactly as a play can reproduce it, the tone of the upper circles of France under Louis XIV, then the second comment inevitably follows, to the effect that the men and women who then moved on that elevated social plane fall far below the standard set for ladies and gentle- men in our own republican times. We can find in this veracious masterpiece ample evidence of the amelioration of manners, if not of morals, during the past two centuries. For it is a sorry spectacle that Moliere invites us to gaze at. Beneath the high polish of that courtly era we can ^^^^^^^^- -JJ j ^_ see the underlying coarseness of fiber. Beneath^ the ^var- nish of politeness there is fundamental vulgarity of feeling and thought and act. Superficially the characters of this comedy may be well-bred, and they display the airs and THE 'MISANTHROPE' 211 graces of people of quality; but at bottom they are almost devoid of common decency, as we understand this to-day. The quarrel of Celimene and Arsinoe is frankly brutal, for all its suavity of phrase; it is not unworthy of two fishwives disputing in the market. Equally gross is the scene in the last act when one marquis abetted by another insults Celimene, in whose house they all are, by reading aloud in her presence a letter written by her, which no gentleman had any right even to glance at with- out her permission, and this unpardonable rudeness calls forth no objection from any of the courtiers present. Ap- parently they saw no harm in this betrayal of ordinary propriety. And in the preceding act, Alceste, the honest Alceste, is guilty of the indefensible indelicacy of making use of another of Celimene's letters, given to him by a jealous woman, who had brazenly avowed her interest in him and who had no right whatever to be in possession of her rival's missive. It is to be remembered that when Moliere paints the so- cial leaders of his time in these black colors and with these bold strokes, he is in agreement with the record of Saint- Simon. The frequenters of the court were not only incon- ceivably petty in their outlook and immeasurably frivolous in their interests, they were also often harsh and heart- less; and here they had an example in Louis XIV, who was icily callous in his indifference to others. There was a cold-blooded disregard for all those who did not stand on a level with them socially. There was a hardness which was sometimes almost inhuman. Young nobles did not hesitate to mutilate a poor apprentice whom they might catch as they were returning from a debauch; and they knew well enough that their quality protected them and that their victim had no redress even when his injuries 212 MOLIERE might be fatal. Women of high rank made a habit of ill- treating and even of beating their female servants. For all its charm and however glittering its veneer, the period of Louis XIV reveals itself as an age of grossness and brutality, not so far removed from the despicable cruelty of the Fronde. And what made it more hideous beneath its outward semblance of elegance, was the fact that it did not suspect its own vileness. There were protests against the impiety of 'Don Juan'; but no one rose up to deny the veracity of Moliere's por- trayal of the great lord who is also a wicked man. Mp- liere makes Alceste pour forth his indignation against the flagrant corruptibility of the judges; but no one of the spectators of the comedy saw any reason to declare that the dramatist had misrepresented the manners and cus- toms of the "best society." Obviously enough, Moliere himself did not perceive the vices of this society as clearly as we do nowadays on the testimony of his own plays. Obviously also he seems to us now far more aggressive in his attitude than he appeared to his contemporaries. Yet he had seen the evil of the Fronde with his own eyes and he had himself suffered insult and injury from those born to superior station. No wonder is it that his heart was hot within, him, even if he was no revolutionary and no iconoclast. That Moliere was no revolutionary and not even a political reformer is evident from his attitude in this play. He was not assaulting the major abuses of the political organization of France; he was attacking only the minor blemishes of social intercourse, not even peculiar to his own time or nation. In no other play did he more clearly THE 'MISANTHROPE' 213 display the depth and the subtlety of his observation or more plainly prove that he was truly a poet. But he was a comic poet after all; and Alceste is neither a Hamlet 1 ' nor a Faust. The 'Misanthrope' is a comedy and not a tragedy, even if its central character may seem to us too > austere to~ Be Truly comic. So Shylock impresses us nowa- | days as almost tragic in his intensity, although he may \ have been primarily comic to his creator. Quite possibly Cervantes did not see in Don Quixote the high seriousness that we now perceive in that pathetically humorous figure. It is the good fortune of every masterpiece to enlarge its meaning century after century and to be enriched by all that later generations can read into it. Those who persist in accepting Alceste as tragic in its author's intent, forgot that Moliere was ever a humorist, even if he was likewise a poet. He was a philosopher also, but a laughing philosopher. And above all was he a comic actor, devising Alceste for his own acting. If the play was accepted by the Parisian public with Moliere in the chief part it must have been comic then, however heroic it may seem to some of us now, since we know that Moliere had not been able to win approval as an actor jn any but comic characters. His audiences came to his theater expecting him to make them laugh; and it was only five years before the production of the ' Misanthrope' that 'Don Garcie' had failed chiefly because Moliere had chosen to disconcert his habitual spectators by appearing before them in a heroic part. Beyond all question, Mo- v V Here meant Alceste to evoke laughter, even if he intended him also to provoke thought. i Comedy deals with the foibles of humanity and not with the overwhelming passions to which tragedy alone may lay claim. And in this comedy Moliere set before us 214 MOLIERE the conflict between an uncompromising character and a society which cannot exist without incessant compromise. Here the essential struggle which the drama demands is the eternal antithesis between the several individuals who make up a community and the social bond which unites them. Obedience to this social bond brings amen- ity and urbanity; but subservience to it, an obsequious following of its behests, leads to insincerity and hypoc- risy, which are in turn disintegrating to society. And here is the originality of this comedy and its superiority to all those that Moliere had earlier written, that he was not content merely to create characters as in his preceding plays, but that he rook society itself as his subject, hand- ling boldly the relation of man to his fellows and bringing out the deceitfulness of the conventions on which human intercourse rests. Even if this struggle might have been treated tragically, it is the very stuff out of which comedy is made. Alceste may be a misanthrope, although this is not what we should have called him if his creator had not bidden us to do so; but he^is^not a cynic, and he is not^a pessimist. It is only superficially that he seems like a precursor of Rousseau, even if he does talk of hiding himself in a desert far from the haunts of men. He is more intelligent than Dr. Stockmann in Ibsen's 'Enemy of the People,' and perhaps a little less narrowly obstinate. He is a nobler type than the hero of 'Timon of Athens,' in that he is not moved by resentment for any mere per- sonal injustice or injury. He is to be likened rather to Jaques in 'As You Like It,' who had a melancholy of his own, compounded of many simples and whose boasted bitterness, as in the speech on the seven ages of man, has more than a hint of humorous exaggeration. He has THE ' MISANTHROPE' 215 even so Gaston Boissier once suggested a certain re- semblance to Cato the younger, a historic irreconcilable. He has magnanimity of soul and he is free from all pettiness. He has been able to bind his friends to him, men and women also, even if he despises mankind at large, because he cannot help seeing its manifold mean- ness. Friendship is his and love also, since there are only three women in the comedy and all three of them express;' their willingness to marry him. He is a fine fellow at bottom, with undeniable charm, and with a certain sug gestion of the heroic which Eliante, for one, has foun captivating. He has manliness and fervor and^ Jorce- which are perhaps the reasons why Arsinoe makes ad vances to him and why even the flirtatious and ligh hearted Celimene prefers him above all her other suitor There is even eloquence in his more exalted outbreak which nobody seems to take seriously; and there is fa cination in his exuberant personality. Perhaps Alceste dimly perceives the impression he makes and is encouraged to further extravagance of speech. He is proud of his virtue; he parades it and he pushes it to extremes. He abounds in his own sense; and he finds constant delight in unexpected violence of phrase, even when he seems most unconscious of his own exaggeration. He is sincere, of course, and he is ever preaching sincerity. But he is just as sincere and as emphatic in little things as in great; and an emphatic sincerity about trifles is an absurdity which we cannot help smiling at. But even when we go further and laugh in his face, we laugh at what he is saying, not at him personally. Alceste him- self is not ridiculous, even if his extravagances of speech may be. As a man he always retains our respect and often a share of our sj^n^athj^at^the very moment when 216 MOLIERE our laughter breaks out sharply at the exaggeration of his feeling and of his phrase. In the course of the play we laugh with him perhaps as often as we laugh at him. And after all this laughter, we like him the better; we hope that he will outgrow his growling; we may even wonder whether he will not make his peace with Celimene and withdraw his absurd demand that she should bury her youth in a desert with him. Ought not a comedy to end with a marriage ? And perhaps there might turn out to be in this marriage no greater incompatibility of temper than in many another love-match. For Celimene is not really the heartless coquette that she seems, even if there is a gulf fixed between her world- liness and his unworldliness. Alceste is reasonable to ex- cess and logical beyond measure; and Celimene, being a woman, is not reasonaole and, indeed, reveals herself as a past mistress of illogic. On the other hand, with all his ability to reason, he is radically impractical, while she is ready always to take the world as she finds it and to make herself at home in it. Yet the discord between them is not unbridgeable. She is a little frivolous and a little more than flirtatious. She thinks herself very clever with tongue and pen, a belief in which her admirers have encouraged her until she runs into wanton satire. She has an insatiable desire for admiration, and she is quite willing to pay the price which incessant attentions demand. But, when all is said, her faults are venial; they are ex- cusable on the score of her youth. Even if she is incapable of appreciating his nobler qualities; and even if she has let herself be tempted into making fun of him behind his back, she does prefer him to all the other courtiers who are dangling after her, and she expresses very prettily her contrition for her gravest THE ' MISANTHROPE' 217 fault. Apparently, in spite of his jealousy and of his absurd violence, she is really in love with him, as far as her rather shallow nature permits. What more could he ask ? What more had he a right to expect ? Certainly it is inexcusable for him to demand that she should re- nounce the society which makes up a large part of her life, to wander out into the wilderness with him alone. What urges Alceste to propose that they should begin their married life in the desert is partly his immediate disgust at the loss of his lawsuit, but it is jtminjyhis^ innate jealousy. He wants his wife all to himself with no other male of her own station within miles of them. And there is no denying that Moliere can always express the pierc- ing poignancy of jealousy. That Celimene should seem to give him cause for jealousy is easily explicable. She is very young, only twenty, so that she must be almost in the first flush of her freedom as a widow, joying in the new privilege of exercising her fascinations at large. Alceste has only to wait a little and she will come to him on his own terms; he has only to be patient with her. VI But to be patient with her or with any one else is just what Alceste cannot be. He is as exacting with her as he is with everybody. And here is where Alceste is to be sharply distmguisKed from Moliere himself. If we can judge his character by his career Moliere resembled Philinte far more than he did Alceste. He lent to his hero his own sturdy hatred of hypocrisy and his own J gnawing jealousy; but he had himself none of the extrav- agance w T ith which he has endowed the part he played. In real life the comic dramatist managed to get along in 218 MOLIERE society without friction; the social bond did not irk him and he was ready enough to make the inevitable com- promises it imposed. It is this more moderate view of life which he causes Philinte to express. Moliere had no grudge against the world and no animosity toward it. He had no cause for exacerbated protest. He had been born in a well-to-do household; he had been brought up in comfortable circumstances; he had scarcely known the youthful bitterness of going hungry; he had got into debt, it is true, but he had got out again; and he was at last prosperous and able to live luxuriously. Besides, he was successful and his success was evident to all men. Because he wrote Alceste for his own acting we have no right to declare that the character voices his own opin- ions and that there are personal reasons for the diatribes of the hero. That he put something of himself into the protesting Alceste is likely enough, just as he certainly put something of himself into Philinte, the Epicurean , temporizer, content to move through life along the line of least resistance. Every artist must paint himself; and he knows others and is able to project them into indepen- dent life, only because he knows himself. But the jram- atist is a true dramatist only when he is superior to mere lyric self-betrayal and when he can create figures foreign to his own personality. No doubt Moliere looked into his own heart when he depicted Alceste, but so he did when he drew for us the earlier Arnolphe and the later Argan, in the 'Malade Imaginaire/ We may be assured that he who had no quarrel with existence, who was no anarchist in theory, and who always accepted the social order as he found it, knew very well that Alceste took life too hard and was far too strenuous in his incessant declamation. We may be certain that he THE 'MISANTHROPE' 219 meant the independent hero of his comedy to be impossible in the extravagance of his demands upon others, and that he expected us to laugh at the character even if he hoped that we might also like Alceste in spite of his frequent eccentricity. We need not doubt that Moliere designed Alceste rather as a warning than as an example, even if he also used the character as the mouthpiece for certain of his own convictions. One reason why so many of his critics and commenta- tors have insisted upon identifying him more often with Alceste than with any other of his creatures is their belief that the relations of Moliere to his wife at the time when this comedy was composed are reflected in the play. Their contention is that they overhear an echo of Moliere's appeal to Armande Bejart, in the reproaches Alceste (which he acted) addresses to Celimene (which she acted). But this is sheer assumption, unsupported by the facts; and it is significant that certain of the speeches in which Alceste voices his despairing jealousy and which sound as if they had been wrung from Moliere's own heart at this moment of anguish when he and his wife were living apart, were not written originally for the 'Misanthrope' but for 'Don Garcie,' produced long before his marriage. This unsuccessful play had never been published, and its author held himself at liberty to use its fragments again not only in the 'Misanthrope' but in other of his later plays. Some of Moliere's biographers who admit that Alceste is not Moliere are still inclined to persist that Celimene is Armande Bejart, because her husband wrote it for her acting, fitting it to her accomplishment. That he fitted it to her accomplishment is undoubtedly the fact; but there is no warrant for the belief that he was also repro- ducing her own character. He wrote Celimene for her 220 MOLIERE to act, and Celimene is a young flirt quite unworthy of the nobler Alceste. But he had earlier written Elmire for her to act, and Elmire is a woman of irreproachable conduct. That the actress stood as a model for the char- acter entrusted to her we have really no more right to assume in the one case than in the other. Nothing in Moliere's career leads us to suppose that he would lay bare his own life on the stage and invite the sympathy of the public for his private misfortunes. Indeed, we have every reason to believe that this is what he would never dream of doing, since it would be an act absolutely ab- horrent to a man of his temperament. Self-revelation of this kind belongs to the lyric, not to the drama; and Moliere had little in common with Shelley. Rather is he like Lucretius, who kept out of his lofty and austere poem every fact of his own biography. VII Horace Walpole once declared that "the^ world is a comedy for those who think and a tragedy for those who feel." Moliere was a thinker who felt acutely; and in the 'Misanthrope' his emotion is almost as keen as his intellectual endeavor, with the result that his comedy has sometimes seemed almost tragic to those whose own sensibility is unusually delicate; and this may be taken as evidence of the steady development of his genius. He was, and he remained, to the end of his life, a writer of comedy, but he was now putting into comedy more than French comedy had ever before been called upon to carry. He felt the attraction of subjects not comic in themselves, rather serious than otherwise; and to these he gave a more or less humorous twist, so that they might be accept- THE 'MISANTHROPE' 221 able to the playgoers of Paris, who expected him to make them laugh heartily. 'Tartuffe' is comic chiefly because of the unctuously humorous character of Orgon written by Moliere for his own broad acting, as if he dreaded the darkness of the central figure of the play, which appears to us nowadays as grim almost as Shylock (also a personage in a comedy that is on the verge of tragedy). 'Don Juan' is not fairly to be described as a comedy within any reasonable limita- tion of the word; such humorous scenes as it may have are almost extraneous to its straggling story; and as for Don Juan himself, to laugh at him is the last thing any spectator would be tempted to do. And the third of the group, the 'Misanthrope/ even if comic in intention and in execution, is not comic enough, not clearly and frankly humorous enough, to provide the public with the direct pleasure proper to pure comedy; and an audience follow- ing its sequence of scenes could hardly help feeling that it was seeing a play transcending the strict bounds of the comic. Indeed, this comedy has almost the austere J economy and the stark simplicity of a tragedy by Racine. These pieces are, all three of them, serious in theme, not to say somber, and less humorous in treatment than any of Moliere's earlier efforts; and they also lack the cus- tomary conclusion. The 'Misanthrope' does not endpn ( a wedding; 'Don Juan' ends with its hero's going down to the devil; and 'Tartuffe' terminates with the marriage of two young lovers in whose ultimate happiness the pub- lic takes no great interest. In all three of these plays we can discover their author / to be a little restless within the form that was imposed on him by the expectation of his audience who demanded that he should provide them with material for mirth. We 222 MOLIERE can see him stretching the formula of comedy to force it to contain his deeper views of life. He was feeling his way doubtfully toward a framework more adequate for the full expression of his maturer thought. It was not that he was ready to forego comedy or that he was out- growing it, but that he needed more room for his larger message. This new formula, which without ceasing to be comedy should yet be more comprehensive than comedy had ever been before, he most nearly attained in 'Tartuffe/ Whether he might not have achieved it completely to his own satisfaction if his life had extended to the full three- score years and ten this we cannot do more than guess. As it was, his career was cut short when he had only a little more than completed his half-century, and when he was still in the full ardor of production. Perhaps if he had survived another ten years he might have been able to carry with him the laughter-loving playgoers of Paris and to persuade them to let him interest them in plays that did not have to pretend to be comedies and that might even at times have taken on an aspect almost tragic. It is, of course, idle to speculate what this new formula might have been. Perhaps Moliere would have antici- pated the grave comedy of Lessing and the social drama of Augier and Dumas. As it is, we can see that the formula of Lessing, which is the formula of Augier and Dumas also, is only an extension of the formula of Moliere in 'Tartuffe' and in the 'Misanthrope/ more completely satisfactory in the former, but perhaps of a more assured promise in the latter. CHAPTER XIII FROM THE 'MEDECIN MALGRE LUF TO 'GEORGE DANDIN' I AFTER the strenuous effort of composing 'Tartuffe/ 'Don Juan/ and the 'Misanthrope/ in which he had risen higher and revealed himself more amply than in any of his earlier plays, Moliere relaxed his tension and brought out in swift succession a series of lighter and easier pieces, full of fun and lacking in the loftier purpose visible in the three masterpieces of which one was still under the royal interdiction, while the second had been cut short before its full career had been run, and the third, highly acclaimed as it had been, had proved less pleasing to the public than its author had expected. The slighter plays which immediately followed the 'Misanthrope' were less elevated, but more likely to give pleasure to the ordinary playgoer; and for a little while Moliere was content to curb his more exalted ambitions and to put together plots intended primarily to provoke hearty laughter. He was not only a dramatic poet, he was also both an ingenious playwright and an alert theatri- cal manager. He acknowledged the duty of keeping his fellow-actors constantly supplied with the kind of piece which had an approved popularity. After indulging his own aspirations in the 'Misanthrope' he returned once 223 224 MOLIERE more to the simpler form of the comedy-of-masks, con- veying no large message, but certain to attract the main body of playgoers who delighted in frankly farcical im- broglios. There is no reason to suppose that it irked Moliere to prepare these humbler pieces. He might be a keen observer of the society of his time and he might be moved to satirize its affectations and its extravagances; but he was also a humorist, with the gift of rich fun and with a relish for bold buffoonery. The farce which almost raised itself up to the level of comedy or the comedy which some- times sank to the level of farce this was a dramatic form in which Moliere was absolutely at ease. In this he was an acknowledged master; and we have no reason to sup- pose that the plays of this unpretending class were written against the grain. Indeed, there is in all of them a hearty freedom, an ingenuity of invention, a felicity of episode, a varied coloring of character, a full flow of animal spirits, which must be accepted as evidence that Moliere really enjoyed composing them, even if he knew them to be less important than theilarger comedies of a loftier type. And here in the fact that Moliere was the manager of a company of actors who depended upon him to keep them constantly supplied with plays likely to attract the public can we find the explanation of the inequality of aim and of tone which cannot fail to impress any one who considers carefully the chronological sequence of his plays. Beginning with brilliant farces which displayed only his dramaturgic dexterity and his command of laug/iter, he rose slowly above these more or less primitive plays with more or less external humor until he was able to utilize his acquired skill to set on the stage comedies with an underlying thesis, the 'Ecole des Maris' and the 'MEDECIN MALGRE LUI' 225 'Ecole des Femmes.' After he had attained to the high seriousness of 'Tartuffe' and of the 'Misanthrope/ he returned again and again in the later years of his life to the earlier and more farcical type, which he might be supposed to have outgrown, but which we recognize once more in the 'Medecin malgre lui' and in the 'Fourberies de Scapin/ If we had no more definitely ascertained chronology for Moliere than we have for Shakspere, if we were without the exact dates and were compelled to arrange his plays by the aid of internal evidence only, by the degree of maturity they severally reveal, we should unhesitatingly credit the 'Medecin malgre lui' and the 'Fourberies de Scapin' to an early period of his development as a drama- tist, reserving the more austere 'Misanthrope' to the last years of his brief career. We could scarcely help assum- ing that all the farces must have preceded the riper and deeper comedies in five acts. We might be justified in projecting the line of his progress as a steadily ascending curve. But by good fortune we are in possession of the precise dates when almost every one of his plays was originally performed; and we can now perceive that the curve of his actual advance is very different from that we should have drawn hypothetically had these facts failed us. We can see that even if this line rises steadily, its ascent is interrupted again and again by a sudden descent to a level only a little above that attained very soon after his earlier successes in Paris. The dates as we have them contradict what would be perfectly justifiable inferences if we had to rely solely on conjecture. And perhaps this possible blunder may serve as a cau- tion to the students of English literature who have ventured to arrange Shakspere's plays in a chronological table 226 MOLIERE supported mainly by internal evidence, the result of an attempt to trace the growing maturity of Shakspere's art as a playwright, as a poet and as a philosopher. Per- haps the precise dates, if we ever shall possess them, will upset this arbitrary Shaksperean chronology as com- pletely as the facts would overturn any similar Molierean chronology founded upon any similar hypothesis. II The earliest of these later unpretending pieces was the 'Medecin malgre lui,' a comedy in prose in three acts, brought out at the Palais-Royal on August sixth, 1666, only two months after the original performance of the 1 Misanthrope/ It seems to be an elaborate reworking of an earlier farce, entitled the ' Fagotier/ which had prob- ably been composed by Moliere during his provincial strollings, about the time when he devised the two other farces that happen to have survived. It retains the sim- plicity of plot possible and proper in a farcical play which aims at nothing more than a rapid succession of laugh- ter-provoking episodes. Its set is probably that of the comedy-of-masks, the open square with the dwelling of the heroine's father on one side or the other. Its char- acters are the profile figures of the Italian improvised play; and the chief of these characters, written by the au- thor for his own acting, is Sganarelle once more, a Sgan- arelle who is cunning and improvident, and who differs not a little from the other Sganarelles that Moliere had impersonated in one or another of his preceding pieces. This time Sganarelle is a woodcutter, who has had the rudiments of an education, who was once the servant of a physician and who is now so dissipated that his wife is 'MEDECIN MALGRE LUF 227 constantly reproaching him. Her taunts are so acute that he is provoked into giving her a thrashing, for which she resolves on vengeance. It happens that one Geronte has a daughter Lucinde (played by Moliere's wife) who is in love with Leandre (played by La Grange). To avoid marrying a husband chosen by her father she pre- tends to be dumb, and, naturally enough, no one of the doctors has been able to cure her pretended affliction. Geronte sends two servants to seek out some other phy- sician; and Sganarelle's wife seizes the opportunity to get even with her husband. She tells Geronte's servants that Sganarelle is really a marvelous physician, having wrought incredible cures; but that he is very eccentric and will not admit that he is a learned doctor until he has been soundly beaten. So the servants beat Sganarelle until he acknowledges himself a physician. He is taken to Geronte and he examines Lucinde, parodying the manners and usages of the contemporary practitioners of medicine. Leandre at last bribes him and he introduces the suitor to Geronte as his own apothecary assistant. He distracts the father's attention while his companion gets into conversation with the daughter. He restores Lucinde to speech; and she immediately displays an extraordinary volubility. Finally, Leandre and Lucinde start to elope, but they return at once with the news that Leandre is now the heir of his rich uncle, who has kindly died in the nick of time. So all ends happily; Sganarelle forgives his wife and determines to remain a physician, since the profession is easy and profitable and safe. Upon this slight framework Moliere has embroidered the most spontaneous and exuberant fun. The laughter that greets the successive incidents is irresistible and in- cessant. The play achieved its immediate purpose of 228 MOLIERE attracting paying audiences to the Palais-Royal; ; popularity has survived to the present day. Th no denying that it is not a comedy in the higher of the word, it is essentially a farce; but scarcely other of its author's broader pieces is more boldly mi 1 provoking. It has a Rabelaisian sweep of humor . a Rabelaisian freedom of phrase. The spectators : r . caught by the contagion of its wholesome fun, whit,} exists for its own sake only and not for any ulterior pui pose except in so far as occasion serves to satirize th pompous pretenses of the practitioners of medicine. Th- 'Medecin malgre lui' is almost a comedy, because its simple story sustains a series of simple episodes, each of them funnier than its predecessors and each of them dis- closing another aspect of Moliere's comic force. It is almost a comedy, because its characters, fantastic as they are and extreme in their exaggeration, have an unexpected and indescribable veracity; their extravagance has its roots in truth. It is almost a comedy, again, because of the literary quality of its dialogue, fresh, vigorous, and unfailingly felicitous. Farce as it is, no comedy of Moliere's has put into circulation more quotable phrases. The 'Medecin malgre lui' was devised to please the burghers of Paris, who cherished the tradition of the earlier French farce and who relished the flavor of Gallic salt. They had ar hearty liking for broad fun and they were not unduly squeamish over its breadth. They did not object to this little play because it had an occa- sional streak of earthiness, such as we discover often in Rabelais, sometimes in Montaigne, and now and again in Shakspere also. To say this is to suggest that it was not a play likely to find favor with the precieuses or with the puritans. 'MEDECIN MALGRE LUI' 229 :i 13 HI bliere's next pieces were composed for a more delicate 'ence, for those whom the king invited to another of ' 'splendid spectacles, and we can note in them a falling 'in spontaneous humor. Indeed, two of them may be '^missed summarily, as productions written to order, ud devoid of the qualities which have given Moliere his Isting fame. La Grange records in his register that, by ne command of the king, the whole company left Paris in the first of December, 1666, for Saint-Germain, re- maining there until the twentieth of February, 1667, more than two months and a half. They were summoned to take part in an interminable entertainment which was entitled the 'Ballet of the Muses' and into which various plays were to be intercalated. Three of these pieces were from the pen of Moliere. Two of these three were prepared merely to oblige the sovereign, and are of very little importance. The first of them was a "heroic pastoral comedy" called 'Melicerte/ acted in December, 1666. The invention of Moliere was equal to any task Louis XIV might impose upon it; but a heroic pastoral comedy was not the kind of play in which his genius was likely to display itself advantageously. The pastoral at its best is a wholly artificial form, with which the author of the 'Precieuses Ridicules' could have little sympathy. And there is no reason for surprise or for regret when we find that he wrote only two acts of this chilly comedy with its conventional atmosphere, with its impossible shepherds and shepherdesses, and with its remoteness from all the realities of life. It was never completed; nor was it ever acted in Paris. It was not published by Moliere himself; and it did not appear 230 MOLIERE in print until nine years after his death, in the complete edition of his works issued by the loyal La Grange. In that edition the two acts actually written are followed by a note declaring that the comedy had never been finished, and that as the king had been satisfied with the performance of the two acts at the festivity for which it had been commanded, its author had not cared to carry it further. Long after Moliere' s death and long after his widow had remarried, her son by her second husband was moved to complete the play as best he could. Little as the author seems to have cared for 'Melicerte,' he cared even less for the second piece prepared for the same royal festivity. This was the 'Pastorale Comique/ performed before the king on January fifth, 1667. This was never published, and Moliere apparently did not even preserve the manuscript. We can recover an outline of the plot, and a few fragments of the dialogue from con- temporary records of the royal entertainment. Probably the little trifle was ingeniously adjusted to the circum- stances of its performance, and probably also there were not a few strokes of humor in the part which Moliere wrote for himself, even if the scheme afforded him little opportunity to put forth his full strength. IV But a third play, the 'Sicilien,' was also performed before the king, as a part of the ' Ballet of the Muses/ in February, 1667, and this was a more spontaneous effort of Moliere' s genius. It is a comedy-ballet in one act and in prose. It is a charming little piece, light and lively, an anticipation of modern opera-comique (perhaps the most characteristically French of all the various forms of 'MEDECIN MALGRE LUI' 231 the drama). The theme lends itself to a lyric treatment; and in the past century it tempted more than one com- poser. The prose of the dialogue contains not a few blank verse lines, as though the poet were already experi- menting for the free rhythms of the later 'Amphitryon/ We can perceive in the 'Sicilien' an anticipation of Mari- vaux and of Beaumarchais; it has the ingenuous grace of the one and the ingenious briskness of the other. It has a spring-like sympathy with the young lovers and a faint flavor of eternal romance, wholly uncontaminated with more exalted romanticism. The scene is laid in Sicily. The action is simplicity itself, and yet it affords opportunity for comic acting. There are two characters that Moliere might have played himself: one is Hali, a resourceful intriguing valet, hav- ing many traits in common with Mascarille; the other is Don Pedro, an elderly man of a jealous temperament, not unlike the Sganarelle of the 'Ecole des Maris/ but more dignified in his deportment. It was this latter character that the author chose for his own acting, per- haps because he liked to impersonate a jealous man and perhaps because he knew that the victim always affords an ampler histrionic opportunity than the intriguer. Isidore is a beautiful Greek slave who is beloved by Don Pedro and by him guarded with jealous care. Adraste is an ardent young Frenchman who has caught sight of Isidore and who wants to marry her. He is aided and abetted by his servant Hali. The lover serenades the heroine; he sends Hali and several musicians to sing and dance before her and incidentally to declare his passion to her. Then he substitutes himself for the artist who was engaged to paint her portrait; and while he is em- ployed in this agreeable duty, Hali, well disguised, sue- 232 MOLIERE ceeds in distracting the attention of Don Pedro long enough to allow the hero and the heroine to come to an understanding. Finally Climene, the sister of Adraste, is enlisted in his aid. Heavily veiled, she rushes to Don Pedro and claims his protection from her husband, who is ill-treating her. Don Pedro promises her shelter; and when Adraste comes on as the abusive husband, Don Pedro seeks to reconcile them. Adraste allows himself to be converted; and Don Pedro informs Climene that she can now return to her husband, who has promised to treat her kindly in the future. She retires into the house to get her veil; and it is the muffled Isidore whom Adraste bears away under the eyes of her jealous guardian. A little later, when Climene herself comes forth Don Pedro awakes to the fact that he has been befooled and appeals for justice to a Senator, who will not listen to him, as he has just devised a Moorish dance for a troop of masquer- aders. And this little dance brings the little piece to its appropriate end, the deceived Don Pedro finding no redress. The 'Sicilien' was acted before the king and the court in midwinter; but it was not brought out before the burghers of Paris until early in the summer. The rea- son for this delay was undoubtedly Moliere's precarious health. The company reopened the Palais-Royal toward the end of February; and early in March, the first per- formance of Corneille's 'Attila' took place, a tragedy in which Moliere did not appear. At the end of March the Palais-Royal closed for the usual Easter recess; but it remained shut for an unusual time, because Moliere was not then well enough to act. In April there was even a rumor that he was dying; his chest was weak and his digestion was out of order. He found relief by putting 'MEDECIN MALGRE LUI' 233 himself on a milk diet. In June he had recovered suf- ficiently to reappear; and the 'Sicilien' was at last pre- sented to the Parisians with its entertaining interludes of song and dance. It was two months later, while the king was away in the Low Countries with his invading army, that Moliere believed himself authorized at last to bring out 'Tartuffe'; it was promptly interdicted after a single performance. Moliere immediately sent two actors to bear his protest to Louis XIV, a journey which cost the company a thou- sand livres and which necessitated the closing of the the- ater for seven weeks. What with the failure of 'Attila,' the expenses of La Grange's trip, the suspension of the performances caused by this and by Moliere's frequent illnesses, the company had a lean year. Luckily for its members, the king had been so well satisfied with their share in the 'Ballet of the Muses' at Saint-Germain that he had given them twice the annual pension, a sum of twelve thousand livres, which served to ca'rry them safely over this time of dearth. It was perhaps because of his broken health and per- haps because of the discouragement due to the new in- terdiction of 'TartufFe' that Moliere allowed nearly a year to elapse before he brought out his next play. And it was perhaps because the financial result of his labors during the preceding months had not been altogether satisfactory that he selected a plot of an assured popular- ity, calling for spectacular accompaniment the intrigue of Jupiter with Alcmena, the chaste wife of Amphi- tryon, a subject already successfully treated in French by Rotrou, in his comedy called the 'Deux Sosies.' 234 MOLIERE Rotrou's rather original adaptation from Plautus had owed much of its attractiveness to various mechanical devices such as the playgoing public heartily appreciated. The drama, while it may aspire to the highest peaks of poetry, is always and of necessity closely connected with the "show-business"; and every true dramatic poet has kept in mind the need for pleasing the eyes of the specta- tors as well as the ears of the audience. Shakspere, for example, with his frequent ghosts, his combats, his bat- tles and his processions, is as frankly spectacular as the meager resources of the Tudor theater would permit. In taking over the plot of Rotrou's adaptation Moliere profited also by his own study of the original play by Plautus if that can fairly be called original which was in its turn an imitation of the Greek. In view of Moliere' s habit of levying contributions on the Spanish playwrights, on the Italian devisers of the comedy-of-masks, and on the forgotten authors of the old French farces, it may be matter for wonder that he had not earlier had recourse to the Latin dramatists, whose plays he had studied at the College de Clermont. For his 'Ecole des Maris' he had borrowed a hint or two from Terence; and a line of La Grange's brief biographical sketch seems to imply that in his boyhood, when he was studying under the Jesuits, Moliere had preferred Terence to Plautus. This preference may have been due to the influence of his in- structors, over-enamored of external elegancies of style, or it may have been the result of Moliere's own school- boy ignorance of the stage, which would then veil from him the fact that Terence is essentially a stylist, a pol- ished man of letters rather than a practical man of the theater. Moliere's later experience must have disclosed to him that Plautus is a born playwright, a realistic 'MEDECIN MALGRE LUI' 235 humorist, able to present comic characters entangled in comic situations. Whatever Moliere's opinions might be as to the relative merits of the two Roman dramatists, it was to Plautus, in the original and as adapted by Rotrou, that he turned for the material of his next play, the 'Amphitryon/ a comedy in three acts, produced at the Palais-Royal in January, 1668, and repeated before the king within a few days. With the myth of Jupiter's love for the beautiful wife of a Greek general and with the unworthy trick through which the lustful god deceived her by assuming the likeness of her husband with this legendary matter the earlier Attic dramatists had dealt tragically. Later Greek play- wrights had preferred to consider rather its more humorous aspects, and in this they had been followed by Plautus, who pretended to wonder just what kind of play it was he had written. As it contained a god and a prince it could not be a comedy (according to the critical code which the Latins had taken over from the Greeks); and as it contained a slave it could not be a tragedy. Plautus therefore suggested that his medley might be a tragi- comedy, a term before unknown. The Latin dramatist was restrained by traditional regard for the god, even while representing one of this deity's least reputable amorous adventures. In dealing with a theme of this doubtful propriety Moliere undertook a task of obvious difficulty. To make such a subject acceptable or even tolerable to an audience, who did not believe in the myth and who could have no sympathy with Jupiter's misdeed, demanded a very light hand and the utmost certainty of touch. It called not only for skill, but even more for tact and taste. 236 MOLIERE How dangerous the story is and how disgusting it might be, we discover when we consider the result when Dryden undertook it. With all his wit and with all his imagi- nation, Dryden was not a comic playwright by native gift; and most of his attempts at comedy seem to have been done against his genius. In none of them, full-flavored as most of them are, does he surrender more subser- viently to the depravity of Restoration audiences than he did when he wrote his 'Amphitryon.' He drew on Moliere as well as on Plautus; but he did not imitate the dexterity of his Parisian contemporary (from whom he had already borrowed his 'Sir Martin Marall,' a free rendering of the 'Etourdi'). It is sad to see how Dryden sinks in the mire where Moliere steps lightly and easily. As Scott said and he was an ardent admirer of both poets Dryden is coarse and vulgar where Moliere is witty, and "where the Frenchman ventures upon a double meaning the Englishman always contrives to make it a single one." Indeed, nothing reveals more clearly the cleanminded- ness of Moliere, in spite of his breadth of humor, than the delicacy with which he here deals with a situation undisguisedly indelicate in itself, and the adroitness with which he robs a gross situation of most of its offensive- ness. His treatment of the theme is not austere, of course; it is unfailingly playful; it gets all possible fun out of the situation; but it is never libidinous; and it is never colored with any extenuation of the mean trick which Jupiter is playing on an honest woman. And occasion serves to note that Moliere, often as he put a jealous man on the stage, has never presented even one woman who has broken her marriage vows; the wife of Amphitryon is innocent in intent, and the wife of George Dandin is still innocent in fact. 'MEDECIN MALGRE LUI' 237 Where Dryden used a sturdy blank verse and a blunt prose for his setting forth on the stage of this story which ought to be treated poetically and romantically, Moliere, with a finer instinct for a remote and airy legend, far removed from the realities of life, told it lyrically in irregular verses that often link themselves in stanzas. He was not naturally lyric, which is a mood the dramatist may rarely need. But he was a consummate artist, with an intuitive feeling for the fit form. Moreover, he had long been a close friend of La Fontaine, whose 'Contes' had been published in 1666, to be followed by his 'Fables' in 1668, only a month after 'Amphitryon' was acted. Intimate as he was with the fabulist it is probable that they had often discussed the metrical novelties of La Fontaine's verse as disclosed in the 'Contes' and the 'Fables/ its artful variety and its unfailingly graceful ease; and it is evidence of Moliere's exceeding cleverness and of his mastery of verse that although he had never before adventured himself on the lyric elevation where his friend was wont to wander at will, now that he heard the imperative call he proved himself capable of the ascent. Only in 'Amphitryon/ and again a little later in ' Psyche/ did he care to lift himself to this lyric plane. But in these two pieces he displayed his possession of a lyric faculty not visible in any other of his works a faculty scarcely inferior to La Fontaine's. The sensual ardor of Jupiter is expressed to Alcmena in lines that glow with passion even though the words belong to the outworn vocabulary of Louis XIV gallantry, which we now find rather unconvincing even in the more ardent passages of Corneille and Racine. However inferior in the expansion of his lyricism Moliere may be to La Fontaine and to Aristophanes, the 238 MOLIERE chief other lyrists who are humorists also, he is superior to them in his humor, which is richer than that of La Fontaine and finer than that of Aristophanes. And in few of his comedies is his humor both richer and finer than in the 'Amphitryon/ He gets more fun out of the assumption by Mercury (who is Jupiter's servant) of the personality of Sosia (who is Amphitryon's servant) than Shakspere extracts from the likeness of the two Dromios. There is no scene in the 'Comedy of Errors,' the farce in which Shakspere first displayed his deliberate playmaking skill, as subtle or as laughter-provoking as that in which Mercury, insisting that he is Sosia, shatters the real Sosia's belief in his own identity a scene made possible only by its author's thorough training in philosophy. Indeed, in the whole range of the comic drama there are very few scenes of a more consummate craftsmanship and of a more overpowering humor than this, in which Mercury maliciously enjoys the bewilderment of Sosia when forced to deny himself and then to wonder who he is if he is not Sosia. And originally Moliere himself impersonated Sosia. A part of the contemporary popularity of the 'Am- phitryon* was due to its mechanical devices. In the pro- logue Mercury descended from a cloud and held colloquy with Night, who had halted her chariot in mid air; and at the end of the play Jupiter was wafted up to the sky in another cloud. VI Moliere's next play was a comedy, 'George Dandin,' produced at the Palais-Royal in November, 1668, but earlier presented before the king in the gardens of Ver- sailles in July in a theater of foliage adorned with foun- 'MEDECIN MALGRE LUF 239 tains and artfully arranged for the sudden transforma- tions called for by the story of the ballet which surrounded the performance of the comic play. As if in contrast with the magnificence of its original representation, 'George Dandin' itself is a piece with a very simple story, elaborated from one of its author's earlier farces. Moved by a misplaced ambition which we should now call snobbishness, a. wealthy peasant, George Dandin (played by Moliere himself) hjis married Angelique (played by Moliere's wife) because she was of noble blood. He has dealt directly with her parents, Monsieur and Madame de Sottenville, whose debts he has to pay and who treat him with condescending con- tjrnpt. He never consulted Angelique herself, and there- fore she feels free to seek her own pleasure now without consulting him. She welcomes the attentions of a more youthful and more gentlemanly admirer, Ulitandre (played by La Grange)! In the course of the three acts she dis- closes herself to be a conscienceless creature; and her husband has good reason to keep strict guard over her. But she is quick-witted, and when he sends for her parents to expose her perfidy, she manages again and again to put him in the wrong, so that Monsieur and Madame de Sottenville seem to be justified in insisting that George Dandin shall apologize for his vain suspicions. Aftd^at jtl]e end the deceived and defeated husband declares that is nothing left for him to do but to throw himself headfirst into the river. No one of Moliere's plays is more disconcerting to a modern audience than 'George Dandin/ ^Ms a farce in its form and content; it is almost a comedy here and^there by the felicity of its touches of humor; and it impresses us sometimes as almost tragic in the inexorability of the 24 o MOLIERE domestic calamity which has befallen its central figure. With his detestation of all affectation, Moliere is here scourging a peasant for seeking to be socially superior to his real rank; and at the same time the dramatist is not taking sides with the upper class to which the peasant has aspired. reorge Dandin is very foolish, bu^ ey^n^f the ^consequences ofhis folly are severer, he is not mnrfiJnnlisVi n than the Sottenvilles. And their daughter is even less estimable; she is worse than foolish; she is evil. In fact, N ^there is no single sympathetic characteFmThe whole play; all are more or less repellent; and of no other piece of Moliere' s could this be said. The chief episode of the story is taken over from a practical joke told in the Mid- dle Ages; and it is difficult not to discover a medieval hardness in the conduct of the plot, a medieval lack of pity, a medieval callousness which is not far removed from cruelty. George Dandin is not wicked; he is only selfish and foolish; but he is punished for rus selfish folly as if he Had been wicked. This is what trie spectator feels if he takes the play seriously, or if the piece is acted seriously, so as to give the spectator time to think. We may be sure, however, that Moliere did not mean the play to be acted seriously. He composed it to be a component part of a comedy- ballet on a joyous occasion when the king had returned triumphant from war and wanted his courtiers to rejoice with him. All the contemporary reports unite in record- ing the incessant laughter which the comedy evoked from its royal audience. No one of those who beheld it, when Moliere was himself impersonating George Dandin, seems to have had a suspicion that the play was other than a farce; and this is evidence that the author-actor must have conducted the performance in a mood of tumultuous 'MEDECIN MALGRE LUI' 241 fun, sweeping everything along in a whirlwind of gaiety, pushing character to the edge of caricature and carrying comedy beyond the border of farce. Perhaps this was easier then than now, easier before that hard-hearted king and his hard-hearted court, than it is to-day before us with our overstrained sensibilities. We may doubt whether any one of all the hundreds of those who laughed at the antics of George Dandin and at the grotesqueness of the Sottenvilles, two centuries and a half ago when the little play was performed on its sylvan stage in the gardens of the palace under the many candles that dispelled the darkness of the midsummer night we may doubt whether any one then perceived that there might be anything painful in the misadventure of the peasant-husband. And yet, even if we doubt this, we may wonder whether Moliere himself was glad of heart when he composed this play. Coleridge asserted that "farce may often border on tragedy; indeed, farce is nearer tragedy in its essence than comedy is." Did Moliere know that at the core of his farce there was tragedy ? Did he mean to put it there ? Was he taking a sadder view of life, just then when his health was weakening, when he was wearying of the struggle, and when he was sorrowfully disappointed in his own marriage ? The 'Misanthrope' had been very serious for a comedy, and 'George Dandin' is very pitiful for a farce. Shakspere also had his period of depression when he composed * Measure for Measure' and 'All's Well that Ends Well,' comedies that are not at all comic. But Shakspere, not being himself a comic actor, was allowed to write tragedy, and thus to pour out amply what was in him. Moliere had not this privilege; he 24 2 MOLIERE had taken warning by 'Don Garcie' first and then by the 'Misanthrope/ As actor and as author he was held bound to make his audiences laugh, and from this there seemed to be for him no escape, CHAPTER XIV THE 'AVARE' I THIS year 1668 was one of those in which Moliere most amply proved his superb productivity. It was in February that he had brought out the easy and polished 'Amphitryon'; in July he had followed it with 'George Dandin'; in September, only two months later, he pro- duced at the Palais-Royal the 'Avare/ a comedy in five acts; and these three plays were a splendid harvest for the short space of nine months. The 'Avare' is in prose, which was contrary to the custom of the theater then, when a five act play, whether comic or tragic, was expected to be clothed in verse, the less ornate prose being good enough only for less important pieces in one act or in three. That the author did not present this play dressed out in riming alexandrines is to be ascribed to the haste with which he had to work to meet the necessities of his company the same reason which accounted for the use of prose in the earlier ' Don Juan/ also prepared in a hurry. 'Tartuffe' was still under the interdict, and Moliere's comrades relied on him to keep them supplied with new plays. It is known that Moliere, like Ben Jonson, was in the habit of writing his first draft of a play in prose, which he finally turned into verse; and in preparing the 'Princesse d'Elide' for 243 244 MOLIERE its speedy performance before the king, he had time to versify only the first two acts, leaving the later scenes in prose. In the 'Avare' we can detect many metrical lines, awaiting in vain their later incorporation into the sequence of rimed couplets. Perhaps it was due also to the need for working against time that he turned once more to Plautus for the sugges- tion of this new play, which is however not fairly to be de- scribed as an adaptation of the 'Aulularia' any more than is the 'Comedy of Errors' to be dismissed as an imitation of the 'Menaechmi.' Moliere was willing enough to bor- row freely from any predecessor, but he was never content to follow servilely in the footsteps of any one of those he was imitating; and he rehandled with the utmost freedom the humorous material he found in the Roman piece. There is little more in the comic drama of Plautus than an ingenious intrigue, whereas the play which Moliere made out of the Latin piece is on a higher plane. It is a comedy-of-character in which the external story is sub- ordinated to the exhibition of the characteristics of the miser himself. The plot does not exist for its own sake, as in Plautus, but solely to set forth the various aspects of personified avarice. When Moliere interested himself in the scrutiny and in the delineation of a specific character, the mis- anthrope or the miser, he was inclined to be a little care- less about the conduct of his plot and the logical winding up of his story. Sometimes he is a little too careless; and in the concentration of his attention on the dominat- ing figure of his play he does not take trouble enough to sustain the jpjresentation of character by an adequate frameworETof story. ^TTiis~fs whatfTfappened when he wrote the 'Misanthrope'; and the unsatisfactory recep- THE 'AVARE' 245 tion of that elevated comedy may have served as a warning to him and led him to support his portrait of the miser with a pair of love-stories and to relieve its sadness by frequent episodes of sheer fun, almost farcical in their exuberant humor. II The miser is Harpagon, of course acted by Moliere himself. He is a burgher of means, having to keep up his position in society. He has a pair of horses, which he starves; and his coachman is also his cook, whereby he is enabled to save the wages of one servant. He has a son Cleante and a daughter Elise. A young man, Valere, who has fallen in love with Elise, has managed to per- suade Harpagon to take him as a steward. Once in the house he has succeeded in winning the affection of Elise. Cleante, in his turn, has fallen in love with Mariane, the very girl whom Harpagon has resolved to take for his second wife. To further his wooing Cleante needs money; and he seeks to borrow it on his expectations. He consents to exorbitant terms of interest; and when he is brought face to face with the lender, he finds out that the unscrupulous usurer is his own father, and Harpagon discovers that the spendthrift he was ready to pluck is his own son. Harpagon has resolved also to marry off his daughter to an elderly friend, Anselnie, who will take her without a dowry, for which reason the miser refuses absolutely to listen to the protests of Valere and of Elise hereelf. Thus we see a violent breach between father and daughter, following the violent breach between father and son. Elise is determined to marry Valere, and Cleante is de- termined to marry Mariane, in absolute disregard of 246 MOLIERE their father's commands. At this juncture Harpagon discovers the disappearance of a casket which contains ten thousand livres and which he has carefully hidden. He is stricken to the soul by this loss and his despair is as overwhelming and as outspoken as that of Shylock. The ^easket had been found by one of the servants and given to Cleante. But Harpagon, suspecting Valere, sends for the police. And now Moliere feels that his work is done and he hastens to bring the play to an abrupt conclusion. He has so contrived his succession of episodes that Harpagon has been presented to the spectators from every possible angle. The miser has been turned inside out for the audience to laugh at him and to take warning by him. And this was what the author had at heart; and when his object was once attained, the comedy was complete. At this moment, therefore, Anselme is brought on, for the first time, when all the other characters are as- sembled; and the play is wound up arbitrarily by a se- quence of unexpected recognitions, such as were common enough in Greek comedy and such as Aristotle would not have disapproved, however artificial this ending may seem to us moderns. In self-defense Valere has to declare who he really is; and it turns out that he is the brother of Mariane, separated from her in infancy by a shipwreck. It appears further that Valere and Mariane are the long- lost children of Anselme who is delighted to recover them. To his new-found son the new-found father willingly yields Elise whom he had come to marry. And when Cleante promises to restore to his father the stolen cas- ket with the contents intact, Harpagon instantly gives his consent to his son's marriage with Mariane. Char- acteristically, he refuses to make any provision for either of his children about to enter on the responsibilities of THE 'AVARE' 247 marriage; but as it happens, this does not matter, since the convenient Anselme is a man of large means, quite willing to support both his son and his daughter. Ill From this bald summary it will be seen that the unity of the play lies in the single character of Harpagqn, and that the other personages of the piece are set in motion mainly to exhibit one or another- of Harpagon's idiosyn- crasies.. He dominates the play; one might almost say 'that he is the play, since it exists only that he may stand before us alive in every lineament. He is a bold projection of a figure made vital by a single passion. He is so possessed by this lust for gain, he is so completely in its grasp, that he loses self-control and talks aloud to himself of his own secrets, only to arouse himself when he discovers his children near him and to tremble for fear they may have overheard him. He is so overmastered by greed and by the desire to continue to enjoy the results of his rapacity that when he is told by a self-seeking flat- terer how he is likely to survive his children and his grand- children, he has an exclamation of delight, inhuman in its unconscious selfishness. There are scenes in which Harpagon may seem for a moment to be almost a caricature of himself, so violent is he in his intensity. With far more of the variety and of the color of our common humanity he has the large cer- tainty of outline and the immense simplicity of the most successful characters in the English comedy-of-humors, Sir Epicure Mammon, for example, and Volpone. And it may be noted that Ben Jonson's 'Case is Altered' was derived in part also from the same play of Plautus that 248 MOLIERE Moliere utilized in the ' Avare/ and that Captain Boba- dil is only a splendid resuscitation of that stock-figure of Graeco-Roman comedy, the braggart. But Moliere's humor is rarely so extravagant as Ben Jonson's, so hard or so metallic; it is more human, and more often relieved by contrast. In this very play there is genuine sentiment in the wooing of Cleante and Valere, more attractive than the rather perfunctory love-making in several of his earlier pieces. And yet it must be said that although Moliere has a genial sympathy with the wooing of young men and maidens and takes care that they mate happily at the fall of the curtain, he does not put them in the forefront of the action; he reserves himself rather for the portrayal of the more vigorously comic characters. Here he stands in sharp contrast with Shakspere, who was also accustomed to commingle the grave and the gay in his romantic- comedies. The English dramatist often employs a semi- tragic sub-plot to sustain the story of successful courtship in which he is mainly interested, whereas the French dramatist centers attention on a semi-tragic main plot, relieving it by a few scenes of love-making. In the 'Avare/ for example, the two pairs of lovers help to dispel the gloom inevitably evolved by the profound portrayal of the sordid avarice of Harpagon. In the 'Merchant of Venice/ the comedy opens and ends with the courtship and married life of the brilliant and fascinating heroine; and the dark profile of Shylock, after having lowered through the middle of the play, serving to stiffen the com- edy almost into tragedy, is not allowed to cast a shadow over the joyous last act. In Shakspere's comedy the ut- most effort of the dramatist is not focused on Shylock. In Moliere's play it is focused on Harpagon. THE 'AVARE' 249 There might be profit in pushing further the comparison of the English comedy with* the French. Although the foundation of the 'Merchant of Venice' is medieval in its fantasy, since it is only our willingness to make-believe which permits us to accept the arrant absurdity of the three caskets and of the pound of flesh, the characters who people this impossible plot demand no apology; they are as easily understood as any other human beings. In the 'Avare/ on the other hand, the main story makes no demand on our credulity; it is possible and plausible except perhaps in the perfunctory winding up and marry- ing off. Where we are left a little in obscurity is in our perfect understanding of the central figure, of Harpagon himself. In classic French comedy there is often extreme sim- plification of character presentation, and we are frequently told less about the character than we should like to learn. In the 'Misanthrope/ for example, Celimene is intro- duced to us as a young widow only twenty; and we have no further information about her. We know nothing about her first husband, or her own family; she stands forth alone for what she is, and we must get acquainted with her as we observe her in the play itself. The same extreme simplification is carried even further in the presenting of Harpagon; and here it is more disconcert- ing, because we see him in circumstances which seem to call for explanation, which are not essential to his ruling characteristics, and which are, some of them, apparently incongruous. How has Harpagon acquired his fortune ? Has he inherited it or did he make it himself? What is his posi- tion in society which compels him to keep a carriage in spite of himself, to give entertainments, to have a staff of 250 MOLIERE servants ? How is it that he, a man of means, with ex- perience in guarding money, can find no better place of security for a large sum than to hide it in a casket ? Why does he, an elderly man, not of an amorous temperament, desire to take a young wife ? These are the queries we find ourselves asking as we see Harpagon moving before our eyes. No doubt it would have been possible for Moliere to answer these questions; but he has not cared to do so. He needed all these irrelevancies to set forth the several peculiarities of Harpagon, and he assumed them without troubling to explain. As a result of this the miser, powerfully as he is drawn, remains somewhat enigmatic and sometimes even a little inconsistent with himself. The motives of Harpagon are not always as clear as those of Shylock. The reason for this is probably to be found in the fact that Shakspere is not presenting us with an embodiment of Revenge, but with a specific character who happens to be seeking ven- geance, whereas Moliere is giving us not so much a typi- cal miser as the embodiment of Avarice itself. In so far as this is the case, he has reverted to the method of the old Morality with its personifications of abstract qualities. And here in his turn Moliere is medieval. IV This much may be admitted without detracting from the ultimate value of Moliere's searching comedy. The 'Avare' is not equal to 'TartufiV in solidity of struc- ture and in the intimate relation of character to environ- ment; but it is none the less one of its author's most veracious portrayals of humanity. It is like 'Tartuffe/ in thaj: its action passes inside a single household and in THE 'AVARE' 251 that it displays before us the possible disintegration of a family in consequence of a single corroding vice. To Mo- liere, inheritor of the social tradition of the French, the family is the foundation of society; it is sacred. What- ever endangers the security of the family is to be denounced and exposed as a warning and as a lesson. He may not be a deliberate moralist and he may not have intended to point a moral. But in almost every one of his larger comedies we have a play which is a picture of life, which provides the abundant laughter we expect in the comic drama, and which furthermore warns us against yielding to the solicitations of evil. He makes us see the dire effects of TartufFe's hypocrisy and of Orgon's credulity, of Celimene's insincerity and of George Dan- din's snobbishness. And in the 'Avare' he puts before us the picture of a family rent asunder by the fault of the father, who has neglected to do his duty by his only son and his only daughter. The children of such a father are not likely to be alto- gether estimable; and Moliere was too truthful to offset the vice of Harpagon with the superior virtues of the miser's son and daughter. But the author is careful to make us see that the fault is rather Harpagon's than Cleante's or Elise's. It is because Harpagon is what he is that Cleante is driven to seek money on usury and to look forward willingly to his father's death, whereby he will come into his inheritance. It is because Harpagon is what he is that Elise has allowed herself to be drawn into a love-affair without her father's knowledge and against her father's wishes. It is because Harpagon is what he is that Valere has been enabled to work his way into the house to carry on his secret intrigue with Elise. It is because Harpagon is what he is that all these perils 252 MOLIERE threaten the solidarity of the home. The final result of Harpagon's indulgence in his single vice of avarice, with all its attendant evils and its inexorable consequences, is frightful. By this picture of the contamination and the corrosion of those who are closely related to the miser, and by the severe delineation of the dissolution his avarice must bring about it is by this that Moliere's play stands out as one of its author's most valuable social dramas. The 'Avare' may be open to minor criticisms; and as a specimen of stage-craft it is distinctly inferior to 'Tar- tuffe.' It may not always be as clear as it might be or as consistent; its exposition may be slovenly and its ending may be huddled; it may have moments of an exaggeration which is almost caricature; it may have more blemishes than any true lover of Moliere will readily admit; but in spite of all that may be said against it, there is no denying its high value and its worthiness to occupy a position only just below that accorded to his acknowledged master- pieces. This is what the piercing mind of Goethe per- ceived clearly when he declared that the 'Avare,' "in which a vice destroys the piety uniting father and son, has extraordinary grandeur and is, in a high degree, tragic." Tragic may seem a strange term to apply to a comedy; but it has been applied also to the comedy in which Shy- lock appears. The 'Avare' is a comedy, no doubt, a comedy-of-character, a comedy of austere kind; but it is perhaps better to be described as a social drama. Har- pagon is comic in intent, but he is often almost tragic in intensity; and the theme of the play is somber. In itself avarice is not an amusing spectacle. In spite of all Mo- liere's efforts to lighten the piece with its two love-stories and to brighten it with extraneous episodes of almost ex- travagant humor, its performance does not arouse the THE 'AVARE' 253 hearty laughter which is evoked by the earlier acts of 'TartufFe/ which had also a somber theme, but which Moliere was able to make less gloomy because he wrote the immensely humorous part of Orgon for his own acting. Perhaps it was due to this lack of frank gaiety that the 'Avare' did not at first prove very attractive to the Paris- ian playgoers. In time, however, its serious merits were recognized and it became one of the more popular of his plays. It is still frequently acted at the Theatre Francais; and every ambitious French comedian is anxious to prove himself in the part of Harpagon and to measure himself with his distinguished predecessors. In considering the more important plays written by Moliere after he had been grievously disappointed by the prohibition of 'Tartuffe' we are struck by a deeper note and by a harder tone than we have perceived in any of the gayer pieces composed before 'Tartuffe.' There is a gravity, a suggestion of the sadder aspects of life in 'Don Juan' and in the 'Misanthrope/ in 'George Dandin' and in the 'Avare,' which their author's earlier comedies had not prepared us for. In no one of these four plays is the subject really comic in itself, even if the actor- author felt himself forced to make the piece as laughter- provoking as he could. Their humorous characters and their more mirthful episodes are not always integral to the theme of the play; they are not always logical out- growths of the story; and they seem sometimes to be almost excrescences devised especially to distract the at- tention of the audience from the fundamental seriousness of the central idea. 254 MOLIERE To point this out is easy enough, but not to explain the reason for it. Perhaps the state of Moliere's health led him to take a darker view of life than he had taken earlier in the first flush of his youthful success. Perhaps the continued strain of his incessant activity as actor, as au- thor and as manager, was wearing on him and wearying him. Perhaps the patent incompatibility of temper be- tween himself and his charming young wife, ardent in the pursuit of pleasure and eager for admiration, may have driven him in upon himself, destroying his earlier cheer- fulness and embittering his earlier hopefulness. These are all personal reasons why Moliere was no longer light- heartedly composing comedies as frankly comic as the 'Precieuses Ridicules' and the 'Ecole des Maris/ It may be, however, that a simpler explanation is to be sought outside the circumstances of Moliere's own life, in the natural development of his artistic ambitions. He has said himself that it was a strange task to undertake to make people laugh; and it may very well be that he had tired of this task of laugh-making, and that he now found himself inclined to set forth the more serious incidents of the human comedy. This may be the real reason why the four more important plays composed while 'Tartuffe' was still under interdict are to be described as social dramas rather than as comedies pure and simple. Taken together this group confirms the impression that Moliere was groping tentatively and doubtfully toward a new type of play, in which he could feel at liberty to express more liberally his later and deeper views of society than he had been able to express earlier in pieces whose chief purpose was to arouse laughter. In 'Tartuffe' itself, which pre- ceded these four plays, the author had been able to achieve the object of this riper ambition; and he had produced THE 'AVARE' 255 a play which had become a social drama without ceasing to be a comedy. Perhaps, in composing 'Tartuffe/ he had builded better than he knew, as is the case so often with artists of genuine inspiration, whereas in the four plays which followed it, and which were due in some measure to the same impulse, his uncertainty of aim pre- vented his skill from being so completely successful. Whatever the explanation may be, and whether the reasons are personal or artistic, the fact remains that the larger plays composed by Moliere at this period of his career have a certain likeness to each other and a certain unlikeness to the more comic comedies written earlier. They seem to indicate that, for the moment, at least, he was more or less unsettled in his attitude. This epoch in Moliere's development as a dramatist has its parallel in the career of Shakspere. In Moliere's case the period of uncertainty came to an end with the removal of the pro- hibition of the public performance of his masterpiece; and this took place less than six months after the first performance of the 'Avare/ VI The permission to act 'TartufFe* followed hard upon the proclamation of the so-called "Peace of the Church"; and it was possibly a consequence of that lull in theo- logical strife. Louis XIV was sternly resolved to put down factions of every kind, in church as well as in state. As he insisted upon slavish obedience to himself as king, so he demanded an uncompromising unity in the ecclesi- astical realm. He believed in absolute authority; and he refused to allow any of his subjects to think for them- selves. Probably it was in part the mental independ- 256 MOLIERE ence of the Jansenists that set him so sternly against them and led him in time to crush them out almost as harshly as he was afterward to crush out the Huguenots. In the earlier years of his reign Louis XIV was annoyed by the turmoil which raged in the church, with the con- stant struggle of Gallicans and Ultramontanes and with the incessant intriguing of the Jesuits against the Jansen- ists; and at last the king used the full weight of his au- thority to bring these unseemly bickerings to an end. Impossible as was a durable reconciliation between par- ties holding diametrically opposite views upon questions of eternal importance, the monarch was able for a little while to flatter himself that he had accomplished his purpose. And one immediate result of this truce in ecclesiastical warfare was the granting to Moliere of permission to perform 'Tartuffe.' In its third form but under its origi- nal title the play was brought out at the Palais-Royal in February, 1669. Its instant success must have greatly gratified its author, so long heart-sick with deferred hope. After the performance of 'Tartuffe' Moliere's serenity seems to have returned; and the plays which immediately followed are in marked contrast with the plays which immediately preceded. Moliere was now forty-seven and he had attained to the summit of his achievement. He was to live only four years longer and he was still to bring forth one of his most perfect comedies, the 'Femmes Savantes'; in these last years there was to be no falling off in his work; but already had he displayed adequately every aspect of his genius. He had begun by imitating the comedy-of-masks and by composing pieces of external activity. He had risen slowly from the comedy-of-intrigue to the comedy-of-man- THE 'AVARE' 257 ners and to the comedy-of-character. He had achieved what Lord Morley terms "the fine gravity of 'TartufFe,'" the masterpiece of comedy sustained and stiffened by drama. He had essayed a series of social dramas, com- edies not fundamentally comic. He had invented the comedy-ballet. He had been gracefully lyric in the humorous fantasy of 'Amphitryon.' He had ranged the gamut of the theater of his time; and he had exhausted the possibilities of the dramatic formulas then admissible on the stage. And thereafter he could go no further for- ward; he could only undertake again one or another of the forms which he had already employed triumphantly. There were no more worlds for him to conquer; and if he had died after the first performance of the 'Avare' his fame would be as secure as it is to-day and as solidly established. This is evident enough to us now, and it was evident also to those who lived a generation after him. From his own generation it seems to have been hidden. His con- temporaries did not see that he had already proved him- self to be the foremost of comic dramatists. Boileau may have suspected this and La Fontaine also; but the rest of the men of his time did not perceive it. Perhaps this was natural enough; we need to bear in mind always that while we think of Moliere only as an author, they who had seen him on the stage thought of him mainly as an actor. To them the player loomed larger than the play- wright; and there were even those who held that it was only the surpassing skill of the player which gave vital- ity to the works of the playwright. And the actor was thought of as a performer of broadly comic parts, as Mas- carille and as the often revived Sganarelle, rather than as Alceste. He was considered as an actor of farces. In- 258 MOLIERE deed, it was about this time that there was painted a picture, now in the possession of the Comedie-Francaise, depicting the chief drolls of the day; and there amid Gros-Guillaume and Scaramouche and their fellows, we find Moliere also. In the eyes of his contemporaries this was his proper place, and no voice was raised in protest when the author of 'Tartuffe' was set by the side of these clowns whose sole pleasure it was to make the people of Paris laugh loudly. Shakspere suffered from no indignity of this sort, partly because he was not prominent as a performer. But it may be doubted also whether many of Shakspere's con- temporaries suspected his indisputable primacy. Those who had met him were abundant in praise of the man himself, of his gentleness and of his copious industry; but no one of them, while he was yet alive, voiced the opinion of posterity that he was the supreme poet, not only of his age but of all time* CHAPTER XV 'MONSIEUR DE POURCEAUGNAC' AND THE 'BOURGEOIS GENTILHOMME' I SOMETIMES to delight the king and sometimes to attract the populace of Paris, Moliere relinquished the comedy which moves us to thoughtful laughter and returned to the frank farce which awakens only unthinking mirth. He had proved the truth of De Quincey's assertion that "inevitably as human intercourse in cities grows more refined, comedy will grow more subtle; it will build itself on distinctions of character less grossly defined, and on features of manners more delicate and impalpable." He had attained to the most delicate distinction of manners in the 'Misanthrope'; but he never shrank from employ- ing the swifter effects of the farce with which he had first won success as a playwright. Yet some of these later farcical comedies are in advance upon the earlier in that they are raised almost to the plane of comedy by the richer humanity of the central characters. * Monsieur de Pourceaugnac' is a farce and so is the 'Etourdi/ In both plays the humor arises in large part from the ingenuity of the mechanism of the situation; but Pourceaugnac himself is a more recognizable human being than Mascarille; and the piece in which he appears has not only more absolute fun but also a larger and more 259 2 6o MOLIERE liberal humor. Moliere was still steadily growing, not only as a psychologist but also as a humorist. There is in * Monsieur de Pourceaugnac' and in the * Bourgeois Gentilhomme' a breadth and a solidity of comic resource which recalls Rabelais, and an imaginative fantasy which reminds us of Aristophanes in his wildest flights of fun- making. It was at Chambord in October, 1669, that Moliere brought out before the king and the court 'Monsieur de Pourceaugnac,' a three act comedy-ballet in prose, for which Lulli composed the music and in which there were the customary interludes of song and dance. In Novem- ber the comic play was produced at the Palais-Royal, where it proved as attractive to the Parisians as it had been entertaining to the courtiers. And its superb gaiety has assured its popularity to the present day, although it is now not so often performed as a dozen of its author's other plays. The plot is very simple and the framework is again that of the comedy-of-masks, which Moliere always found con- venient for his purpose when he aimed merely at laugh- ter. The set is the traditional public place where all the characters can meet at will. On one side is the house of a certain physician, and on the other is the house of Oronte, the father of Julie, with whom Eraste is in love. Oronte is what Gorgibus was in the Earlier farces; and Julie and Eraste are the pair of young lovers common in Italian comedy. Eraste' s ally in his wooing, Sbrigani, is another Mascarille. And the one character who is not drawn from the stock-figures of the comedy-of-masks is Monsieur de Pourceaugnac himself, the part that Moliere composed for his own acting. He is no mere profile, strongly outlined and touched with high color; he is truly 'MONSIEUR DE POURCEAUGNAC' 261 a character, drawn from Moliere's intimate observation of life. And in the portrayal of this character he was profiting by the knowledge of provincial types accumu- lated while he was still a stroller, for Pourceaugnac is a provincial, an inhabitant of Limoges. The scene of the play is laid in Paris; and much of the fun is derived from the contrast of this rustic, rather simple by nature, with the livelier Parisians who make up the other personages of the piece. Oronte has never met Pourceaugnac, yet he has ar- ranged a marriage between his young daughter and this mature gentleman from the country. Julie herself is re- solved to wed Eraste, who has determined to discourage the elderly wooer by every possible trick. In this plot against Pourceaugnac' s peace of mind he has enlisted the services of Sbrigani. When the provincial from Limoges arrives in Paris, Eraste presents himself at once and actu- ally persuades his victim that they are old friends, quite in the manner of the modern "confidence-operator." He invites Pourceaugnac to be his guest, and then leaves him in the hands of a physician, whom the country gentleman supposes to be Eraste's steward. The physician has been told that the new arrival is a patient touched with lunacy; he has summoned a colleague; and the two doctors hold a consultation on Pourceaugnac' s malady, to the rising astonishment of that gentleman. After which an apothe- cary presents himself armed with the instrument of his calling; and when the perplexed gentleman from Limoges seeks to escape from the impending operation, other apothecaries appear and pursue him relentlessly. And this serves as an excuse for a comic chorus and a pleasant dance. In the second and third acts misadventure after misad- 262 MOLIERE venture befalls the unfortunate wooer. Sbrigani in dis- guise informs Oronte that his accepted son-in-law is laden with debt and that the creditors are waiting impatiently for Monsieur de Pourceaugnac' s marriage to the only daughter of a wealthy man. Then Sbrigani manages to insinuate to Pourceaugnac that Julie is not a young lady of irreproachable character. Thus, when the father and the rustic suitor meet for the first time they are prepared to be suspicious of each other; and Pourceaugnac's doubts are confirmed when Julie affects a wanton eager- ness to welcome him as her husband. Then Sbrigani springs a new trick: while Oronte and the provincial are still disputing, a woman, speaking the Provencal dialect, suddenly appears with several children and claims Pour- ceaugnac as her lawful husband; and after a little interval another woman, speaking the dialect of Picardy, rushes in with her children, asserting her right to Pourceaugnac's name. And the little children drive the victim to the verge of despair by hanging to his garments and calling him "papa." After explaining that this is a very serious matter since bigamy is punishable by hanging, Sbrigani brings about a consultation with two lawyers, who also have their song and dance. Finally Sbrigani aids the thoroughly frightened Pourceaugnac to disguise himself as a woman (the device adopted by FalstafF after the merry wives have befooled him into a belief in impend- ing danger). And when the rustic has rushed away to get back to Limoges as speedily as he can, Oronte hands Julie over to Eraste; and the comedy ends with a wed- ding, as a comedy should. This is the most broadly amusing of all the comedy- ballets prepared by Moliere for the delight of the monarch. It is a farce, of course, and little more than a farce, except 'MONSIEUR DE POURCEAUGNAC' 263 in so far as the character of Monsieur de Pourceaugnac himself may give it a deeper significance. Lacking the variety of character-portrayal in certain of the earlier comedy-ballets the ' Facheux,' for one it is only a farce wherein the humor may be perhaps a little primitive, since the fun is the result of a succession of practical jokes; but these practical jokes are every one of them closely related to the main purpose of the play. But when all is said, it is a farce such as no one but Moliere could have written, and such as Moliere himself could not have written in his earlier days. He kept on developing, not only in insight into human- ity and in veracity of character-drawing, but also in essen- tial humor, in the sense of sheer fun, in the luxuriance of animal spirits needed to carry off a comic fantasy as ro- bustly extravagant as 'Monsieur de Pourceaugnac/ There is in this piece an inexhaustible fertility of device, every trick being more irresistibly amusing than the one that went before, until the spectators feel themselves swept off their feet by a tornado of gaiety. Moreover, the humor is always good humor; and there is no aftertaste of bit- terness in the bubbling laughter. The fun is free and spontaneous and almost unctuous in its richness. Indeed, it is not without a streak of coarseness, or rather of earthiness, of healthy realism. Once again, Moliere is like Shakspere in that his idealism is not squeamish and does not lead him to shrink from frank acceptance of the baser facts of life. Their spirituality is indisputable; but it is rooted in a wholesome animality. 264 MOLIERE II To those who draw back from life as it really is and who insist on taking an unduly etherealized view of human nature, the boisterous breadth of 'Monsieur de Pour- ceaugnac' will ever be unwelcome. These over-refined souls would probably prefer the more sentimentalized psychology of the next piece which Moliere prepared for the king's pleasure. This was the 'Amants Magnifiques,' a prose play in five acts performed before the monarch at Saint-Germain in February, 1670. The plot was of the sovereign's own selection; at least he asked Moliere to arrange a play in which two rival princes should woo a princess by vying with one another in the sumptuous entertainment to which each of them in turn invited her. In the eyes of the king and of the courtiers these sumptu- ous entertainments were all-important, and the action of the play itself was of value only as it justified the spectac- ular effects which had called it into being. The acts of the comedy were regarded only as the interacts of the more interesting spectacle. It was idle to expect that Moliere could take any deep interest in task-work of this sort. Yet he never shirked it and he did what he was expected to do in workmanlike fashion. He so constructed his story as to introduce the songs and dances and processions the king delighted in. He sketched out a little group of characters sufficiently indicated to carry on the necessary plot. He took some pains with the heroine, analyzing her shifting sentiments with a subtlety that prefigured the psychological delicacy of the later Marivaux. He outlined the part of a pleas- antly witty humorist for his own acting. He introduced an astrologer so that he could deride a pseudo-science still 'MONSIEUR DE POURCEAUGNAC' 265 in favor in court-circles. He found occasion to set into the dialogue of one act a clever imitation of one of Hor- ace's odes. He scattered through the play touches of grace and strokes of light humor. In short, he did all that he was called upon to do. But he cannot be said to have done any more. He must have been aware that the merits of his play, what- ever they were, would be obscured by the glitter of the re- splendent interludes in which the chief courtiers were to appear and even the king himself. There was really no need for Moliere to attempt more than the skeleton of a plot; and it would have been absurd for him to put forth his full strength under these circumstances. He had no exaggerated opinion of the value of the comedy he had promptly prepared on the plot provided by the mon- arch. His haste is shown by the fact that he left the dialogue in prose, not riming even the earlier acts as he had done with the 'Princesse d'Elide/ His low estimate of the acting value of this play written to order is proved by his never having brought out the 'Amants Magni- fiques' at his own theater, in spite of the curiosity which must have been aroused in the Parisian playgoing public by the glowing reports of the performance before their ruler. Not only did Moliere never produce the comedy at the Palais-Royal, he never even published it; and it did not appear in print until La Grange made ready the complete edition of Moliere's works nine years after the dramatist's death. Ill When Moliere turned aside from his own projects to improvise the 'Amants Magnifiques' for the gratification of the king, he had his reasons, which are obvious enough 266 MOLIERE and with which we have now no right to quarrel. But when we recall that he had then only three scant years of life before him, we cannot help holding that this was a waste of precious time. We do not feel this in regard to 'Mon- sieur de Pourceaugnac' because that superb farce exists independent of all its musical and terpsichorean accom- paniments, and because it gave Moliere a chance to revel in humor and to reveal his comic force perhaps more liberally than in any earlier play. Nor have we any sentiment of regret when we come to the next play he wrote for the king, a play which unites the unflagging fun of 'Monsieur de Pourceaugnac' with the social satire of the 'Precieuses Ridicules/ This was the 'Bourgeois Gentilhomme,' a prose comedy- ballet in five acts, produced before Louis XIV at Cham- bord in October, 1670, and performed before the Parisians at the Palais-Royal only a month later. The 'Bourgeois Gentilhomme' is like 'Monsieur de Pourceaugnac' in that it is a string of episodes rather than a closely knit play. Here the two later plays recall the earlier 'Etourdi,' but with this significant difference, that the central per- sonage in the later comedies is not an arbitrary figure, a mere mask, but a living human being, disclosing new aspects of his character as he is involved in the succession of incidents, all chosen carefully to set off* his personal peculiarities. The 'Bourgeois Gentilhomme' belongs in the same group with 'Monsieur de Pourceaugnac,' that of comedy-farces filled with contagious carnival gaiety. Its humor is more delicate in spite of the fact that there is a more daring buffoonery in its most fantastic episode. And it is superior not only because the central figure is of a more general interest, but also because this figure is surrounded not by the outline personages we found in 'MONSIEUR DE POURCEAUGNAC' 267 'Monsieur de Pourceaugnac, ' but by recognizable human beings. As in 'Tartuffe' and the 'Avare* earlier, and as in the 'Femmes Savantes' later, Moliere introduces us into the life of a single family and exhibits before us once more the disintegrating effects of folly. The burgher who wishes to turn gentleman is the worthy Monsieur Jour- dain, a typical tradesman, such a man as Moliere must have met often enough in his father's shop. So solidly has Moliere drawn the portrait of Jourdain and so com- pletely has he realized the burgher of Paris in his home life, that some commentators have seen fit to regret that Moliere to please the king hurriedly debased into farce a subject he must have intended to treat in a comedy of a more exalted kind. The history of the piece proves that this suggestion has no foundation in fact, since the play was called into being specially to lead up to its most extrav- agant episode, that caricaturing the manners and customs of the Turks. There had been an unworthy envoy from Turkey a few months earlier; a returned traveller had also amused Louis XIV with a playful account of oriental life; and these things moved the monarch to ask Moliere for a piece which should introduce the parody of a Turkish ceremony. It seems likely therefore that the author planned at first to prepare a farce akin to 'Monsieur de Pourceaugnac/ an easy comic imbroglio leading up to the required burlesque of oriental procedure, and that as he worked on the play he became more and more interested in his subject until he insensibly gave to what was origi- nally a farce the larger outlook of loftier comedy. Monsieur Jourdain (who was of course impersonated by Moliere himself) has a wife, Madame Jourdain, and a daughter Lucile (acted by Moliere's wife). The house- 268 MOLIERE hold is completed by Nicole,, a quick-witted and plain- spoken serving maid, own cousin to the Dorine of 'Tar- tuffe/ Lucile is beloved by Cleonte, who has a valet Covielle. The wealthy burgher is ambitious to rise above his station in life; he would like to be a gentleman and he is striving to fit himself for association with gentlemen. He has a music-master, a dancing-master and a fencing- master. He is taking lessons also from a master of phi- losophy, who is imparting to him the elements of grammar and rhetoric. The dancing-master gets into a dispute with the music-master as to which of them follows the nobler calling; and the fencing-master holds them both in contempt, only to be crushed in turn by the superior contempt of the master of philosophy. We are shown Jourdain at his daily tasks, learning to dance and to fence. We are present when the master of philosophy explains scientifically how to pronounce the letters of the alphabet that Jourdain has been able to utter accurately since his childhood. We listen while Jourdain consults his teacher as to the proper phrasing for a little compliment he wishes to pay a certain mar- quise. Dorimene is the name of this lady; and Jourdain has been introduced to her by a certain Dorante, an im- poverished nobleman, who is flattering the tradesman's social ambition and taking care to get well paid for his advice and assistance. Dorante is in love withJDonmene, and, being too poor himself to entertain her, he persuades Jourdain to provide a banquet for her. But this feast, which gives Jourdain the pleasure of seeing at his table two persons of quality, is rudely interrupted by the pro- tests of Madame Jourdain, who puts to flight the insulted Dorimene. And when Moliere had thoroughly exposed the foolish- 'MONSIEUR DE POURCEAUGNAC' 269 ness of the ambitious burgher, his ignorance and his credulity, he goes on swiftly to the scene for the sake of . which the play was composed. Covielle, the valet of Cleonte, enters in disguise to inform Jourdain that the son of the Grand Turk is in Paris and that he has fallen in love with Lucile. As it would be improper for the son of the Grand Turk to marry the daughter of a man of^ inferior station, the oriental suitor proposes to raise Jour- dain to the rank of "Mamamouchi." ,Cleonte disguises himself as the son of the Grand Turk; and then follows\ a scene of indescribable fun the ceremony of conferring an oriental title upon the aspiring tradesman, a ceremony commingled of music and dancing. Cleonte, as the son of the Grand Turk, comes to claim his bride, and Lucile, as soon as she recognizes her lover, accepts him. Dori- mene and Dorante promptly agree to get married also. And the piece ends pleasantly, with Jourdain still absurdly happy in his new honor. * dljUJt As a play the 'Bourgeois Gentilhomme' is a curious nondescript; it has three acts of character-comedy worthy of comparison with the best that Moliere had given us in other pieces; and then it has two acts of extravagance, of buffoonery, of grotesque exaggeration, filled with un- hesitating humor, but scarcely in keeping with the more logical and artistic scenes with which the comedy com- menced. Shakspere, in the 'Merry Wives/ had also to finish out a farcical comedy with humorously fantastic spectacle; and he too was then obeying a royal com- mand. And Menander had not hesitated to bring into one of his plays a band of comic dancers, more or less unrelated to the action, but useful in filling the inter-acts in the frolic. In intent and in temper the 'Bourgeois Gentilhomme' resembled 'Monsieur de Pourceaugnac/ 270 MOLIERE . but not in method. The earlier comedy-ballet has a straightforward story which never swerves aside. The later has a first and a second act, in which we are shown only Jourdain in the hands of his various instructors and in which we get well acquainted with him; and it is not until the third act that we first catch sight of the Cleonte- Lucile love-story and of the Dorante-Dorimene intrigue. And this recalls the fragmentary method rather of the 'Avare' than the logical construction of 'Monsieur de Pourceaugnac/ The explanation of this sudden descent of a philosophic comedy into what is almost pantomimic farce must be sought in its origin, in the circumstances of its first per- formance, when it served as the excuse for the interludes of song and dance. Where we now think of Moliere's play as distended and possibly as debased by its spectac- ular accessories, his contemporaries thought of the dances chiefly. They even recorded the production of the ballet episodes "accompanied by a comedy." Moliere knew what was expected of him; and however humble the task, he accomplished it completely to the king's satis- faction. We have cause for congratulation that he gave good measure and that he did more than was then demanded of him. Disconcerting as this hybrid of comedy and farce and burlesque may be to the critical analyst, the 'Bourgeois Gentilhomme' is one of Moliere's most characteristic plays. It contains not a few of his most ingenious scenes, at once humorous and veracious. Monsieur Jourdain himself i^ a never-failing joy in his innocent fatuity. He is a constant source of unquenchable laughter as we be- , hold him delighted to discover that he has spoken prose all his life without knowing it, and as we see him, pricked \ 'MONSIEUR DE POURCE AUGNAC ' 271 by the foil in the hands of Nicole, protesting that she is not fencing according to the rules. We may laugh at him incessantly, but at the same time we like him. There x is no harshness in Moliere's painting, none of the ferocity which marks the portrayal of the miser, for example. In Monsieur Jourdain, Moliere is showing up the folly of a member of the middle class, just as he had shown up the wickedness of a representative of the nobility in Don Juan. He surveyed the society around him with an unprejudiced eye, and he held no brief even for the class to which he himself belonged. Yet he took care to set over against his foolish burgher a self-seeking man of quality, Dorante, who was little better than an adventurer, not to call him a swindler. And this unflattering portrait was not calculated to win favor from the courtiers, before whom it was first presented. The story of the practical joke played on the unfortu- nate Jourdain is sustained by the love affair of Jourdain' s daughter. In setting forth this true love which did not run smooth, the author introduces into this comedy a love-tifF very like the lover's quarrels ending with a happy reconciliation, with which he had already enriched the earlier 'Depit Amoureux' and 'TartufFe'. It may be noted that Moliere took occasion to put into the mouth of Cleonte a physical description of his own wife, who played Lucile, and to give the lover an explanation of her charm and fascination. This Moliere did, although husband and wife were then living apart; and perhaps this may have helped to bring about the reconciliation which took place in the final years of Moliere's life. 272 i MOLIERE IV It has seemed best to link together here the ' Bourgeois Gentilhomme' and 'Monsieur de Pourceaugnac/ since these two comedy-ballets have many characteristics in common. But this has necessitated the temporary neglect of another of Moliere's works, in which he adventured himself in a new field. He was a dramatist, writing prose or verse as he saw fit and as the occasion demanded, and yet once and once only he came forward as a poet, pure and simple, dealing with a theme which had no connection with the drama. It is true that he had strayed into the lyric in the sonnet to La Mothe Le Vayer, and in the stanzas thanking the king for his pension. But now at the call of friendship he risked a longer poem, didactic and descriptive, in accordance with the tradition estab- lished by Horace's epistle on the 'Art of Poetry/ This poem was entitled 'La Gloire du Val-de-Grace.' He had long been intimate with Pierre Mignard, perhaps the fore- most painter in France. They had met in the south while Moliere was still a stroller; and their friendship had be- come closer when the painter returned to Paris from Rome. The church of Val-de-Grace in Paris was due to the piety of the queen-mother. Begun in 1645, lt was not completed until 1665; and it had a dome, the decoration of which had been confided to Mignard, who adorned it with an elaborate fresco. This painting seems to have been finished somewhere between 1663 and 1666. At this time there was a rivalry between Mignard and Le Brun, who was sustained by the powerful Colbert. One of Colbert's secretaries was Charles Perrault; and in 1668 he put forth a poem on painting which was one long paean of praise for Le Brun, who is called the only perfect 1 MONSIEUR DE POURCEAUGNAC' 273 artist of the time. Perrault was not important as a poet, and his verses are now faded and forgotten. But when they were fresh, they were a challenge to the friends of Mignard; and Moliere promptly stepped into the lists. Early in 1669 he came to the defense of his friend with his 'Gloire du Val-de-Grace,' which was printed and published in exactly the same form as that chosen by Perrault for his rimed eulogy of Le Brun. As it happened, Du Fresnoy, an associate of Mignard's in the decoration of the dome of the queen-mother's church, had written a Latin poem on the graphic art, which ap- peared about this time both in the original and in a French translation. These Latin verses Moliere utilized now and again in the preparation of his own poem, although he intended not so much a discussion of the whole art of painting as a panegyric of Mignard's fresco. He set forth the principles of the painter's craft as these were practised by Mignard, who had absorbed much from his prolonged study of the Italian masters, and who was therefore not wholly in accord with the French tradition of that time. And incidentally, Moliere took occasion to dwell on the fundamental differences between the art of painting in oil and the art of painting in fresco. Although Moliere's poem is not that one of his works which posterity has most cherished and although it is now little read even by its author's most ardent admirers, it has won praise from critics as competent as Boileau and Sainte-Beuve. Both of them pointed out that in his distinction between the methods of the two classes of painters Moliere was perhaps unconsciously indicating the essential quality of his own genius as a dramatist, whose art demands a daring swiftness, like that of the painter in fresco. CHAPTER XVI FROM 'PSYCHE' TO THE 'COMTESSE D'ESCARBAGNAS' I IN the 'Gloire du Val-de-Grace' Moliere had unex- pectedly proved his possession of the power of writing verse of the didactic and descriptive type, as he had a little earlier and with equal unexpectedness revealed in the 'Amphitryon' his ability to attain a lyric elevation unattempted earlier. And now to please the king once more he disclosed another unexpected gift, an ingenious facility in dealing with a theme as lyric as that of the 'Amphitryon/ but without any of the elements of humor a theme indeed almost as tragic as that was comic. There was a gorgeous piece of scenery representing the fiery realm of Pluto, long reserved in the royal storehouse; and Louis XIV asked Moliere to prepare a spectacular play in which this might be utilized and into which vari- ous mechanical effects might be appropriately introduced. The result of this request from the king was 'Psyche/ a tragedy-ballet in five acts, performed frequently at the palace of the Tuileries in the winter of 1671 and brought out at the Palais-Royal late in the summer of the same year. Tragedy-ballet is what the author called his piece; but we should describe it to-day as a grand opera. In planning this medley of scenery and of music, of heroic acting and of dancing, Moliere was a precursor of Scribe, 274 'PSYCHE' 275 who devised the librettos for Meyerbeer, and of Wagner, who wrote both the book and the score of his musical dramas. In Moliere's piece we can perceive the same massive simplicity which we observe in these modern operas, the same starkness of outline and the same desire to profit by every possibility of pleasing the eye as well as the ear. The story, which lent itself abundantly to its musical and mechanical accompaniments, was of Moliere's own choosing; and it may have been suggested to him by the success of La Fontaine's little tale which had ap- peared only two years earlier. The graceful legend which he had selected enabled him to construct a play of a kind never before essayed by him. He accomplished his task so as to prove his perfect un- derstanding of its requirements. The drama itself, with all its struggle of contending desires, its artfully con- trasted characters, its progressive action, is developed less for its own sake than for the sake of its spectacular pos- sibilities. The Italian artist-engineers of the Renascence had carried the use of mechanical devices to an elaborate perfection scarcely surpassed in the theaters of our own time, which are superior chiefly in the possession of facili- ties for ampler illumination. In planning 'Psyche' and in setting its successive episodes on the stage, Moliere availed himself of the utmost that these artist-engineers could do, both as scene-painters and as inventors of ingenious tricks. He adorned his play with all conceivable pomp, scatter- ing through it transformations and conflagrations, intro- ducing a sea of fire with flaming waves in incessant agitation, and exhibiting before the marvelling spectators Venus descending from the upper ether, Jupiter appearing in mid air mounted on his eagle, and at the end Cupid and Psyche wafted up into the skies by invisible power. 276 MOLIERE The music was composed by the wily Florentine, Lulli, who is really the founder of grand opera in France; and the words of the songs and concerted pieces were written by Quinault. Moliere himself invented and constructed the plot, and he is responsible for the complete scenario. But the king was in a hurry, as usual; and to get the play ready for the carnival season the author had to call in the aid of collaborators, not only Quinault but also Cor- neille. Moliere was able himself to write only the first act and the opening scenes of the second and third acts; and Corneille undertook the versification of the rest of the five acts. This division of the work may have been fortuitous, but it was fortunate also, since Moliere passed the pen to Corneille at the moment when the tone of the play had to rise and when there was need of a fuller lyric note. Thus it is that we have in ' Psyche' one of the rare instances in France under Louis XIV of that dramatic collaboration which was common in England under Eliz- abeth and James. In the plays of the English dramatic poets who labored in combination we are often left in doubt as to the respective shares of .the several partners in the enterprise. In this French example of conjoint playmaking we are not reduced to guess at the contribu- tion of each with only the hazardous support of internal evidence. Fundamentally, the whole play is Moliere's; the conduct of the story is entirely his; and Corneille's sole duty was to clothe with words the action of the later acts. Most of the actual writing must be credited to the elder poet; but he was only expressing in words the plot planned by the younger poet. Corneille was then well past sixty years of age, yet he showed himself capable here of recapturing the lyric fervor of his youth, commingled with the sonorous eloquence of his maturity. 'PSYCHE' 277 In the first few years after Moliere's return to Paris he seems not to have been on the best of terms with Cor- neille, although it was in a tragedy of the elder dramatist that the younger had made his first appearance before the king. Quite possibly the author of the 'Menteur' did not altogether relish the more realistic comedy toward which the author of the 'Ecole des Femmes' was con- stantly tending. Quite possibly again Moliere had Cor- neille in mind when he had declared in the 'Critique de 1'Ecole des Femmes' that comedy was really more difficult than tragedy. But Moliere was appreciative and gener- ous; and in 1667 he had produced 'Attila,' paying two thousand livres for it, a very liberal sum for the time. And in 1670 he had brought out the 'Tite et Berenice/ which Corneille had written in rivalry with the 'Berenice' of Racine, acted simultaneously at the Hotel de Bour- gogne. Perhaps there is more than a hint of irony in the fact that this interesting collaboration of the founder of French tragedy with the founder of French comedy was simply the result of the king's unwillingness to let a spectacular scene lie too long unemployed. Whatever their differ- ences may have been in the remoter past, the elder poet did not scamp the work he contributed to the opera which the younger poet had devised. He found no difficulty in writing verses as free and as lightly lyric as those which Moliere had used in the 'Amphitryon' and in the first act of ' Psyche ' itself. And there is a glow of genuine senti- ment in the declaration of ardent devotion which Cupid makes to Psyche. Beneath the frigid phrases of the vo- cabulary of contemporary gallantry which both Corneille and Moliere were forced to employ, since they were their own contemporaries and since they had to hit the taste 278 MOLIERE of their audiences, it is easy to feel the warmth of sincere emotion. And it is not harder for us to recover the real sentiment which animates this outworn diction than it is for us to substitute real persons and real places for the vague "swains" and the intangible "bowers" that arrest our attention in the English poetry of the eighteenth century. 'Psyche' was performed repeatedly before Louis XIV during the carnival, but it was not represented at the Palais-Royal until late in the summer. The stage of that playhouse was not capable of the spectacular effects easily attainable in the more sumptuous theater of the Tuileries. The Italian comedians still shared the Palais- Royal with Moliere's company; as it happened they were equally anxious to be able to gratify the public liking for transformations and mechanical effects. Therefore in the spring, at the joint expense of the two companies, the stage of the Palais-Royal was rebuilt so as to permit a more elaborate scenic splendor. Even then it was not possible to present 'Psyche' with the amplitude of spec- tacle which had characterized its performance in the royal palace. Still the Parisian playgoers were satisfied, and more than satisfied, with the entertainment which was set before them. During the remaining two years of Moliere's life, 'Psyche' was acted more than eighty times to nightly receipts that did not vary greatly from a thou- sand livres, more than twice the average of those taken at the performances of the 'Misanthrope.' It would be pleasant to believe that this unprecedented success was due to the interesting collaboration of two of the three foremost living dramatists of France; but the facts forbid, and the credit must be given rather to the machinery, the music and the costumes, than to the captivating charm and the airy grace of the lyrics of Moliere and Corneille. 'PSYCHE' 279 Perhaps, however, it is wholesome for us to be forcibly reminded once more that the drama does not live by literature alone, and that it can never be considered en- tirely apart from the demands of the actual theater. ii Between the performances of 'Psyche' before the king and its appearance before the citizens of Paris, Moliere brought out at the Palais-Royal the 'Fourberies de Sea- pin/ a three act comedy in prose, first acted toward the end of May. In this swift sequence of joyous episodes Moliere returned for the last time to the formula of the comedy-of-masks, although it was from Terence that he took over the outline of his story. Scapin, the part which Moliere impersonated, is simply Mascarille under another name; he is the same rascal of infinite resource who is called Hali in the 'Sicilien/ Sbrigani in 'Monsieur de Pourceaugnac' and Covielle in the 'Bourgeois Gentilhomme.' The successive situa- tions in which he exhibits his incomparable roguery and his unparalleled audacity might any one of them have been included in the 'Etourdi.' In the earliest of Mo- Here's comic pieces on the plan of the Italian comedies, Mascarille plays a series of tricks on the father of his young master, so that the youthful lover can marry the maiden of his choice; and in the latest of the dramatic pieces on this ever useful model Scapin plays a series of tricks on two fathers, so that two enamored young fellows may be able to wed the two girls they have fallen in love with. The method is identical, however dissimilar the separate deceits may be in themselves. But the 'Fourberies de Scapin' is not only more ingeni- J a8o MOLIERE ous in its trickery than the 'Etourdi,' it is also less obvi- ously mechanical and therefore less fatiguing on the stage to-day. Its humor is richer and its gaiety is more sponta- neous. Of course the fun is the result mainly of the situations, as must ever be the case in farce, but it is sustained by a more obvious vivacity and veracity of character-drawing than can be found in Moliere's earlier handling of a kindred theme. The two fathers whom Scapin befools, one after the other, are not mere pro- file figures; they are genuine human beings, solidly set on their feet, even if they are not as searchingly delin- eated as the chief characters in Moliere's higher come- dies. Perhaps even the two young couples, the necessary supporters of the story, are sketched in with a firmer touch and a more sympathetic sentiment than their pred- ecessors in Moliere's first pieces on the pattern of the comedy-of-masks. The plot is brought to a happy conclusion with con- temptuous suddenness when the fun has been carried far enough. The two girls turn out to be the very brides whom the two fathers had picked out for their two sons. This arbitrary cutting of the dramatic knot is quite in keeping with the frank artificiality of the whole play, which is as remote as possible from reality. As we laugh at the humorous imbroglio we know that we are beholding a fantasy only; we know that these things never happened in this workaday world, and that they could not happen. We are aware also that they should not happen, since it is only the flagrant unreality of the action which prevents us from applying the standards of ordinary morality. If we take this play seriously, then the conduct of the sons is inexcusable, and the tricks they allow Scapin to play on their fathers are indefensible. 'PSYCHE' 281 We might go further and say that it is only the lack of any relation to actual life which prevents us from pro- testing against the physical and moral indignities which the unscrupulous valet puts upon the two old men, each in his turn. Considered as a picture of existence as it is, as a portrayal of any possible society, the * Fourberies de Scapin' is as detestable in its cruelty as that other mirth-provoking drama, the tragedy of Punch-and-Judy. Perhaps this final farce of Moliere's can be described not unfairly as a Punch-and-Judy piece for grown-ups; its characters move in a kindred world of make-believe and they are as irresponsible to the moral law. To apply the code of common sense or of common humanity would be as absurd in the one case as in the other. And per- haps it is partly to create this atmosphere of frankly fantastic unreality that Moliere is willingly careless in the logical conduct of his plot, that he lays his scene in an impossible Naples, and that he brings his story to its conclusion by a couple of impossible coincidences. He carries the play off with a high hand, with abundant animal spirits, with no suggestion of effort and with no sign of fatigue. The little drama may be mature in the amplitude of its humor, but it is splendidly youthful in its gaiety, its celerity, its brio. In robustness of comic effect there are few of his plays superior to the 'Four- beries de Scapin.' And perhaps no single scene in all Moliere is more amusing than that in which Scapin per- suades one of the fathers that his son is held as a captive on a Turkish galley, the owner of which insists on a large ransom. There is an almost pathetic humor in the accent of plaintive protest in the old man's reiteration of his question as to why his son ever went on board that galley. The familiar device of the catchword, recurring 282 MOLIERE in the dialogue at artfully chosen intervals, is very old, so old indeed that it is perhaps remotely related to the device of the refrain in the popular ballads. Moliere did not often avail himself of this facile device for awaken- ing laughter; but when he did condescend to employ it (in this play and earlier in the 'Avare,' where Harpagon insists on the willingness of an elderly suitor to marry his daughter without a dowry) he gets out of it the last drop of fun that can be squeezed from it, and he also succeeds in making it a revelation of essential character. It is in the 'Fourberies de Scapin' and in * Monsieur de Pourceaugnac' that Moliere most clearly exhibits his familiarity with the technicalities of the law, with the manifold delays of its procedure and with the manifest chicanery of its practice. He does not recur to the attack again and again as he does in his assault on the practi- tioners of the healing art; but he is outspoken in his exposure of the corruption which characterized the courts of his day. In its way the contemptuous slap which Scapin bestows upon the legal profession is quite as significant as the fiery outburst of Alceste when he hears that he has lost his lawsuit. And in his very last play, the 'Malade Imaginaire/ Moliere introduces a wily petti- fogger who is willing enough to turn the law dishonestly to the advantage of his unscrupulous client. Ill The 'Fourberies de Scapin' had been written for the people of Paris. Moliere's next piece was written for the king once more. This was the 'Comtesse d'Escar- bagnas/ a one act comedy in prose, presented before Louis XIV in December, 1671, and acted at the Palais- 'PSYCHE' 283 Royal in July, 1672. It is only a slight sketch, written to order, to justify the revival of the more effective dances from the earlier 'Ballet des Ballets/ It is the least im- portant of all Moliere's pieces, excepting only that ' Pas- torale Comique' which he did not care to preserve. It is the only play of his which did not contain a part for his own acting. It may be dismissed as a hasty sketch, dashed off hurriedly to meet the king's demand. Its author thought so little of it that he never published it. Yet nothing of Moliere's is negligible. In this per- functory piece of work he gives us an amusing vignette of provincial manners. The Comtesse d'Escarbagnas is an ignorant and pretentious widow who has paid a flying visit to the capital, and who has returned to the little town where she lives even more affected and absurd than before. She has the complacent ignorance of Mrs. Malaprop, and like Mrs. Malaprop she is easily led to believe that the attentions of the wooer of a younger woman are meant for herself. The unpretending little piece contains two other figures from the gallery of provincial types that Moliere had collected during his youthful wanderings. One of these is a stupid and mercenary judge; and in presenting this character Moliere avails himself of the opportunity to express again his low opinion of the law as it was prac- tised in his day. Another of these subsidiary characters, etched quickly by a few summary strokes, is a rude receiver of taxes, ill-mannered and overbearing a first outline of the predatory financier, whose full-length portrait one of Moliere's followers, Le Sage, was later to paint in his 'Turcaret.' 284 MOLIERE IV Perhaps it would be possible to find evidences of fatigue in the 'Comtesse d'Escarbagnas/ at least in the author's unwillingness to take trouble to make the most of his material and to set the carefully observed characters in a story that might be better worth while. That Moliere should now begin to be a little weary is not to be won- dered at. When he brought out this little play it was only thirteen years since he had returned to Paris; but in that brief space he had produced twenty-six other plays, of which half-a-dozen were in five acts. He had acted incessantly; and he had been responsible always for the prosperity of the company of actors of which he was the chief. He had had to turn aside from his own work repeatedly to improvise comedy-ballets at the behest of the king. His health was always insecure; and he was not happy in his home life. However fiercely his ambition might still burn, he had reason enough to be tired of the perpetual struggle. Just what his relations with his father had been we do not know with certainty. But the son may well have been saddened by the father's death early in 1669, at the ripe age of seventy-six not so much perhaps by the death itself as by the circumstances that accompanied it. The elder Poquelin had long survived his two wives and he had seen all his children go before him, except Moliere. He was prosperous when Moliere's mother died and perhaps his prosperity was in part due to her character and to her influence. In the years that followed, after his son left him to become a strolling actor, his affairs went from bad to worse. When he died he was poor; he left few belongings and he owed money; in fact, after ' PSYCHE' 285 his death one of his debts was paid by his son. It may not be safe to draw inferences as to the character of the elder Poquelin from the various fathers introduced by Moliere into his many plays; and yet it is to be noted that nearly all of these fathers are opinionated, domineer- ing and selfish. Of course, this was the type Moliere had found in the Italian comedy he imitated and in the Latin comedy which was his other model; still there may be some slight significance in the fact that only in the 'Femmes Savantes' did he take occasion to vary this character and to represent a father more amiable and more estimable. It is pleasant, however, to recall here the evidence that Moliere seems to have been on good terms with his father and that he willingly came to his assist- ance when the elder Poquelin was in need. It was two years before the performance of the 'Com- tesse d'Escarbagnas' that Moliere had lost his father. And it was shortly after the production of that play before the king that the death occurred of Madeleine Bejart, with whom he had been intimately associated ever since he had left his father's roof, nearly thirty years earlier. She had been ailing for some time; and she had created no new part in the plays that Moliere had recently written. In February, 1672, she died, at the comparatively early age of fifty-four. She had been the original performer of many of Moliere's most vigorously drawn characters, of which Madelon, in the 'Precieuses Ridicules,' was one of the earliest and Dorine, in 'Tartuffe,' one of the most effective. A versatile actress, she was also a woman of much sagacity in business; and she seems to have man- aged the financial affairs of the company and of Moliere himself, until long after they had all returned to Paris. She had wisely invested her own share of the profits of 286 MOLIERE their theatrical enterprise; and she was able to leave behind her a little fortune. By her will, drawn up only a few days before her death, she provided for a charitable bequest and for masses for herself. She also gave four hundred francs a year for life to her brother Louis and to each of her two sisters, Genevieve and Armande. And she designated the younger sister, Armande, the wife of Moliere, as her residuary legatee. A few months before the death of Madeleine Bejart a final reconciliation had taken place between Moliere and his wife. We do not know the exact date of their agree- ing to live apart, nor do we know the exact date when they made up their differences at last. Probably this reunion preceded or accompanied a severe illness of the wife in the fall of 1671, a few weeks before the first per- formance of the 'Comtesse d'Escarbagnas.' Whatever the former disagreements between husband and wife may have been, they managed to get along together dur- ing the few remaining months of Moliere's life. He took a house, which he furnished and supplied sump- tuously, perhaps to gratify her desires and perhaps to please his own liking for luxurious surroundings. CHAPTER XVII THE 'FEMMES SAVANTES' I To meet the sudden desires of the king and to keep the Palais-Royal constantly supplied with new plays Moliere often found himself forced to work in a hurry. This lack of leisure for the slow maturing of masterpieces t wherein he could put forth his whole strength explains why it is that he has left us so few large comedies and so many comedy-ballets and so many Italianate farces. His comic dramas are not only surprisingly varied in form, they are also surprisingly unequal in scope and in finish. It is at most in a scant half-dozen of his comedies that he is able to display his rich resources as a dramaturgic craftsman and his full powers as a humorous psychologist Perhaps almost half of his thirty plays disclose plainly either the special circumstances of their origin or else the haste with which they had to be put together. It might"* even be maintained that there are only two of his loftier"; comedies in which he was able to show himself at the high- ^ est and to do justice to his skill as a playmaker, to his gift - of humor and to his insight into character. One of these * two is, of course, 'TartufFe'; and the other is the 'Femmes * Savantes/ In the 'Femmes Savantes* we have the ultimate model ~ of high comedy a type of play which must be excessively 287 288 MOLIERE difficult of attainment if we may judge by its extraordinary rarity in the dramatic literature of every language, ancient and modern. By hiffh comedy we mean a humorous play which is sustained by a worthy theme and in which the action is caused by the clash of character on character. The 'Femmes Savantes' is even more absolutely a comedy than 'Tartuffe,' since that superb play threatens at one moment to stiffen into drama and almost into tragedy. It is ampler in its theme than the 'Avare' and the -'Bourgeois Gentilhomme/ where the interest is centered on the presentation of every aspect of a single character. If not so significant in its thesis as the 'Misanthrope/ it is better built and more adroitly adjusted to the demands of the theater, where the desires of the crowd must always be considered. 0, The 'Femmes Savantes' is also one of the most origi- nal of all its author's plays. The loftier and the larger Moliere's comedy the less he borrows. When he was composing a farce, he was content to go to others, some- times for his plot and sometimes for his episodes; he was willing enough to take the 'Fourberies de Scapin' from the Latin and the 'Etourdi' from the Italian. But the indefatigable industry of his countless commentators has not enabled them to indicate the actual sources of the yFemmes Savantes' or of 'Tartuffe/ even though it has permitted them to point out a few suggestions here and there in the works of his predecessors and his contempo- Taries by which he may have profited. It is when Moliere is at his best that he owes least to others. He was then /looking, not at what had already been set on the stage, but at what was going on in the society by which he was purrounded. He was drawing directly from nature, and he was not disposed to take his material ready-made THE 'FEMMES SAVANTES' 289 from the hand of another. He had no need to copy any- thing but humanity itself. Moliere seems to have given a longer time to the com- position of the 'Femmes Savantes' than he was able to bestow on any other of his later plays. Apparently he had begun to compose this comedy several years before it finally appeared in the theater. It was prepared at leisure, even if its preparation was more than once in- terrupted by a call to produce other plays for which there was an immediate demand either from the king or from the company. And perhaps this preoccupation with a more ambitious work may account for the perfunctory carelessness with which the 'Comtesse d'Escarbagnas' was dashed off and for the reckless swiftness of the 'Four- beries de Scapin.' The 'Femmes Savantes' is spaciously conceived, solidly constructed, and highly finished. Evi- dently the author had allowed it to ripen slowly; and when at last he chose to bring it before the public it was free from all evidences of haste. It is a five act comedy in verse; and it was first acted"*"" at the Palais-Royal in March, 1672, less than a year before Moliere's death. It is the last of Moliere's nobler com- edies; and in it he handled again, on an ampler scale, the subject he had lightly treated in the earliest play written after his return to Paris. In the 'Precieuses Ridicules' he had killed the vogue of the romance-of- gallantry, as one of his masters in comedy, Cervantes, had killed the vogue of the romance-of-chivalry. Yet the spirit which animated the precieuses was not dead, and it had manifested itself anew in fresh forms in the thirteen years since Moliere had first attacked it. In these new manifestations he detected a menace to society far more dangerous than he had discovered in the older 290 MOLIERE affectations. It was with delight that he returned to the assault, not with another little play, like the 'Precieuses Ridicules/ amusingly sustained by the artifices of farce, but with a compactly planned comedy of fuller im- port, devoid of fantastic exaggeration and direct in its portrayal of character. II In the 'Femmes Savantes,' as earlier in 'Tartuffe,' in the 'Avare' and in the 'Bourgeois Gentilhomme/ Moliere lays his story in a single family. An easy-going citizen, jChj^sale (glayed ,by Moliere, himself) has a wife, Phila- minte, who is educated beyond her intelligence. There are two daughters, Armande, the elder, who takes after her mother, and Henriette, the younger (played by Mo- ^Tiere's wife), who has simpler tastes and more common- place desires. Chrysale has a brothex Affite, who is embodiment of common sense, and also a sisterJBelige, an absurd old maid, who holds with Philaminte and who believes herself to be sought by several suitors. A most presentable young man, Clitandre (acted by La Grange), had paid his attentions to Armande, only to be rebuffed by her scorn for anything so mundane as matrimony, whereupon he transferred his affections to Henriette. In the midst of this family group there is another outsider, Trissotin, whom the learned ladies have made a pet of, because he appears in their eyes as the embodiment of the wit they admire and of the learning they adore. The art of comedy is largely the art of contrasting characters so that each shall make the other more salient and more significant; and in none of his plays has Moliere shown himself a more skilful artist than in this. The THE 'FEMMES SAVANTES' 291 weak-willed Chrysale is set over against the firm and resourceful Ariste. The pedantic and platonic Armande is set by the side of the charmingly natural Henriette. The over-educated Philaminte is shown engaged in con- troversy with her ignorant servant, Martine. And Cli- tandre, who has the easy courtesy of a man of the world, stands in juxtaposition with the pretentiously arrogant Trissotin. The art of comedy also calls for dexterity in the con- duct of the plot, for certainty of exposition and for cumu- lative interest in the episodes as they succeed one another. Here also Moliere is seen at his best; and the opening passages of the play take us as swiftly into the full current of the story as the opening episodes of 'TartufFe,' than which there could be no higher praise. The action is engaged in the very first scene by a colloquy between the two sisters, in which Armande reproaches Henriette with the younger' s willingness to marry a discarded admirer of the elder. She ends by asking whether Henriette is absolutely convinced that her lover has conquered his earlier affection. Henriette thereupon summons Clitan- dre to declare himself and to decide between them; and the young fellow, to the warm dissatisfaction of the elder sister, makes it plain that his heart is now given irrevo- cably to the younger. And the spectators cannot help feeling that Armande will thereafter do all in her power to prevent the course of true love from running smoothly. In the second act we make the acquaintance of Chrysale, to whom Ariste declares the desire of Clitandre to wed Henriette. But when the more or less hen-pecked hus- band discloses this matrimonial project to his strong- willed wife, he is told that she has made another arrange- ment. She is determined that Henriette shall marry 292 MOLIERE Trissotin. This prodigy of wit and wisdom has not pre- tended to be in love with the girl; but he is willing enough to wed her because both of her parents are wealthy. When Ariste hears of the match proposed by Henriette's mother, he upbraids her father with his weakness in yielding; and at last he arouses in Chrysale a spirit of manly resistance. The worthy burgher resolves to assert himself for once. He sends for a Notary to draw up the marriage-contract of Henriette and Clitandre; and he is fearless in proclaiming that the young couple shall be made happy that very day. When Aristotle laid down the principle that every play H ought to have a single story of a certain importance in itself, and that it ought also to set forth the beginning and the middle and the end of this single story, he was unwittingly testifying to the convenience of a three-act form, one act containing each of these necessary parts of the plot. And even when the dramatic poets have felt compelled to fill out the larger framework of five acts, they have been able to do this only by subdividing one of these necessary parts between two acts. This is what Moliere has done in the 'Femmes Savantes/ In his first two acts we see only the beginning of the story, in which the characters are set before us sharply and in which our interest is keenly aroused in what is to follow. Moliere had also to divide the ending of his story between the fourth and fifth acts. It is in the third act that he gives us the swift succession of effects for which we have been prepared by the earlier acts and which make us eager for the later acts. In this middle act we behold the learned ladies as- sembled. We see them purring with extravagant delight as the complacent Trissotin reads aloud two of his empty THE 'FEMMES SAVANTES' 293 and labored little poems. We look on while Trissotin introduces his frienc^, - 3iadius, who knows as much Greek as any man in France. We gaze with joy at the quarrel that soon arises between the two parlor-poets, who get hotter and hotter in the violence of their objurgations until they almost come to blows. We are shown the angry withdrawal of the unvanquished Vadius, leaving Trissotin to the consolation of his trio of female admirers. And we look on while Philaminte tells Henriette that she is to accept Trissotin as her husband. The girl protests in vain; but when her mother has left the stage to be suc- ceeded by her father, she finds sudden encouragement. Despite the warnings of Armande, Chrysale announces to Henriette that she shall be married at once to Clitandre. After all the bustling comedy-scenes of this third act, the fourth may seem a little thinner in substance, partly because it is mainly a preparation for the end of the play. Armande embittered by jealousy seeks to set her mother even more strongly against Clitandre, who comes in just in time to overhear her insidious attack. He defends himself; and at that Armande declares that she will now accept the suit she formerly rejected. Since he is not satisfied with a purely platonic relation, she will take him for her husband. But Clitandre has to decline, as he is now sincerely in love with Henriette. And after an amusing and rather personal passage of arms between Clitandre and Trissotin, we see Chrysale still resolved that his younger daughter shall wed the man of her choice. In the fifth act Henriette pleads with Trissotin to re- nounce his suit, telling him plainly that her heart is given to Clitandre; but the self-seeking pretender refuses to withdraw. When the Notary arrives to draw the marriage contract, Chrysale designates Clitandre as the future 294 MOLIERE husband, and Philaminte sets forward Trissotin. Finally, the mother suggests that if Clitandre must marry one of her daughters, he can have Armande, at the same time that Trissotin marries Henriette. Chrysale is weakening a little when Ariste arrives with two letters, one to Phila- minte announcing the loss of a lawsuit, which will greatly diminish her fortune, and the other to Chrysale, declaring that his bankers have defaulted, which will sadly reduce his wealth. And thereupon Trissotin promptly with- draws, unwilling to marry a poor girl. Clitandre persists in his suit; and then Ariste confesses that the bad news is only a device of his own to expose the mercenariness of Trissotin. And now that all opposition is withdrawn, Chrysale valiantly orders the Notary to proceed with the marriage contract. Ill Slight as may be the story of the 'Femmes Savantes' it is sufficient to sustain satisfactorily the interest of the spectators; and it is developed in a sequence of situations unsurpassed in effectiveness of humor and in exquisite truthfulness of character-delineation. No single episode in all Moliere is at once more vigorously amusing and l^ more truthful than the Quarrel between Trissotin and Vadius. Nothing is more characteristically comic than Philaminte's protest to the Notary, against the barbarity of the legal terms in which the marriage contract is drawn. No character has a more opulent humor and a more vital humanity than Chrysale, the weak-willed but well-mean- ing husband. And the comedy as a whole has a unity of intent and a harmony of tone which Moliere was rarely able to attain, forced as he often was to relieve a somber THE 'FEMMES SAVANTES' 295 theme with episodes of an almost farcical vivacity. From the rise of the curtain in the first act to its final fall on the fifth, the play is kept consistently on the highest plane of comedy. In no other play has Moliere gathered together a more entertaining collection of characters, sharply individual- ized and eternally true to life. The success of the play was immediate; and it has been enduring, for its thesis is as pertinent to-day as it was two centuries and a half ago, and its characters have a permanent appeal. Philaminte and Armande are prototypes of the perennial blue-stock- ing; and we can find them in our own time perorating in culture-clubs and attending conventions to the neglect of their household duties. Their vocabulary may be dif- ferent nowadays; but their attitude is the same. They may not be devoted to Greek, they may not be enchanted by petty little poems, they may not be striving to reform the language; but they have changed only their outer garments, and this disguise does not prevent our recog- nizing them at once as old acquaintances. It would be easy to pick out in the twentieth century not a few women who are thrusting themselves forward in drawing-rooms and on the platform, and who are as affected as the Belise and as pretentious as the Philaminte that Moliere presented in the seventeenth century. And it might not be difficult to find a few who are as ignorant and as foolish. And Trissotin flourishes to-day in America and re- veals himself as complacently self-satisfied as he did in France under Louis XIV. He may wear a coat of another color, but he has not transformed his character. He may have transferred his interests to more modern topics; but his method is unmodified and his manners also. He is as vain and as superficial as ever; and he is still sur- 296 MOLIERE rounded by a little group of admiring women, open- mouthed and empty-headed. Sometimes he appears as a lecturer on ethics or on esthetics; sometimes he pre- fers to be a parlor-socialist; and on occasion he may even venture to set forth sympathetically the most advanced theories of the intellectual anarchists. But more often he contents himself with disquisitions upon the more un- substantial poets, Shelley, for one, and Maeterlinck, for another, expounding their inner meanings and delightedly setting forth their airy withdrawal above the vulgarities of everyday life. Keenly as Moliere has perceived and presented the folly of Belise and the absurdity of Philaminte, he is subtler in his portrayal of the more perverted Armande, the prurient prude, who pretends to put the pleasures of the mind above those of the senses, while allowing us to suspect that her own thoughts dwell unduly and unpleasantly on more material things. Moliere had a plentiful lack of liking for a young woman who paraded her false delicacy and her platonic shrinking from the realities of matrimony and of motherhood. He sees in this type a dangerous detachment from duty, and he does not disguise his indignation. Possessed as he is by the social instinct and believing as he does in the necessity of being natural, he could not but detest the theories which Armande proclaims. He perceives clearly enough that if these theories should prevail, the family would disin- tegrate. Therefore he holds them to be threatening to society. He makes his own attitude plain by contrasting the etherealized views of Armande with the practical common sense of Henriette. No dialogue in all his comedies is more carefully written or more thoroughly thought out THE 'FEMMES SAVANTES' 297 than the opening scene of the 'Femmes Savantes,' in which Armande and Henriette reveal themselves uncon- sciously. The elder sister is characterized with a full understanding of her individuality; but it is the younger sister who has the author's sympathy and whom he por- trays with a caressing touch. Henriette is nature itself and straightforward simplicity; she is essentially womanly; she has a wholesome charm and a feminine grace. Per- haps it is not too much to say that Henriette embodies Moliere' s ideal of the French girl, just as Rosalind may represent Shakspere's ideal of the English girl. And the contrast of the two characters is as instructive as it is interesting; it affords us an insight into the divergent attitude of the two races toward woman as a wife and as a mother. The Frenchman does not idealize woman as the Englisjiman_is_wont to do, for Shakspere is ever and always poetic, whereas Moliere deals witR tFe~]prose~~oT life, even if he has to express" himself in rimecTalexa n- drines. As the type of maidenly ignorance Moliere gives us Agnes, where Shakspere presents us with Miranda; and as the representative of all that is most attractively feminine he depicts Henriette, where Shakspere has imagined Rosalind. The love-affair of Clitandre and Henriette is not romantic and it has no hectic flush of romanticism; it is a solid affection, founded on sympathy of taste and of character; but it is quite as likely to result in durable happiness as the more poetic wooing of Or- lando and Rosalind. IV If it is appropriate to apply a modern term to this masterpiece of comedy, it might be described as a prob- lem-play. It is a picture of manners and a gallery of N 298 MOLIERE portraits; but it has also its thesis, as the 'Ecole des Maris' had and the * Misanthrope ' also. As we sit in the theater while its successive scenes are acted before us, we are forced to reflect upon the higher education of woman, or at least upon the effect produced on the social organi- zation when women undertake a rivalry with men in the attaining of learning. It is true enough that Moliere does not here introduce us to women who have really made themselves equal to men in solidity of attainment, since Belise and Philaminte and Armande are all of them pretenders to knowledge; their paraded learning has little foundation, and they have vainly sought to acquire culture without the labor of getting an adequate educa- tion as a foundation for it. Although this may be admitted, the question is raised nevertheless; and it is obvious also that Moliere does not attempt to reply to it. As a dramatist, whose duty it is to set on the stage life as he sees it, he is not called upon to answer the query he suggests. It is sufficient if the playwright poses his problem, and there is never any obligation on him to solve it himself. It is enough if he calls it to our attention and if he asks us to find each our own solution. Should he go further and strive to impose on us his own answer to the interrogation, he would be beyond his province of depicting life. His play is then no longer a true problem-play; it becomes immediately a sort of dramatized novel-with-a-purpose, in which the convincing portrayal of society has been sacrificed to an attempt to prove a theory. Now, in all the arts the effort to prove anything is always sterile, since it is the province of art to reproduce nature and not to find answers for insistent questions. , Moliere is too completely a dramatist to set on the THE 'FEMMES SAVANTES' 299 stage any single character as the mouthpiece for his own opinions. It is his duty as a dramatist to let the persons in his play express the sentiments by which they are severally animated. In fairness to the characters he has created he must permit them to speak for themselves and to proclaim their beliefs each in his own fashion. Even Chrysale, the character that Moliere himself imperson- ated, cannot be held necessarily to voice his own opinions on the question at issue. And yet in the course of the comedy Moliere manages to have one or another of the speakers say the things which he wants the audience to hear and which he holds it necessary to have said by some one, if the whole subject is to be presented at full length. Sometimes one of these needful remarks is made by Chrysale and sometimes by Ariste. Both Clitandre and Henriette take part in this expression of the opinions that have to be put forth. And now and again it is the rustic Martine who takes her part in the discussion and who drops words of unexpected wisdom. As a result, it is not difficult to arrive at Moliere's own views on the thesis he has propounded, even though he has put into his play no single character charged with the utterance of his personal opinions. If we want to dis- cover what Moliere himself thinks we need not scrutinize what any one of his characters happens to say; we have only to consider the comedy as a whole and to weigh the total impression it leaves upon us. What Chrysale may declare at one moment or what Martine may put forth at another, what Philaminte or Belise may assert these things are useful enough in their place; but the truth is not in any one of them. It is what all the characters say, it is what they do, it is what they are these are the things which tell us what Moliere's own attitude is. This 3oo MOLIERE attitude is clearly shown by the single fact that the learned ladies are all of them more or less foolish, and that Tris- sotin, the man whom these foolish women foolishly ad- mire, is also foolish. It is even more evidently disclosed by the added fact that the most sympathetic character, Henriette, is in revolt against the pretentiousness of her mother and her aunt and her sister. Although Moliere himself broke away early from his father's house, and although his own home was not happy, he is ever the defender of the family from foes within and without; and he thinks that everything is dangerous which may tempt a woman to disregard her household duties. His belief is that woman is completely filling her place in the world when she is simply a wife and a mother. He thinks that women fail to do the best they can for them- selves when they turn aside from this noble function, and when they despise and neglect the privileges of wifehood and of motherhood to assert arrogantly an equality with men, instead of being satisfied with the superiority which men have generally conceded to them. He is of opinion that a woman will have a full life and will best accom- plish that for which nature intended her, only when she is satisfied with her place in the household and when she joys in being the mother of children whom she has the pleasure of bringing up. If her life is thus filled to over- flowing, she will have little leisure for rivalry with man in the acquisition of knowledge and in the advancement of learning. Therefore Moliere cannot help perceiving that the pretension of women to intellectual equality is too often but a barren affectation. And for pretentious affectations of every kind Moliere had only contempt and scorn. In the 'Femmes Savantes,' as perhaps in no other of THE 'FEMMES SAVANTES' 301 his comedies, can we discover the abiding influence of Montaigne, which is as direct and at times as powerful as that of Rabelais. It is in * Monsieur de Pourceaugnac' that the indebtedness to Rabelais is most clearly revealed, in its hearty humor and in its exuberant fun-making. Both Rabelais and Montaigne were governed by the social instinct and they saw man as a member of society. More- over they both believed in nature, as they each understood it, and they were prompt to plead in its behalf. In spirit Moliere was akin to both of them; and he had nourished himself on their works. His indebtedness to them is deeper than any chance reproduction of casual passages, here and there, in one play or another; it extends to his philosophy, to his attitude toward life as a whole, to his feeling for the larger problems of existence. In the ' Femmes Savantes ' we can discover as well that Moliere had found his profit also in the study of another of his predecessors. Nisard declared that he could detect the influence of Descartes in some of the comic dramatist's most beautiful passages, "in that logic of dialogue so free in its turns and yet so serried." And it is perhaps in this play that these passages are most abundant, in the opening scene between the two sisters, for example, and in the later scene when -Clitandre ex- plains to Armande why he has transferred his affection to Henriette. Moliere's style was suppler than ever in this comedy, more substantial, more warmly colored. Perhaps 'Tartuffe' and the 'Misanthrope' are the only other plays of his which really rival the 'Femmes Sa- vantes' in literary merit. His style is never academic; it 302 MOLIERE has ever the savory directness of popular speech; it al- ways unites clearness of thought to intensity of expression. Purists and pedants have found fault with his manner of writing as they have with Shakspere's, and to as little purpose. Neither the English dramatist nor the French aim at empty propriety of phrase; their sentences are always animated and tingling with the emotion of the moment. In their hands the language is molten and malleable and they bend words to their bidding, often forcing a phrase to carry more meaning than it had ever borne before. Especially is Moliere's a style intended for oral delivery. It is meant not for the eye of the single reader in the library, but for the ears of the audience assembled in the theater. More than one speech which may seem trailing and tortuous to the linguistic critic, falls trippingly from the tongue of the actor. And it was the actor whom Moliere had ever in mind. His lines were written primarily for delivery on the stage and only secondarily for perusal in the study. They have the free and flexible rhythm of the spoken word, so different from the more balanced construction which befits a style in- tended only for the reader. Moliere was an actor himself and he knew the needs of the actor. If we may accept the testimony of Coquelin, who reincarnated most of the parts Moliere prepared for his own acting, even the long- est of these parts is not physically fatiguing to the actor, however difficult any one of them may be to impersonate adequately. The unfailing brilliance of the dialogue of the ' Femmes Savantes' is never external; it is achieved by no explo- sive epigram; it is not the result of merely picking clever sayings from a notebook and pinning them into the con- versation at a venture. But if there is no trace of arti- THE 'FEMMES SAVANTES' 303 ficial crackle and rattle like that which at once pleases and provokes us in the comedies of Congreve and of Sheridan, and which we cannot help suspecting to have been elaborated at leisure, there is in this comedy of Moliere's a constant play of wit of a more truly intellectual kind. The French dramatist's humor is more solidly rooted in truth and more luxuriant in its flower; and his wit is less specious and more pervasive. The whole play is bathed in wit and swims in wit; and this wit is rather in the thought than in the phrasing. It is the wit of the intelligence, and not of the vocabulary only. French critics have distinguished three forms of witti- cism, of the humorous stroke proper to comedy. One is the witticism itself, pure and simple, existing for its own sake, as serviceable in one scene as another; and for this inexpensive effect Moliere has no liking. Another is the speech that evokes laughter because it expresses essential character; and a third is the phrase which comes spontaneously as the culmination of a situation, and which is funny only because it is spoken by that particular character at that particular moment. The dialogue of Moliere's comedies is studded with humorous strokes of these two latter classes. Indeed, he had the gift of hitting on the sentence which combines the two, express- ing character at the instant that the situation culminates. Such is the parting shot of Vadius as he challenges Tris- sotin to meet him face to face "at the bookseller's." Such is Chrysale's sudden "my sister," by which he seeks to suggest that he has been addressing to Belise the dar- ing speech that he suspects Philaminte is ready to resent. Moliere does not condescend to the empty glitter of the clever sentence, which is extraneous to the immediate purpose of the scene; and he also eschews that bandying 304 MOLIERE of sharp personalities which often degenerated into sheer vulgarity of retort in the Restoration dramatists, and which is not as infrequent as might be wished in Shakspere. There is delicate fencing in the interview of the two sisters; there is sharp rapier-play in the duel between Clitandre and Trissotin; and there is rougher saber work when Vadius and Trissotin turn on each other. But even in the encounter between these two thin-skinned and quick- tempered men there is no hint of the seeming brutality which we discover in the cut-and-thrust repartee of Beatrice and Benedick, and which suggests rather the boxing-glove than the fencing-foil. In Moliere's comedy the characters, however irritable or exacerbated, abide by the rules of the sport and they do not hit below the belt. They preserve the courtesy of the school of arms, with the self-respect which implies respect for others. VI There are some of Moliere's admirers who feel that in this comedy Moliere fell below his customary standard of urbanity and amenity in his delineation of Trissotin. And for this regret there is a certain justification. To us to-day Trissotin is a type of the immensely conceited man of letters; and as he plays off his little parlor-tricks before us we recall the cynical saying that an amateur is a man who loves nothing and a connoisseur is a man who knows nothing. But to Moliere's contemporaries Tris- sotin was primarily the portrait of a living man, of the Abbe Cotin. The two little epigrams that Trissotin reads with smug complacency are taken from the pub- lished works of Cotin; and the imagined quarrel of Tris- sotin and Vadius had been preceded by a real altercation THE 'FEMMES SAVANTES' 305 between Cotin and Menage. It has ever been asserted, but apparently without warrant, that Moliere had origi- nally called the character Tricotin. More than once Moliere vigorously defended himself against the charge of putting real persons into his plays; and it is in vain that efforts have been made to identify Tartuffe and Alceste with any of those who have been suggested as the living originals of these characters. Yet in this single instance he seems to have departed from his practice and to have violated his own rule. In general, Moliere was gentle and kindly; and he did not retort when he was cruelly assailed even in his own family life. Once, and once only, in the ' Impromptu de Versailles/ he had turned aside to transfix one of his wanton assail- ants with a scornful shaft. And yet in the 'Femmes Savantes* we find what seems to be a second example of this Aristophanic license of personal attack. But when the two cases are considered carefully they are seen not to be parallel. In holding Cotin up to ridicule before those who knew him, Moliere was apparently less moved by resentment against the individual than by detestation of the class to which the abbe belonged. It is true that Cotin had attempted a translation of Lucretius and had thus posed as a rival of Moliere's. It is a fact also that he had defended himself as best he could against the satires of Boileau and that in so doing he had gone out of his way to insult Moliere. These things may have called him to the attention of the comic dramatist; and Boileau may have besought his friend and literary ally to second his own assault. But these things alone would not have sufficed to tempt Mo- liere into personality if he had not seen in Cotin the embodiment of literary pretentiousness supported by a 306 MOLIERE limited foundation of intelligence. Moliere detested heartily all that Cotin stood for; and he had only con- tempt for all that Cotin admired. It was not the personal slurs on himself, but the feeble pettiness of Cotin's verses which allured Moliere irresistibly to put their author into his comedy. Humor always loves a dull mark; and Mo- liere's laughter could not but be spontaneous and copious at the sight of the empty prettiness and the punning conceits which constitute Cotin's attempts at poetry. Trissotin, moreover, is larger than any Cotin. Moliere is not a mere photographer; and he gives us a durable painting, even if it happens also to be a portrait; he gives us a typical character, even if it chances also to be the reproduction of an individual. His contemporaries may have seen in Trissotin only the peculiarities of Cotin; but for posterity Trissotin exists for his own sake, with an eternal truthfulness and with a largeness which far transcends the accidental original. In fact, Trissotin is to us nowadays the unforgettable portrait of the essential pedant; and we are no more called upon to remember the forgotten individual who was its exciting cause, than we are summoned to keep in mind the unknown Greek girl who may have had the good fortune to serve as the living model for a Venus of Praxiteles. Candor compels the admission, however, that even if this solitary straying of Moliere' s into the lower region of personality may be comprehensible and even excusa- ble, it is none the less regrettable especially since Tris- sotin's withdrawal of his suit when Henriette is supposed to be less fully dowered than he had believed, reveals him as meanly self-seeking, a contemptible characteristic due to the exigencies of the plot and not inherently re- lated to the type represented. Here Moliere seems to THE TEMMES SAVANTES' 307 have laid himself open to the accusation of deficiency of tact which was brought against Dickens when he be- stowed certain of the external peculiarities of the living Leigh Hunt on that genial swindler, Harold Skimpole. In justice, it must be noted that Moliere was here deal- ing with an enemy, who had assailed himself without provocation, whereas Dickens was misusing a friend who had done him no injury. Although it was well known that Menage had been the other participant in the squabble which suggested the quarrel scene of Trissotin and Vadius, Menage did not sit for the portrait of Vadius. Very wisely he refused to put on the cap, holding that it would not fit him; and he never displayed any resentment toward Moliere. In- deed, Vadius, the priggish pretender, is diametrically unlike Menage, who was really a scholar, manly and un- pretending. He was an intimate friend of Madame de Sevigne and of Madame de Lafayette, to whom he had given instruction in Italian and in Greek. He was a kindly man, serviceable to his friends and stanchly loyal to Fouquet after the disgrace of that supporter of arts and letters. And as an etymologist he was far in advance of his time. Moliere could have had no grudge against Menage since he had no hostility toward real scholarship. It was only the pretenders to learning that he delighted in unmasking. We may be sure that Vadius was no more intended for Menage than Philaminte and Belise were aimed at Madame de Sevigne and Madame de Lafayette, women who were essentially womanly although they had added culture to education. CHAPTER XVIII THE 'MALADE IMAGINAIRE' AND THE DEATH OF MOLIERE I THE final months of Moliere's life were full of struggle, of sadness and of disappointment. His sister-in-law Madeleine Bejart, the comrade of his strolling, had died in February, -1672, exactly one year before the day on which he was to die himself. In September his second son had been born, to survive less than a fortnight, car- ried off in infancy, just as his elder son had been taken. His own health was giving him concern and his strength was failing slowly. He was beginning to weary of the incessant effort imposed on him. And there were signs that he did not stand so high in the favor of the king as he had supposed; at least it became evident that Louis XIV was not unwilling to sacrifice Moliere to Lulli. The monarch seems always to have esteemed the playwright chiefly because of the prompt certainty with which Mo- liere ministered to the royal pleasure by improvising the comedy-ballets for which Lulli composed the music; and when Louis XIV was called upon to choose between the intriguing composer and the sincere dramatist, he did not hesitate to prefer the Florentine to the Frenchman. Lulli knew his own value and he was well aware that the king believed him indispensable for the court festivi- 308 THE 'MALADE IMAGINAIRE' 309 ties of all sorts. Trading upon this and threatening to withdraw from France in case Louis XIV refused to grant him what he asked, he induced the monarch to confer upon him a privilege for opera which gave him almost a musical monopoly. Lulli was to have sole control over every musical performance which should be given before the king, whether in the royal chapel, at the Opera or during the court festivities. The edict he extorted from the monarch also forbade any one else to perform any- where any play set to music without his permission. Lulli began at once to profit by this royal privilege; the actors of the Palais-Royal and of the Hotel de Bourgogne were notified that they could not thereafter employ more than six singers and twelve instrumentalists or engage any of the king's dancers, whose services were absolutely reserved to the manager of the Opera. When ' Psyche' was revived at the Palais-Royal, in the fall of 1672, Moliere had to find substitutes for the origi- nal musicians and dancers; and he seems to have been so much annoyed by the restrictions which his former collaborator sought to impose on him, that when he brought out the 'Comtesse d'Escarbagnas' at his own theater, he discarded the music which Lulli had com- posed for the original performance and had a full score prepared by another composer, Charpentier. It was Charpentier, and not Lulli, to whom he confided the musical accompaniment of his last play, the 'Malade Imaginaire,' which had a burlesque ceremony as elaborate as that of the 'Bourgeois Gentilhomme,' and in which therefore the musical element was equally important. The prologue of this piece proves that Moliere intended it specially for performance at court before the king; and the comedy itself is evidence that it was planned to paral- 3io MOLIERE lei the 'Bourgeois Gentilhomme/ with the expectation of repeating the success achieved by that medley of high comedy, farce and musical buffoonery. In this expecta- tion the author-actor was disappointed. In all probability Lulli refused to permit the performance before the sov- ereign of a piece enlivened by the music of a rival com- poser. Louis XIV, forced to choose between Lulli and Moliere, stood by the Italian. As a result Moliere had to bring out his last play at the Palais-Royal; and the sovereign deprived himself of the pleasure of beholding it with the best actor of his reign in the chief part. This may have been a disappointment to the monarch himself; and it was certainly a loss to the author, whose comedy was represented before the playgoers of Paris without the prestige which it would have had from its original performance before the assembled courtiers. II Even though the 'Malade Imaginaire' was put together obviously to repeat the popularity of the 'Bourgeois Gentilhomme,' with its comedy of character tailing off into opera-bouffe, its subject was not so gay. Indeed, the theme of Moliere's last piece, taken in itself and de- tached from its laughable accompaniments, is sober, not to call it somber. Of course, its darkness is carefully disguised by its author, who lightened it deliberately because he knew that he was expected to make people laugh. Not only is the thesis of this piece more or less lugubrious, when we separate it from its humorous trimmings, but Moliere's treatment is also frankly re- alistic, in the narrower and lower meaning of this ad- jective. THE 'MALADE IMAGINAIRE' 311 The central figure is^Argan, the imaginary invalid, the character which Moliere performed, and which he may even have modelled to some slight extent upon himself. Argan is a hypochondriac, a hysteric, a neurasthenic, who has deceived himself into the belief that he is a sick man and who has centered all his attention on his health. The medical science of the twentieth century would seek to cure Argan's mind rather than his body, assured that the latter would be able to take care of itself as soon as the former was set at ease. What Argan really needs is mental healing and not the drugs and purgations lavished upon him recklessly by the practitioners of his own time. There is really nothing the matter with Argan except his own belief that he has one foot in the grave. He rejects roughly every suggestion that he is not on the verge of death. He insists violently on being treated as desperately ill; he is irritable and irascible. And he is absolutely self-centered and therefore intensely selfish.! He is as selfish as Orgon in 'Tartuffe/ and in the same fashion, since he wants to marry his daughter to a physician, so that he may have a medical attendant \ always at hand, just as Orgon desires his daughter to wed TartufFe, so that the director of his soul might be bound to him by family ties.t Willing as he was to borrow from himself and from others, Moliere had a fertile originality, and he was con- stantly displaying his ability to deal freshly and forcibly with matter that he had already handled. Three times before had he girded at the doctors, in the 'Amour Mede- cin/ in * Monsieur de Pourceaugnac/ and in the 'Medecin malgre lui'; and now he returned to the charge for the last time, attacking the medical profession once more and from another point of view. He varied his method and 312 MOLIERE approached his target from a different angle, but with an even acuter sense of the absurdity of contemporary medi- cal pretensions. Apparently his own failing health, and the inability of the physicians to afford him relief, had made him more bitter than ever before and more biting in his satire. It is indeed a startling exhibition of crass ineptitude that he has put before us in this last assault upon the dull but erudite doctors of his day, who had learned nothing except from the books of the ancients, and who had forgotten nothing therein contained. It is a strange collection of characters that Moliere invites us to con- sider, representatives of every department of the healing art. There js Aryan's own medical attendant, the learned Monsieur Purgon, with his immitigable sequence of laxa- tive prescriptions. There is his special apothecary, the grasping Monsieur Fleurant, equipped witH the instru- ment of his subordinate art and eager always for its em- ployment. There is Monsieur Purgon's brother-in-law, the pompous Monsieur Diafoirius; and there is Mon- sieur Purgon's nephew, the younger Diafoirius. The force of satire cannot surpass this creation of Thomas Diafoirius, a stupendous caricature of the possible result of the medical education of the seventeenth century. In all Moliere's comedies there are no two figures of a more amusing veracity and of a more irresistible humor than the Diafoirius pair, the father inflated with sonorous solemnity, and the son stuffed with barren learning. It is by the speaking portraits of the three physicians and of the single apothecary who is their fit ally, and by the equally comic portrayal of the imaginary invalid, who is their proper prey, that Moliere manages to raise this play up to the higher rank of true comedy, in spite of the THE 'MALADE IMAGINAIRE' 313 fact that not a few of the episodes are undeniably farcical and that the termination is pure buffoonery, unmitigated fun which is its own excuse for being. Ill The other characters are less significant and less orig- inal. There is feline, the second wife of Argan, be- lieving in his illness and awaiting his death that she may despoil his children. Twice only has Moliere chosen to introduce a step-mother, the gracious and charming Elmire, who is Orgon's second wife, and the treacherous and self-seeking Beline, who is Argan's second wife. There is Argan's elder daughterAngeli^ue (impersonated by Mademoiselle de Moliere), whom he wishes to marry off to Thomas Diafoirius, and who has chosen a husband for herself, Cleante (acted by La Grange). The lover gains access to the house in the guise of a music-teacher just as another lover had already done in an earlier play of Moliere's (and also in the 'Taming of the Shrew 5 ). There is Argan's younger daughter, Louison, a mere child, who figures only in a single scene,which won the high approval of Goethe as masterly in its handling. There is the unscrupulous notary, Monsieur de Bonnefoi, whom Beline has called in to enable her to grasp more'of Argan's fortune than the law permitted. There is Argan's brother Beralde, closely akin to the Cleante of 'Tartuffe' and the Ariste of the 'Bourgeois Gentilhomme,' and resembling his predecessors in the earlier plays in that he stands for, common sense and in that he acts as the friend of the young lovers. Finally there is^fpjjaette, another of Moliere's boldly drawn serving-maids, the embodiment of mirth, bringing 3 i4 MOLIERE a breath of fresh air with her whenever she comes into the sick-room and lightening it with a gleam of sunshine. Toinette recalls the Dorine of 'Tartuffe' and the Nicole of the ' Bourgeois Gentilhomme,' but with a more exuber- ant gaiety which is all her own. When Beralde persuades Argan to reject one of his doctor's prescriptions and when the insulted physician renounces and denounces his patient, predicting speedy demise in consequence of the withdrawal of medical advice, it is Toinette who comes to the rescue promptly, by disguising herself as a physi- cian (just as Portia had disguised herself as a lawyer). Possibly it was the joyous humor of Toinette and the high spirits of the successive scenes in which she takes part which led Daudet to declare that there was in the 'Malade Imaginaire' an unmistakable flavor of the south of France, a memory of Moliere's youthful stay in Pezenas and of his wanderings to and fro in Provence. Daudet went so far as to suggest that the play would gairi~in comicality if it should be acted with the accent of the south. There is also a southern exuberance and even a south- ern exaggeration in the concluding episode of the farcical comedy, in the buffoonery of the burlesque ceremony, which was evidently devised to repeat the success achieved by the reception of the Mamamouchi in the 'Bourgeois Gentilhomme/ When Moliere has shown us the hidden depths of Argan' s selfishness and exhibited every aspect of the imaginary .invalid's self-delusion, and when Toi- nette has played her merry trick of appearing as a physi- cian, then Beralde gravely suggests that the best thing for Argan to do is to turn physician himself. He insists that j\rgan is not more ignorant than the doctors themselves, and that he will find himself endowed with all their learning as soon as he has donned the cap and gown of the THE 'MALADE IMAGINAIRE' 315 profession. Argan is no more difficult to persuade than was Monsieur Jourdain; and then the fun becomes fast and fantastic. The spoken dialogue gives place to song and dance. In cadence and to music upholsterers dance in and decorate the room for the reception of the new doctor in medicine. Then two by two the academic procession sweeps in grandly; first of all, eight appren- tice-apothecaries armed with the instrument of their craft, followed by six apothecaries, twenty-two physicians, and ten surgeons. Singing and dancing they take their several places, and the presiding physician greets them in macaronic Latin, easily understood by a French audience. He praises their sacred art, their learning, their prudence ancf their common sense. He then invites them to admit a new member, Argan, who stands forward to pass his examina- tion. As he answers the successive questions, the chorus acclaims in rime the felicity of his responses and declares his worthiness to be admitted to their learned body. The president administers the oath and the candidate swears to defend the rights of the faculty, and always to abide by what the ancients have asserted. He binds himself also to make use of no new remedy, even though the patient should die. The presiding physician thereupon confers upon their new colleague all the privileges of the pro- fession to purge and to bleed and to kill throughout the whole world. The surgeons and the apothecaries dance forward to pay reverence to the new doctor, who sings his response to the accompaniment of rattling pestles and mortars. Finally the entire body circles around the recipient, wishing him a thousand years of life in which to eat and to drink, to bleed and to kill. Grotesque as this termination of the play may seem 3i6 MOLIERE to us now, it had a recognizable relation to the actual customs of Moliere's own time. It is a parody, of course, with all the license of parody. But beneath its singing and its dancing and its amusing macaronics, we can per- ceive not so much an arbitrary invention of absurdities as a turning into ridicule of actual practices. Investi- gators into the history of medicine in the reign of Louis XIV find in this burlesque ceremony an adroit condensation of the long series of examinations and dissertations and admissions which a candidate for the doctorate in medi- cine had to undergo. One of these scholars has even asserted that he catches in Moliere's parody an echo . A