She threw her arms round my neck.
"Come now, good luck!" I said to her.
"And you must have it too."
"Courage? I am going to seek it."
"Where?"
"At the Bastille."
"At the Bastille?"
"Yes, I have a notion the beginning of the fourth act will not get on so well."
"Why not?"
"Come now! the fourth act is delightful: I will answer for it."
"Yes, you will make the end go, but not the beginning."
"Ah I yes, that is afeuilletonwhich Grailly speaks."
"Bah! it will succeed all the same: the audience is enthusiastic; we can feel that, all of us."
"Ah I you feel that?"
"Then, too, see you, my big bow-wow; there are people in the stalls of the house,gentlementoo! who stare at me as they never have stared before."
"I don't wonder."
"I say ..."
"What?"
"If I am going to become the rage?"
"It only depends on yourself."
"Liar!"
"I swear it only depends on yourself."
"Yes ... but ... Alfred, eh?"
"Exactly!"
"Upon my word, so much the worse! We shall see."
The voice of the stage-manager called Madame Dorval!
"Can we begin?"
"No, no, no; I am not dressed yet, I am only in my chemise! He's a pretty fellow, that Moëssard! What would the audience say?... It is you who have hindered me like this ... Go off with you then!"
"Put me out."
"Go! go! go!"
She kissed me three times and pushed me to the door. Poor lips, then fresh and smiling and trembling, which I was to see closed and frozen for ever at the touch of death!
I went outside; as I was in need of air. I met Bixio in the corridors.
"Come with me," I said.
"Where the dickens are you off to?"
"I am going for a walk."
"What! a walk?"
"Yes!"
"Just when the curtain is going to rise?"
"Exactly! I do not feel sure about the fourth act and would much rather it began without me."
"Are you sure about the end?"
"Oh! the end is a different matter ... We will come back for that, never fear!"
And we hurried out on to the boulevard.
"Ah!" I exclaimed, as I breathed the air.
"What is the matter with you?... Is it your piece that is upsetting you like this?"
"Get along, hang my piece!"
I dragged Bixio in the direction of the Bastille. I do not remember what we talked of. I only know we walked for half a league, there and back, chattering and laughing. If anybody had said to the passers-by, "You see that great lunatic of a man over there? He is the author of the play being acted at this very moment at the theatre of la Porte-Saint-Martin!" they would indeed have been amazed.
I came in again at the right moment, at the scene of the insult. Thefeuilleton, as Dorval called it, meaning the apology for this modern style of drama, the real preface toAntony, had passed over without hindrance and had even been applauded. I had a box close to the stage and I made a sign to Dorval that I was there; she signalled back that she saw me. Then the scene began between Adèle and the Vicomtesse, which is summed up in these words, "But I have done nothing to this woman!" Next comes the scene between Adèle and Antony, where Adèle repeatedly exclaims, "She is his mistress!"
Well! I say it after twenty-two years have passed by,—and during those years I have composed many plays, and seen many pieces acted, and applauded many actors,—he who never saw Dorval act those two scenes, although he may have seen the whole repertory of modern drama, can have no conception how far pathos can be carried.
The reader knows how this act ends; the Vicomtesse enters; Adèle, surprised in the arms of Antony, utters a cry and disappears. Behind the Vicomtesse, Antony's servant enters in his turn. He has ridden full gallop from Strassburg, to announce to his master the return of Adèle's husband. Antony dashes from the stage like a madman, or one driven desperate, crying, "Wretch! shall I arrive in time?"
I ran behind the scenes. Dorval was already on the stage,uncurling her hair and pulling her flowers to pieces; she had at times her moments of transports of passion, exceeding those of the actress. The scene-shifters were altering the scenes, whilst Dorval was acting her part. The audience applauded frantically. "A hundred francs," I cried to the shifters, "if the curtain be raised again before the applause ceases!" In two minutes' time the three raps were given: the curtain rose and the scene-shifters had won their hundred francs. The fifth act began literally before the applause for the fourth had died down. I had one moment of acute anguish. In the middle of the terrible scene where the two lovers, caught in a net of sorrows, are striving to extricate themselves, but can find no means of either living or dying together, a second before Dorval exclaimed, "Then I am lost!" I had, in the stage directions, arranged that Bocage should move the armchair ready to receive Adèle, when she is overwhelmed at the news of her husband's arrival. And Bocage forgot to turn the chair in readiness. But Dorval was too much carried away by passion to be put out by such a trifle. Instead of falling on the cushion, she fell on to the arm of the chair, and uttered a cry of despair, with such a piercing grief of soul wounded, torn, broken, that the whole audience rose to its feet. This time the cheers were not for me at all, but for the actress and for her alone, for her marvellous, magnificent performance! Thedénoûmentis known; it is utterly unexpected, and is summed up in a single phrase of six startling words. The door is burst open by M. de Hervey just as Adèle falls on a sofa, stabbed by Antony.
"Dead?" cries Baron de Hervey.
"Yes, dead!" coldly answers Antony.Elle me résistait: je l'ai assassinée!And he flings his dagger at the husband's feet. The audience gave vent to such cries of terror, dismay and sorrow, that probably a third of the audience hardly heard these words, a necessary supplement to the piece, which, however, without them would be nothing but an ordinary intrigue of adultery, unravelled by a simple assassination. The effect, all the same, was tremendous. They called forthe author with frantic cries. Bocage came forward and told them. Then they called for Antony and Adèle again, and both returned to take their share in such an ovation as they had never had, nor ever would have again. For they had both attained to the highest achievement in their art! I flew from my box to go to them, without noticing that the passages were blocked with spectators coming out of their seats. I had not taken four steps before I was recognised; then I had my turn, as the author of the play. A crowd of young persons of my own age (I was twenty-eight), pale, scared, breathless, rushed at me. They pulled me right and left and embraced me. I wore a green coat buttoned up from top to bottom; they tore the tails of it to shreds. I entered the green-room, as Lord Spencer entered his, in a round jacket; the rest of my coat had gone into a state of relics. They were stupefied behind the scenes; they had never seen a success taking such a form before, never before had applause gone so straight from the audience to the actors; and what an audience it was too! The fashionable world, the exquisites who take the best boxes at theatres, those who only applaud from habit, who, this time, made themselves hoarse with shouting so loudly, and had split their gloves with clapping! Crosnier was hidden. Bocage was as happy as a child. Dorval was mad! Oh, good and brave-hearted friends, who, in the midst of their own triumphs, seemed to enjoy my success more even than their own! who put their own talent on one side and loudly extolled the poet and the work! I shall never forget that night; Bocage has not forgotten it either. Only a week ago we were talking of it as though it had happened only yesterday; and I am certain, if such matters are remembered in the other world, Dorval remembers it too! Now, what became of us all after we had been congratulated? I know not. Just as there is around every luminous body a mist, so there was one over the rest of the evening and night, which my memory, after a lapse of twenty-two years, is unable to penetrate. In conclusion, one of the special features of the drama ofAntonywas that it kept the spectators spell-bound to the final fall of the curtain.As themoraleof the work was contained in those six words, which Bocage pronounced with such perfect dignity, "Elle me résistait: je l'ai assassinée!" everybody remained to hear them, and would not leave until they had been spoken, with the following result. Two or three years after the first production ofAntony, it became the piece played at all benefit performances; to such an extent that once they asked Dorval and Bocage to act it for the Palais-Royal Theatre. I forget, and it does not matter, for whom the benefit was to be performed. The play met with its accustomed success, thanks to the acting of those two great artistes; only, the manager had been told the wrong moment at which to call the curtain down! So it fell as Antony is stabbing Adèle, and robbed the audience of the finaldénoûment.That was not what they wanted: it was thedénoûmentthey meant to have; so, instead of going they shouted loudly forLe dénoûment! le dénoûment!They clamoured to such an extent that the manager begged the actors to let him raise the curtain again, and for the piece to be concluded.
Dorval, ever good-natured, resumed her pose in the armchair as the dead woman, while they ran to find Antony. But he had gone into his dressing-room, furious because they had made him miss his final effect, and withdrawing himself into his tent, like Achilles; like Achilles, too, he obstinately refused to come out of it. All the time the audience went on clapping and shouting and calling, "Bocage! Dorval!.... Dorval! Bocage!" and threatening to break the benches. The manager raised the curtain, hoping that Bocage, when driven to bay, would be compelled to come upon the stage. But Bocage sent the manager about his business. Meanwhile, Dorval waited in her chair, with her arms hung down, and head lying back. The audience waited, too, in profound silence; but, when they saw that Bocage was not coming back, they began cheering and calling their hardest. Dorval felt that the atmosphere was becoming stormy, and raised her stiff arms, lifted her bent head, rose, walked to the footlights, and, in the midst of the silence which had settleddown miraculously, at the first movement she had ventured to make:
"Messieurs" she said, "Messieurs, je lui résistais, il m'a assassinée!" Then she made a graceful obeisance and left the stage, hailed by thunders of applause. The curtain fell and the spectators went away enchanted. They had had theirdénoûment, with a variation, it is true; but this variation was so clever, that one would have had to be very ill-natured not to prefer it to the original form.
The inspiration under which I composedAntony—The Preface—Wherein lies the moral of the piece—Cuckoldom, Adultery and the Civil Code—Quem nuptiœ demonstrant—Why the Critics exclaimed that my Drama was immoral—Account given by the least malevolent among them—How prejudices against bastardy are overcome
The inspiration under which I composedAntony—The Preface—Wherein lies the moral of the piece—Cuckoldom, Adultery and the Civil Code—Quem nuptiœ demonstrant—Why the Critics exclaimed that my Drama was immoral—Account given by the least malevolent among them—How prejudices against bastardy are overcome
Antonyhas given rise to so many controversies, that I must ask permission not to leave the subject thus; moreover, this work is not merely the most original and characteristic of all my works, but it is one of those rare creations which influences its age. When I wroteAntony, I was in love with a woman of whom, although far from beautiful, I was horribly jealous; jealous because she was placed in the same position as Adèle; her husband was an officer in the army; and the fiercest jealousy that a man can feel is that roused by the existence of a husband, seeing that one has no grounds for quarrelling with a woman who possesses a husband, however jealous one may be of him. One day she received a letter from her husband announcing his return. I almost went mad. I went to one of my friends employed in the War Office; three times the leave of absence, which was ready to be sent off, disappeared; it was either torn up or burnt by him. The husband did not return. What I suffered during that time of suspense, I could not attempt to describe, although twenty-four years have passed over, since that love departed the way of the poet Villon's "old moons." But readAntony: that will tell you what I suffered!
Antonyis not a drama, nor a tragedy! not even a theatrical piece;Antonyis a description of love, of jealousy and of anger, in five acts. Antony was myself, leaving out the assassination,and Adèle was my mistress, leaving out the flight. Therefore, I took Byron's words for my epigram, "People said Childe Harold was myself ... it does not matter if they did!"I put the following verses as my preface; they are not very good; I could improve them now: but I shall do nothing of the kind, they would lose their flavour. Poor as they are, they depict two things well enough: the feverish time at which they were composed and the disordered state of my heart at that period.
"Que de fois tu m'as dit, aux heures du délire,Quand mon front tout à coup devenait soucieux:'Sur ta bouche pourquoi cet effrayant sourire?Pourquoi ces larmes dans tes yeux?'Pourquoi? C'est que mon cœur, au milieu des délices,D'un souvenir jaloux constamment oppressé,Froid au bonheur présent, va chercher ses supplicesDans l'avenir et le passé!Jusque dans tes baisers je retrouve des peines,Tu m'accables d'amour!... L'amour, je m'en souviens,Pour la première fois s'est glissé dans tes veinesSous d'autres baisers que les miens!Du feu des voluptés vainement tu m'enivres!Combien, pour un beau jour, de tristes lendemains!Ces charmes qu'à mes mains, en palpitant, tu livres,Palpiteront sous d'autres mains!Et je ne pourrai pas, dans ma fureur jalouse,De l'infidélité te réserver le prix;Quelques mots à l'autel t'ont faite son épouse,Et te sauvent de mon mépris.Car ces mots pour toujours ont vendu tes caresses;L'amour ne les doit plus donner ni recevoir;L'usage des époux à réglé les tendresses,Et leurs baisers sont un devoir.Malheur, malheur à moi, que le ciel, en ce monde,A jeté comme un hôte à ses lois étranger!À moi qui ne sais pas, dans ma douleur profonde,Souffrir longtemps sans me venger!Malheur! car une voix qui n'a rien de la terreM'a dit: 'Pour ton bonheur, c'est sa mort qu'il te faut?'Et cette voix m'a fait comprendre le mystèreEt du meurtre et de l'échafaud....Viens donc, ange du mal, dont la voix me convie,Car il est des instants où, si je te voyais,Je pourrais, pour son sang, t'abandonner ma vieEt mon âme ... si j'y croyais!"
What do you think of my lines? They are impious, blasphemous and atheistic, and, in fact, I will proclaim it, as I copy them here nearly a quarter of a century after they were made, they would be inexcusably poor if they had been written in cold blood. But they were written at a time of passion, at one of those crises when a man feels driven to give utterance to his sorrows, and to describe his sufferings in another language than his ordinary speech. Therefore, I hope they may earn the indulgence of both poets and philosophers.
Now, wasAntonyreally as immoral a work as certain of the papers made out? No; for, in all things, says an old French proverb (and, since the days of Sancho Panza, we know that proverbs contain the wisdom of nations), we must see the end first before passing judgment. Now, this is howAntonyends. Antony is engaged in a guilty intrigue, is carried away by an adulterous passion, and kills his mistress to save her honour as a wife, and dies afterwards on the scaffold, or at least is sent to the galleys for the rest of his days. Very well, I ask you, are there many young society people who would be disposed to fling themselves into a sinful intrigue, to enter upon an adulterous passion,—to become, in short, Antonys and Adèles, with the prospect in view, at the end of their passion and romance, of death for the woman and of the galleys for the man? People will answer me, that it is the form in which it is put that is dangerous, that Antony makes murder admirable, and Adèle justifies adultery.
But what would you have! I cannot make my lovers hideous in character, unsightly in looks and repulsive in manners. The love-making between Quasimodo and Locustewould not be listened to beyond the third scene! Take Molière for instance. Does not Angélique betray Georges Dandin in a delightful way? And Valère steal from his father in a charming fashion? And Don Juan deceive Dona Elvire in the most seductive of language? Ah! Molière knew as well as the moderns what adultery was! He died from its effects. What broke his heart, the heart which stopped beating at the age of fifty-three? The smiles given to the young Baron by la Béjart, her ogling looks at M. de Lauzun, a letter addressed by her to a third lover and found the morning of that ill-fated representation of theMalade imaginairewhich Molière could scarcely finish! It is true that, in Molière's time, it was called cuckoldry and made fun of; that nowadays, we style it adultery, and weep over it. Why was it called cuckoldry in the seventeenth century and adultery in the nineteenth? I will tell you. Because, in the seventeenth century, the Civil Code had not been invented. The Civil Code? What has that to do with it? You shall see. In the seventeenth century there existed the rights of primogeniture, seniority, trusteeship and of entail; and the oldest son inherited the name, title and fortune; the other sons were either made M. le Chevalier or M. le Mousquetaire or M. l'Abbé, as the case might be. They decorated the first with the Malta Cross, the second they decked out in a helmet with buffalo tails, they endowed the third with a clerical collar. While, as for the daughters, they did not trouble at all about them; they married whom they liked if they were pretty, and anybody who would have them if they were plain. For those who either would not or could not be married there remained the convent, that vast sepulchre for aching hearts. Now, although three-quarters of the marriages weremarriages de convenance, and contracted between people who scarcely knew each other, the husband was nearly always sure that his first male child was his own. This first male child secured,—that is to say, the son to inherit his name, title and fortune, when begotten by him,—what did it matter who was the father of M. le Chevalier, M. le Mousquetaire or M. l'Abbé? It was all the same to him, and oftenhe did not even inquire into the matter! Look, for example, at the anecdote of Saint-Simon and of M. de Mortemart.
But in our days, alas, it is very different! The law has abolished the right of primogeniture; the Code forbids seniorities, entail and trusteeships. Fortunes are divided equally between the children; even daughters are not left out, but have the same right as sons to the paternal inheritance. Now, from the moment that thequem nuptiœ demonstrantknows that children born during wedlock will share his fortune in equal portions, he takes care those children shall be his own; for a child, not his, sharing with his legitimate heirs, is simply a thief. And this is the reason why adultery is a crime in the nineteenth century, and why cuckoldom was only treated as a joke in the seventeenth.
Now, what is the reason that people do not exclaim at the immorality of Angélique, who betrays Georges Dandin, of Valère who robs his papa, of Don Juan who deceives Charlotte, Mathurine and Doña Elvire all at the same time? Because all those characters—Georges Dandin, Harpagon, Don Carlos, Don Alonzo and Pierrot—lived two or three centuries before us, and did not talk as we do, nor were dressed as we dress; because they wore breeches, jerkins, cloaks and plumed hats, so that we do not recognise ourselves in them. But directly a modern author, more bold than others, takes manners as they actually are, passion as it really is, crime from its secret hiding-places and presents them upon the stage in white ties, black coats, and trousers with straps and patent leather boots—ah! each one sees himself as in a mirror, and sneers instead of laughing, attacks instead of approving, groans instead of applauding. Had I put Adèle into a dress of the time of Isabella of Bavaria and Antony into a doublet of the time of Louis d'Orléans, and if I had even made the adultery between brother-in-law and sister-in-law, nobody would have objected. What critic dreams of calling Œdipus immoral, who kills his father and marries his mother, whose children are his sons, grandson and brothers all at the same time, and ends, by putting out his own eyes to punish himself, a futileaction, since the whole thing was looked upon as the work of fate? Not a single one! But would any poor devil be so silly as to recognise a likeness of himself under either a Grecian cloak or a Theban tunic? I would, indeed, like to have the opinion of some of the moralists of the Press who condemnedAntony;that, for instance of M. —— who, at that time, was living openly with Madame —— (I nearly said who). If I put it before my readers, the revelation would not fail to interest them. I can only lay my hands on one article; true, I am at Brussels and write these lines after two in the morning. I exhume that article from a very honest and innocent book—theAnnuaire historique et universelby M. Charles Louis-Lesur. Here it is—it is one of the least bitter of the criticisms.
"Théâtre de la Porte-Saint-Martin(3 May)."First performance of Antony, a drama in five acts by M. Alexandre Dumas."In an age and in a country where bastardy would be a stain bearing the stamp of the law, sanctioned by custom and a real social curse, against which a man, however rich in talent, honours and fortune would struggle in vain, the moral aim of the drama ofAntonycould easily be explained; but, nowadays when, as in France,all special privileges of birth are done away with, those of plebeian as well as of illegitimate origin, why this passionate pleading, to which, necessarily, there cannot be any contradiction and reply? Moral aim being altogether non-existent inAntony, what else is there in the work? Only the frenzied portrayal of an adulterous passion, which stops at nothing to satisfy itself, which plays with dangers and murder and death."
"Théâtre de la Porte-Saint-Martin(3 May).
"First performance of Antony, a drama in five acts by M. Alexandre Dumas.
"In an age and in a country where bastardy would be a stain bearing the stamp of the law, sanctioned by custom and a real social curse, against which a man, however rich in talent, honours and fortune would struggle in vain, the moral aim of the drama ofAntonycould easily be explained; but, nowadays when, as in France,all special privileges of birth are done away with, those of plebeian as well as of illegitimate origin, why this passionate pleading, to which, necessarily, there cannot be any contradiction and reply? Moral aim being altogether non-existent inAntony, what else is there in the work? Only the frenzied portrayal of an adulterous passion, which stops at nothing to satisfy itself, which plays with dangers and murder and death."
Then follows an unamiable analysis of the piece and the criticism continues—
"Such a conception no more bears the scrutiny of good common sense than a crime brought before the Assize-courts can sustain the scrutiny of a jury. The author, by placing himself in an unusual situation of ungovernable and cruel passions, which spare neither tears nor blood, removes himselfoutside the pale of literature; his work is a monstrosity, although we ought in fairness to say that some parts are depicted with an uncommon degree of strength, grace and beauty. Bocage and Madame Dorval distinguished themselves by the talent and energy with which they played the two leading parts of Antony and Adèle."
"Such a conception no more bears the scrutiny of good common sense than a crime brought before the Assize-courts can sustain the scrutiny of a jury. The author, by placing himself in an unusual situation of ungovernable and cruel passions, which spare neither tears nor blood, removes himselfoutside the pale of literature; his work is a monstrosity, although we ought in fairness to say that some parts are depicted with an uncommon degree of strength, grace and beauty. Bocage and Madame Dorval distinguished themselves by the talent and energy with which they played the two leading parts of Antony and Adèle."
My dear Monsieur Lesur, I could answer your criticism from beginning to end; but I will only reply to the statements I have underlined, which refer to bastardy, with which you start your article. Well, dear sir, you are wrong; privileges of birth are by no means overcome, as you said. I myself know and you also knew,—I sayyou knew, because I believe you are dead,—you, a talented man—nay, even more, a man of genius, who had a hard struggle to make your fortune, and who, in spite of talent, genius, fortune, were constantly reproached with the fatal accident of your birth. People cavilled over your age, your name, your social status ... Where? Why, in that inner circle where laws are made, and where, consequently, they ought not to have forgotten that the law proclaims the equality of the French people one with another. Well! that man, with the marvellous persistence which characterises him, will gain his object: he will be a Minister one day. Well, at that day what will they attack in him?—His opinions, schemes, Utopian ideas? Not at all, only his birth!—And who will attack it?—Some mean rascal who has the good luck to possess a father and a mother, who, unfortunately, have reason to blush for him!
But enough aboutAntony, which we will leave, to continue its run of a hundred performances in the midst of the political disturbances outside; and let us return to the events which caused these disturbances.
A word on criticism—Molière estimated by Bossuet, by Jean-Jacques Rousseau and by Bourdaloue—An anonymous libel—Critics of the seventeenth and nineteenth centuries—M. François de Salignac de la Motte de Fénelon—Origin of the wordTartuffe—M. Taschereau and M. Étienne
A word on criticism—Molière estimated by Bossuet, by Jean-Jacques Rousseau and by Bourdaloue—An anonymous libel—Critics of the seventeenth and nineteenth centuries—M. François de Salignac de la Motte de Fénelon—Origin of the wordTartuffe—M. Taschereau and M. Étienne
Man proposes and God disposes. We ended our last chapter with the intention of going back to political events; but, behold, since we have been talking of criticism, we are seized with the desire to dedicate a whole short chapter to the worthy goddess. There will, however, be no hatred nor recrimination in it. We are only incited with the desire to wander aside for a brief space, and to place before our readers opinions which are either unknown to them or else forgotten. The following, for instance, was written about Molière's comedies generally:—
"We must, then, make allowances for the impieties and infamous doings with which Molière's comedies are packed, as honestly meant; or we may not put on a level with the pieces of to-day those of an author who has declined, as it were, before our very eyes and who even yet fills all our theatres with the coarsest jokes which ever contaminated Christian ears. Think, whether you would be so bold, nowadays, as openly to defend pieces wherein virtue and piety are always ridiculed, corruption ever excused and always treated as a joke."Posterity may, perhaps, see entire oblivion cover the works of that poet-actor, who, whilst acting hisMalade imaginaire, was attacked by the last agonies of the disease of which he died a few hours later, passing away from the jesting of the stage, amidst which he breathed almost his last sigh, to the tribunal of One who said, 'Woe to ye who laugh, for ye shall weep'!"
"We must, then, make allowances for the impieties and infamous doings with which Molière's comedies are packed, as honestly meant; or we may not put on a level with the pieces of to-day those of an author who has declined, as it were, before our very eyes and who even yet fills all our theatres with the coarsest jokes which ever contaminated Christian ears. Think, whether you would be so bold, nowadays, as openly to defend pieces wherein virtue and piety are always ridiculed, corruption ever excused and always treated as a joke.
"Posterity may, perhaps, see entire oblivion cover the works of that poet-actor, who, whilst acting hisMalade imaginaire, was attacked by the last agonies of the disease of which he died a few hours later, passing away from the jesting of the stage, amidst which he breathed almost his last sigh, to the tribunal of One who said, 'Woe to ye who laugh, for ye shall weep'!"
By whom do you suppose this diatribe against one whom modern criticism stylesthe great moralistwas written? By some Geoffroy or Charles Maurice of the day? Indeed! well you are wrong: it was by the eagle of Meaux, M. de Bossuet.[1]Now listen to what is said aboutGeorges Dandin:
"See how, to multiply his jokes, this man disturbs the whole order of society! With what scandals does he upheave the most sacred relations on which it is founded! How he turns to ridicule the venerable rights of fathers over their children, of husbands over their wives, masters over their servants! He makes one laugh; true, but he is all the more to be blamed for compelling, by his invincible charm, even wise persons to listen to his sneers, which ought only to rouse their indignation. I have heard it said that he attacks vices; but I would far rather people compared those which he attacks with those he favours. Which is the criminal? A peasant who is fool enough to marry a young lady, or a wife who tries to bring dishonour upon her husband? What can we think of a piece when the pit applauds infidelity, lies, impudence, and laughs at the stupidity of the punished rustic."
"See how, to multiply his jokes, this man disturbs the whole order of society! With what scandals does he upheave the most sacred relations on which it is founded! How he turns to ridicule the venerable rights of fathers over their children, of husbands over their wives, masters over their servants! He makes one laugh; true, but he is all the more to be blamed for compelling, by his invincible charm, even wise persons to listen to his sneers, which ought only to rouse their indignation. I have heard it said that he attacks vices; but I would far rather people compared those which he attacks with those he favours. Which is the criminal? A peasant who is fool enough to marry a young lady, or a wife who tries to bring dishonour upon her husband? What can we think of a piece when the pit applauds infidelity, lies, impudence, and laughs at the stupidity of the punished rustic."
By whom was that criticism penned? Doubtless by some intolerant priest, or fanatical prelate? By no means. It was by the author of theConfessionsand of theNouvelle Héloïse, by Jean-Jacques Rousseau![2]Perhaps theMisanthrope, at any rate, may find favour with the critics. It is surely admitted, is it not, that this play is a masterpiece? Let us see what the unctuous Bourdaloue says about it, in hisLettre à l'Académie Française.It is short, but to the point.
"Another fault in Molière that many clever people forgive in him, but which I have not allowed myself to forgive, is that he makes vice fascinating and virtue ridiculously rigid and odious!"
"Another fault in Molière that many clever people forgive in him, but which I have not allowed myself to forgive, is that he makes vice fascinating and virtue ridiculously rigid and odious!"
Let us pass on tol'Avare,and return to Jean-Jacques Rousseau.
"It is a great vice to be a miser and to lend upon usury, said the Genevan philosopher, but is it not a still greater for a son to rob his father, to be wanting in respect to him, to insult him with innumerable reproaches and, when the annoyed father curses him, to answer in a bantering way, 'Qu'il n'a que faire de ses dons.' 'I have no use for your gifts.' If the joke is a good one, is it, therefore, any the less deserving of censure? And is not a piece which makes the audience like an insolent son a bad school for manners?"[3]
"It is a great vice to be a miser and to lend upon usury, said the Genevan philosopher, but is it not a still greater for a son to rob his father, to be wanting in respect to him, to insult him with innumerable reproaches and, when the annoyed father curses him, to answer in a bantering way, 'Qu'il n'a que faire de ses dons.' 'I have no use for your gifts.' If the joke is a good one, is it, therefore, any the less deserving of censure? And is not a piece which makes the audience like an insolent son a bad school for manners?"[3]
Let us take a sample from an anonymous critic:Don JuanandTartuffe, this time; then, after that, we will return to a well-known name, to a poet still cutting his milk teeth and to a golden-mouthed orator. We will begin by the anonymous writer. Note that the precept of Horace was still in vogue at this time:Sugar the rim of the cup to make the drink less bitter!
"I hope," said the critic, "that Molière will receive these observations the more willingly because passion and interest have no share in them: I have no desire to hurt him, but only to be of use to him."
Good! so much for the sugaring the rim of the cup; the absinthe is to come, and, after the absinthe, the dregs. Let us continue:
"We have no grudge against him personally, but we object to his atheism; we are not envious of his gain or of his reputation; it is for no private reasons, but on behalf of all right-thinking people; and he must not take it amiss if we openly defend the interests of God, which he so openly attacks, or because a Christian sorrowfully testifies when he sees the theatre in rebellion against the Church, comedy in arms against the Gospel, a comedian who makes game of mysteries and fun of all that is most sacred and holy in religion!"It is true that there are some fine passages in Molière's works, and I should be very sorry to rob him of the admiration he has earned. It must be admitted that, if he succeeds but ill in comedy, he has some talent in farce; and, although he has neither the witty skill of Gauthier-Garguille, nor the impromptu touches of Turlupin, nor the power of Capitan, nor the naïveté of Jodelet, nor the retort of Gros-Guillaume, nor the science of Docteur, he does not fail to please at times, and toamuse in his own way. He speaks French passably well; he translates Italian fairly, and does not err deeply in copying other authors; but he does not pretend to have the gift of invention or a genius for poetry. Things that make one laugh when said often look silly on paper, and we might compare his comedies with those women who look perfect frights in undress, but who manage to please when they are dressed up, or with those tiny figures which, having left off their high-heeled shoes, look only half-sized. At the same time, we must not deny that Molière is either very unfortunate or very clever in managing to pass off his false coin successfully, and to dupe the whole of Paris with his poor pieces. Those, in short, are the best and most favourable things we can say for Molière."If that author had set forth only affected characterisations, and had stuck entirely to doublets and large frills, he would not have brought upon himself any public censure and he would not have roused the indignation of every religious-minded person. But who can stand the boldness of a farce-writer who makes jokes at religion, who upholds a school of libertinism, and who treats the majesty of God as the plaything of a stage-manager or a call-boy. To do so would be to betray the cause of religion openly at a time when its glory is publicly attacked and when faith is exposed to the insults of a buffoon who trades on its mysteries and profanes its holy things; who confounds and upsets the very foundations of religion in the heart of the Louvre, in the home of a Christian prince, before wise magistrates zealous in God's cause, holding up to derision numberless good pastors as no better than Tartuffes! And this under the reign of the greatest, the most religious monarch in the world, whilst that gracious prince is exerting every effort to uphold the religion that Molière labours to destroy! The king destroys temples of heresy, whilst Molière is raising altars to atheism, and the more the prince's virtue strives to establish in the hearts of his subjects the worship of the true God, by the example of his own acts, so much the more does Molière's libertine humour try to ruin faith in people's minds by the license of his works."Surely it must be confessed that Molière himself is a finished Tartuffe, a veritable hypocrite! If the true object of comedy is to correct men's faults while amusing them, Molière's plan is to send them laughing to perdition. Like those snakes the poison of whose deadly bite sends a false gleam of pleasureacross the face of its victim, it is an instrument of the devil; it turns both heaven and hell to ridicule; it traduces religion, under the name of hypocrisy; it lays the blame on God, and brags of its impious doings before the whole world! After spreading through people's minds deadly poisons which stifle modesty and shame, after taking care to teach women to become coquettes and giving girls dangerous counsel, after producing schools notoriously impure, and establishing others for licentiousness—then, when it has shocked all religious feeling, and caused all right-minded people to look askance at it, it composes itsTartuffewith the idea of making pious people appear ridiculous and hypocritical. It is indeed all very well for Molière to talk of religion, with which he had little to do, and of which he knew neither the practice nor the theory."His avarice contributes not a little to the incitement of his animus against religion; he is aware that forbidden things excite desire, and he openly sacrifices all the duties of piety to his own interests; it is that which makes him lay bold hands on the sanctuary, and he has no shame in wearing out the patience of a great queen who is continually striving to reform or to suppress his works."Augustus put a clown to death for sneering at Jupiter, and forbade women to be present at his comedies, which were more decent than were those of Molière. Theodosius flung to the wild beasts those scoffers who turned religious ceremonies into derision, and yet even their acts did not approach Molière's violent outbursts against religion. He should pause and consider the extreme danger of playing with God; that impiety never remains unpunished; and that if it escapes the fires of this earth it cannot escape those of the next world. No one should abuse the kindness of a great prince, nor the piety of a religious queen at whose expense he lives and whose feelings he glories in outraging. It is known that he boasts loudly that he means to play hisTartuffein one way or another, and that the displeasure the great queen has signified at this has not made any impression upon him, nor put any limits to his insolence. But if he had any shadow of modesty left would he not be sorry to be the butt of all good people, to pass for a libertine in the minds of preachers, to hear every tongue animated by the Holy Spirit publicly condemn his blasphemy? Finally, I do not think that I shall be putting forth too bold a judgment in stating that no man, however ignorant in matters of faith,knowing the content of that play, could maintain that Molière,in the capacity of its author, is worthy to participate in the Sacraments, or that he should receive absolution without a public separation, or that he is even fit to enter churches, after the anathemas that the council have fulminated against authors of imprudent and sacrilegious spectacles!"
"We have no grudge against him personally, but we object to his atheism; we are not envious of his gain or of his reputation; it is for no private reasons, but on behalf of all right-thinking people; and he must not take it amiss if we openly defend the interests of God, which he so openly attacks, or because a Christian sorrowfully testifies when he sees the theatre in rebellion against the Church, comedy in arms against the Gospel, a comedian who makes game of mysteries and fun of all that is most sacred and holy in religion!
"It is true that there are some fine passages in Molière's works, and I should be very sorry to rob him of the admiration he has earned. It must be admitted that, if he succeeds but ill in comedy, he has some talent in farce; and, although he has neither the witty skill of Gauthier-Garguille, nor the impromptu touches of Turlupin, nor the power of Capitan, nor the naïveté of Jodelet, nor the retort of Gros-Guillaume, nor the science of Docteur, he does not fail to please at times, and toamuse in his own way. He speaks French passably well; he translates Italian fairly, and does not err deeply in copying other authors; but he does not pretend to have the gift of invention or a genius for poetry. Things that make one laugh when said often look silly on paper, and we might compare his comedies with those women who look perfect frights in undress, but who manage to please when they are dressed up, or with those tiny figures which, having left off their high-heeled shoes, look only half-sized. At the same time, we must not deny that Molière is either very unfortunate or very clever in managing to pass off his false coin successfully, and to dupe the whole of Paris with his poor pieces. Those, in short, are the best and most favourable things we can say for Molière.
"If that author had set forth only affected characterisations, and had stuck entirely to doublets and large frills, he would not have brought upon himself any public censure and he would not have roused the indignation of every religious-minded person. But who can stand the boldness of a farce-writer who makes jokes at religion, who upholds a school of libertinism, and who treats the majesty of God as the plaything of a stage-manager or a call-boy. To do so would be to betray the cause of religion openly at a time when its glory is publicly attacked and when faith is exposed to the insults of a buffoon who trades on its mysteries and profanes its holy things; who confounds and upsets the very foundations of religion in the heart of the Louvre, in the home of a Christian prince, before wise magistrates zealous in God's cause, holding up to derision numberless good pastors as no better than Tartuffes! And this under the reign of the greatest, the most religious monarch in the world, whilst that gracious prince is exerting every effort to uphold the religion that Molière labours to destroy! The king destroys temples of heresy, whilst Molière is raising altars to atheism, and the more the prince's virtue strives to establish in the hearts of his subjects the worship of the true God, by the example of his own acts, so much the more does Molière's libertine humour try to ruin faith in people's minds by the license of his works.
"Surely it must be confessed that Molière himself is a finished Tartuffe, a veritable hypocrite! If the true object of comedy is to correct men's faults while amusing them, Molière's plan is to send them laughing to perdition. Like those snakes the poison of whose deadly bite sends a false gleam of pleasureacross the face of its victim, it is an instrument of the devil; it turns both heaven and hell to ridicule; it traduces religion, under the name of hypocrisy; it lays the blame on God, and brags of its impious doings before the whole world! After spreading through people's minds deadly poisons which stifle modesty and shame, after taking care to teach women to become coquettes and giving girls dangerous counsel, after producing schools notoriously impure, and establishing others for licentiousness—then, when it has shocked all religious feeling, and caused all right-minded people to look askance at it, it composes itsTartuffewith the idea of making pious people appear ridiculous and hypocritical. It is indeed all very well for Molière to talk of religion, with which he had little to do, and of which he knew neither the practice nor the theory.
"His avarice contributes not a little to the incitement of his animus against religion; he is aware that forbidden things excite desire, and he openly sacrifices all the duties of piety to his own interests; it is that which makes him lay bold hands on the sanctuary, and he has no shame in wearing out the patience of a great queen who is continually striving to reform or to suppress his works.
"Augustus put a clown to death for sneering at Jupiter, and forbade women to be present at his comedies, which were more decent than were those of Molière. Theodosius flung to the wild beasts those scoffers who turned religious ceremonies into derision, and yet even their acts did not approach Molière's violent outbursts against religion. He should pause and consider the extreme danger of playing with God; that impiety never remains unpunished; and that if it escapes the fires of this earth it cannot escape those of the next world. No one should abuse the kindness of a great prince, nor the piety of a religious queen at whose expense he lives and whose feelings he glories in outraging. It is known that he boasts loudly that he means to play hisTartuffein one way or another, and that the displeasure the great queen has signified at this has not made any impression upon him, nor put any limits to his insolence. But if he had any shadow of modesty left would he not be sorry to be the butt of all good people, to pass for a libertine in the minds of preachers, to hear every tongue animated by the Holy Spirit publicly condemn his blasphemy? Finally, I do not think that I shall be putting forth too bold a judgment in stating that no man, however ignorant in matters of faith,knowing the content of that play, could maintain that Molière,in the capacity of its author, is worthy to participate in the Sacraments, or that he should receive absolution without a public separation, or that he is even fit to enter churches, after the anathemas that the council have fulminated against authors of imprudent and sacrilegious spectacles!"
Do you not observe, dear reader, that this anonymous libel, addressed to King Louis XIV. in order to prevent the performance ofTartuffe, is very similar to the petition addressed to King Charles X. in order to hinder the performance ofHenri III.? except that the author or authors of that seventeenth century libel had the modesty to preserve their anonymity, whilst the illustrious Academicians of the nineteenth boldly signed their names: Viennet, Lemercier, Arnault, Étienne Jay, Jouy and Onésime Leroy. M. Onésime Leroy was not a member of the Academy, but he was very anxious to be one! Why he is not is a question I defy any one to answer. These insults were at any rate from contemporaries and can be understood; but Bossuet, who wrote ten years after the death of Molière; Jean-Jacques Rousseau, who wrote eighty years after the production ofTartuffe; and Bourdaloue and Fénelon ... Ah! I must really tell you what Fénelon thought of the author of thePrécieuses ridicules.After the Eagle of Meaux, let us have the Swan of Cambrai! There are no fiercer creatures when they are angered than woolly fleeced sheep or white-plumed birds!
"Although Molière thought rightly he often expressed himself badly; he made use of the most strained and unnatural phrases. Terence said in four or five words, and with the most exquisite simplicity, what it took Molière a multitude of metaphors approaching to nonsense to say.I much prefer his prose to his poetry.For example,l'Avareis less badly written than the plays which are in verse; but, taken altogether, it seems to me, that even in his prose, he does not speak in simple enough language to express all passions."
"Although Molière thought rightly he often expressed himself badly; he made use of the most strained and unnatural phrases. Terence said in four or five words, and with the most exquisite simplicity, what it took Molière a multitude of metaphors approaching to nonsense to say.I much prefer his prose to his poetry.For example,l'Avareis less badly written than the plays which are in verse; but, taken altogether, it seems to me, that even in his prose, he does not speak in simple enough language to express all passions."
Remark that this was written twenty years after the death of Molière, and that Fénelon, the author ofTélémaque, in speakingto the Academy, which applauded with those noddings of the head which did not hinder their naps, boldly declared that the author of theMisanthrope, ofTartuffeand of theFemmes Savantsdid not know how to write in verse. O my dear Monsieur François de Salignac de la Motte de Fénelon, if I but had here a certain criticism that Charles Fourier wrote upon yourTélémaque, how I should entertain my reader! In the meantime, the man whom seventeenth and eighteenth century criticism, whom ecclesiastics and philosophers, Bossuet and Jean-Jacques Rousseau, treated as heretical, a corrupter and an abomination; who, according to the anonymous writer of the letter to the king,spoke French passably well; who, according to Fénelondid not know how to write in verse—that man, in the nineteenth century, is considered a great moralist, a stern corrector of manners, an inimitable writer!
Yet more: men who, in their turn, write letters to the descendant of Louis XIV., in order to stop the heretics, corrupters of morals, abominable men of the nineteenth century from having their works played, grovel on their knees before the illustrious dead; they search his works for the slenderest motives he might have had or did not have, in writing them; they poke about to discover what he could have meant by such and such a thing, when he was merely giving to the world the fruits of such inspiration as only genius possesses; they even indulge in profound researches concerning the man who furnished the type forTartuffeand into the circumstances which gave him the name ofTartuffe(so admirably appropriate to that personage, that it has become not only the name of a man, but the name ofmen.)
"We have pointed out where Molière got his model; it now remains to us to discuss the origin of the title of his play. To trace the derivation of a word might seem going into unnecessary detail in any other case;but nothing which concerns the masterpiece of our stage should be devoid of interest.Several commentators, among others Bret, have contended that Molière, busy over the work he was meditating, one dayhappened to be at the house of the Papal Nuncio where many saintly persons were gathered. A truffle-seller came to the door and the smell of his wares wafted in, whereupon the sanctimonious contrite expression on the faces of the courtiers of the ambassador of Rome lit up with animation, 'TARTUFOLI,Signor Nunzio!TARTUFOLI!' they exclaimed, pointing out the best to him. According to this version, it was the wordtartufoli, pronounced with earthly sensuality by the lips of mystics, which suggested to Molière the name of his impostor. We were the first to dispute that fable and we quote below the opinion of one of the most distinguished of literary men, who did us the honour of adopting our opinion."In the time of Molière, the wordtrufferwas generally used for tromper (i.e.to deceive), from which the wordtruffewas taken, a word eminently suitable to the kind of eatable it describes, because of the difficulty there is in finding it. Now, it is quite certain that, formerly, people used the wordstruffeandtartuffeindiscriminately, for we find it in an old French translation of the treatise by Platina, entitledDe konestâ voluptate, printed in Paris in 1505, and quoted by le Duchat, in his edition of Méntage'sDictionnaire Étymologique.One of the chapters in Book IX. of this treatise is entitled,Des truffes ou tartuffes, and as le Duchat and other etymologists look upon the wordtruffeas derived fromtruffer, it is probable that people saidtartuffefortruffein the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, just as they could equally saytartufferfortruffer."
"We have pointed out where Molière got his model; it now remains to us to discuss the origin of the title of his play. To trace the derivation of a word might seem going into unnecessary detail in any other case;but nothing which concerns the masterpiece of our stage should be devoid of interest.Several commentators, among others Bret, have contended that Molière, busy over the work he was meditating, one dayhappened to be at the house of the Papal Nuncio where many saintly persons were gathered. A truffle-seller came to the door and the smell of his wares wafted in, whereupon the sanctimonious contrite expression on the faces of the courtiers of the ambassador of Rome lit up with animation, 'TARTUFOLI,Signor Nunzio!TARTUFOLI!' they exclaimed, pointing out the best to him. According to this version, it was the wordtartufoli, pronounced with earthly sensuality by the lips of mystics, which suggested to Molière the name of his impostor. We were the first to dispute that fable and we quote below the opinion of one of the most distinguished of literary men, who did us the honour of adopting our opinion.
"In the time of Molière, the wordtrufferwas generally used for tromper (i.e.to deceive), from which the wordtruffewas taken, a word eminently suitable to the kind of eatable it describes, because of the difficulty there is in finding it. Now, it is quite certain that, formerly, people used the wordstruffeandtartuffeindiscriminately, for we find it in an old French translation of the treatise by Platina, entitledDe konestâ voluptate, printed in Paris in 1505, and quoted by le Duchat, in his edition of Méntage'sDictionnaire Étymologique.One of the chapters in Book IX. of this treatise is entitled,Des truffes ou tartuffes, and as le Duchat and other etymologists look upon the wordtruffeas derived fromtruffer, it is probable that people saidtartuffefortruffein the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, just as they could equally saytartufferfortruffer."
That is by M. Taschereau, whose opinion, let us hasten to say, is worth nothing in the letter to Charles X., but which is of great weight in the fine study he has published upon Molière. But here is what M. Étienne says, the author ofDeux Gendres,a comedy made in collaboration with Shakespeare and the Jesuit Conaxa:
"The wordtruffes, says M. Étienne, of the French Academy, comes, then, fromtartufferie, and perhaps it is not because they are difficult to find that this name was given them but because they are a powerful means of seduction, and the object of seduction is deception. Thus, in accordance with an ancient tradition, great dinner-parties, which exercise to-day such a profound influence in affairs of State, should be composedof Tartuffes. There are many more irrational derivations than this."
"The wordtruffes, says M. Étienne, of the French Academy, comes, then, fromtartufferie, and perhaps it is not because they are difficult to find that this name was given them but because they are a powerful means of seduction, and the object of seduction is deception. Thus, in accordance with an ancient tradition, great dinner-parties, which exercise to-day such a profound influence in affairs of State, should be composedof Tartuffes. There are many more irrational derivations than this."
Really, my critical friend, or, rather, my enemy—would it not be better if you were a little less flattering to the dead and a little more tolerant towards the living? You would not then have on your conscience the suicide of Escousse, and of Lebras, the drowning of Gros and thesuspensionofAntony.