  MOLIÈRE. 1623-1673. MoliÈre is confessedly the greatest writer of comedy in the world. Greek Menander might have disputed the palm; but Menander's works have perished, and his greatness must be guessed. Who knows but we guess him too great? MoliÈre's works survive, and his greatness may be measured. We have stinted our praise. MoliÈre is not only; the foremost name in a certain department of literature; he is one of the foremost names in literature. The names are few on which critics are willing to bestow this distinction. But critics generally agree in bestowing this distinction on MoliÈre. MoliÈre's comedy is by no means mere farce. Farces he wrote, undoubtedly; and some element of farce, perhaps, entered to qualify nearly every comedy that flowed from his pen. But it is not for his farce that MoliÈre is rated one of the few greatest producers of literature. MoliÈre's comedy constitutes to MoliÈre the patent that it does of high degree in genius, not because it provokes laughter, but because, amid laughter provoked, it not seldom reveals, as if with flashes of lightning,—lightning playful, indeed, but lightning that might have been deadly,—the "secrets of the nethermost abyss" of human nature. Not human manners merely, those of a time, or of a race, but human attributes, those of all times, and of all races, are the things with which, in his higher comedies, MoliÈre deals. Some transient whim of fashion may in these supply to him the mould of form that he uses, but it is human nature itself that supplies to MoliÈre the substance of his dramatic creations. Now and again, if you read MoliÈre wisely and deeply, you find your laughter at comedy fairly frozen in your throat, by a gelid horror seizing you, to feel that these follies or these crimes displayed belong to that human nature, one and the same everywhere and always, of which also you yourself partake. Comedy, Dante, too, called his poem, which included the "Inferno." And a Dantesque quality, not of method, but of power, is to be felt in MoliÈre. This character in MoliÈre the writer, accords A poet as well as a dramatist, his own fellow-countrymen, at least, feel MoliÈre to be. In Victor Hugo's list of the eight greatest poets of all time, two are Hebrews (Job and Isaiah), two Greeks (Homer and Æschylus), one is a Roman (Lucretius), one an Italian (Dante), one an Englishman (Shakspeare),—seven. The eighth could hardly fail to be a Frenchman, and that Frenchman is MoliÈre. Mr. Swinburne might perhaps make the list nine, but he would certainly include Victor Hugo himself. Curiously enough, MoliÈre is not this great writer's real name. It is a stage name. It was assumed by the bearer when he was about twenty-four years of age, on occasion of his becoming one in a strolling band of players,—in 1646 or thereabout. This band, originally composed of amateurs, developed into a professional dramatic company, which passed through various transformations, until, from being at first grandiloquently self-styled, L'Illustre ThÉÂtre, it was, twenty years after, recognized by the national title of ThÉÂtre FranÇais. MoliÈre's real name was Jean Baptiste Poquelin. Young Poquelin's bent, early encouraged by seeing plays and ballets, was strongly toward the stage. The drama, under the quickening patronage of Louis XIII.'s lordly minister, Cardinal Richelieu, was a great public interest of those times in Paris. MoliÈre's evil star, too, it was perhaps in part that brought him back to Paris, from Orleans. He admired a certain actress in the capital. She became the companion—probably not innocent companion—of his wandering life as actor. A sister of this actress—a sister young enough to be daughter, instead of sister—MoliÈre finally married. She led her jealous husband a wretched conjugal life. A peculiarly dark tradition of shame, connected with MoliÈre's marriage, has lately been to a good degree dispelled. But it is not possible to redeem this great man's fame to chastity and honor. He paid heavily, in like misery of his own, for whatever pangs of jealousy he inflicted. There was sometimes true tragedy for himself hidden within the comedy that he acted for others. (MoliÈre, to the very end of his life, acted in the comedies that he wrote.) When some play of his represented the torments of jealousy in the heart of a husband, it was probably not so much acting, as it was real life, that the spectators saw proceeding on the stage between MoliÈre and his wife, confronted with each other in performing the piece. Despite his faults, MoliÈre was cast in a noble, generous mould, of character as well as of genius. MoliÈre produced in all some thirty dramatic pieces, from among which we select a few of the most celebrated for brief description and illustration. The "Bourgeois Gentilhomme" ("Shopkeeper turned Gentleman") partakes of the nature of the farce quite as much as it does of the comedy. But it is farce such as only a man of genius could produce. In it MoliÈre ridicules the airs and affectations of a rich man vulgarly ambitious to figure in a social rank too exalted for his birth, his breeding, or his merit. Jourdain is the name under which MoliÈre satirizes such a character. We give a fragment from one of the scenes. M. Jourdain is in process of fitting himself for that higher position in society to which he aspires. He will equip himself with the necessary knowledge. To this end he employs a professor of philosophy to come and give him lessons at his house:— M. Jourdain. I have the greatest desire in the world to be learned; and it vexes me more than I can tell, that my Professor of Philosophy. This is a praiseworthy feeling. Nam sine doctrina vita est quasi mortis imago. You understand this, and you have, no doubt, a knowledge of Latin? M. Jour. Yes; but act as if I had none. Explain to me the meaning of it. Prof. Phil. The meaning of it is, that, without science, life is an image of death. M. Jour. That Latin is quite right. Prof. Phil. Have you any principles, any rudiments, of science? M. Jour. Oh, yes! I can read and write. Prop. Phil. With what would you like to begin? Shall I teach you logic? M. Jour. And what may this logic be? Prof. Phil. It is that which teaches us the three operations of the mind. M. Jour. What are they—these three operations of the mind? Prof. Phil. The first, the second, and the third. The first is to conceive well by means of universals; the second, to judge well by means of categories; and the third, to draw a conclusion aright by means of the figures Barbara, Celarent, Darii, Ferio, Baralipton, etc. M. Jour. Pooh! what repulsive words! This logic does not by any means suit me. Teach me something more enlivening. Prof. Phil. Will you learn moral philosophy? M. Jour. Moral philosophy? Prof. Phil. Yes. M. Jour. What does it say, this moral philosophy? Prof. Phil.It treats of happiness, teaches men to moderate their passions, and— M. Jour. No, none of that. I am devilishly hot-tem Prof. Phil. Would you like to learn physics? M. Jour. And what have physics to say for themselves? Prof. Phil. Physics are that science which explains the principles of natural things and the properties of bodies; which discourses of the nature of the elements, of metals, minerals, stones, plants, and animals; which teaches us the cause of all the meteors, the rainbow, the ignis fatuus, comets, lightning, thunder, thunderbolts, rain, snow, hail, and whirlwinds. M. Jour. There is too much hullaballoo in all that, too much riot and rumpus. Prof. Phil. Very good. M. Jour. And now I want to intrust you with a great secret. I am in love with a lady of quality, and I should be glad if you would help me to write something to her in a short letter which I mean to drop at her feet. Prof. Phil. Very well. M. Jour. That will be gallant, will it not? Prof. Phil. Undoubtedly. Is it verse you wish to write to her? M. Jour. Oh, no! not verse. Prof. Phil. You only wish prose? M. Jour. No. I wish for neither verse nor prose. Prof. Phil. It must be one or the other. M. Jour.Why? Prof. Phil. Because, sir, there is nothing by which we can express ourselves except prose or verse. M. Jour. There is nothing but prose or verse? Prof. Phil. No, sir. Whatever is not prose, is verse; and whatever is not verse, is prose. M. Jour.And when we speak, what is that, then? Prof. Phil. Prose. M. Jour. What! when I say, "Nicole, bring me my slippers, and give me my nightcap," is that prose? Prof. Phil. Yes, sir. M. Jour. Upon my word, I have been speaking prose these forty years without being aware of it; and I am under the greatest obligation to you for informing me of it. Well, then, I wish to write to her in a letter, "Fair Marchioness, your beautiful eyes make me die of love;" but I would have this worded in a genteel manner, and turned prettily. Prof. Phil. Say that the fire of her eyes has reduced your heart to ashes; that you suffer day and night for her, tortures— M. Jour. No, no, no, I don't any of that. I simply wish for what I tell you,—"Fair Marchioness, your beautiful eyes make me die of love." Prof. Phil. Still, you might amplify the thing a little. M. Jour. No, I tell you, I will have nothing but these very words in the letter; but they must be put in a fashionable way, and arranged as they should be. Pray show me a little, so that I may see the different ways in which they can be put. Prof. Phil. They may be put first of all, as you have said, "Fair Marchioness, your beautiful eyes make me die of love;" or else, "Of love die make me, fair Marchioness, your beautiful eyes;" or, "Your beautiful eyes of love make me, fair Marchioness, die;" or, "Die of love your beautiful eyes, fair Marchioness, make me;" or else, "Me make your beautiful eyes die, fair Marchioness, of love." M. Jour. But of all these ways, which is the best? Prof. Phil. The one you said,—"Fair Marchioness, your beautiful eyes make me die of love." M. Jour. Yet I have never studied, and I did all right off at the first shot. The "Bourgeois Gentilhomme" is a very amusing comedy throughout. From "Les Femmes Savantes" ("The Learned In the following extracts, MoliÈre satirizes, under the name of Trissotin, a contemporary writer, one Cotin. The poem which Trissotin reads for the learned women to criticise and admire, is an actual production of this gentleman. Imagine the domestic coterie assembled, and Trissotin, the poet, their guest. He is present, prepared to regale them with what he calls his sonnet. We need to explain that the original poem is thus inscribed: "To Mademoiselle de Longueville, now Duchess of Namur, on her Quartan Fever." The conceit of the sonneteer is that the fever is an enemy luxuriously lodged in the lovely person of its victim, and there insidiously plotting against her life:— Trissotin. Sonnet to the Princess Urania on her Fever, BÉlise. Ah! what a pretty beginning! Armande. What a charming turn it has! Philaminte. He alone possesses the talent of making easy verses. Arm. We must yield to prudence fast asleep. BÉl. Lodge one's very hardest-hearted foe is full of charms for me. Phil. I like luxuriously and magnificently: these two adverbs joined together sound admirably. BÉl. Let us hear the rest. Triss. Your prudence sure is fast asleep, Arm. Prudence fast asleep. BÉl. To lodge one's foe. Phil. Luxuriously and magnificently. Triss. Drive forth that foe, whate'er men say, BÉl. Ah! gently. Allow me to breathe, I beseech you. Arm.Give us time to admire, I beg. Phil. One feels, at hearing these verses, an indescribable something which goes through one's inmost soul, and makes one feel quite faint. Arm. Drive forth that foe, whate'er men say, From out your chamber, decked so gay— How prettily chamber, decked so gay, is said here! And with what wit the metaphor is introduced! Phil. Drive forth that foe, whate'er men say. Ah! in what an admirable taste that whate'er men say is! To my mind, the passage is invaluable. Arm. My heart is also in love with whate'er men say. BÉl. I am of your opinion: whate'er men say is a happy expression. Arm. I wish I had written it. BÉl. It is worth a whole poem. Phil. But do you, like me, thoroughly understand the wit of it? Arm. and BÉl. Oh! Oh! Phil. Drive forth that foe, whate'er men say. Although another should take the fever's part, pay no attention; laugh at the gossips. Drive forth that foe, whate'er men say, This whate'er men say, says a great deal more than it seems. I do not know if every one is like me, but I discover in it a hundred meanings. BÉl. It is true that it says more than its size seems to imply. Phil. (to Trissotin). But when you wrote this charming whate'er men say, did you yourself understand all its energy? Did you realize all that it tells us? And did you then think that you were writing something so witty? Triss. Ah! ah! Arm. I have likewise the ingrate in my head,—this ungrateful, unjust, uncivil fever that ill-treats people who entertain her. Phil. In short, both the stanzas are admirable. Let us come quickly to the triplets, I pray. Arm. Ah! once more, whate'er men say, I beg. Triss. Drive forth that foe, whate'er men say,— Phil., Arm., and BÉl. Whate'er men say! Triss. From out your chamber, decked so gay,— Phil., Arm., and BÉl. Chamber decked so gay! Triss. Where, ingrate vile, with murderous knife,— Phil., Arm., and BÉl. That ingrate fever! Triss. Bold she assails your lovely life. Phil. Your lovely life! Arm. and BÉl. Ah! Triss. What! reckless of your ladyhood, Phil., Arm., and BÉl. Ah! Triss. And day and night to work you harm. Phil. Ah! It is quite overpowering. BÉl. I faint. Arm. I die from pleasure. Phil. A thousand sweet thrills seize one. Arm. When to the baths sometime you've brought her, BÉl. No more ado, with your own arm Phil. Whelm her and drown her in the water. With your own arm, drown her there in the baths. Arm. In your verses we meet at each step with charming beauty. BÉl. One promenades through them with rapture. Phil. One treads on fine things only. Arm. They are little lanes all strewn with roses. Triss. Then, the sonnet seems to you— Phil. Admirable, new; and never did any one make any thing more beautiful. BÉl. (to Henriette). What! my niece, you listen to what has been read without emotion! You play there but a sorry part! Hen. We each of us play the best part we can, my aunt; and to be a wit does not depend on our will. Triss. My verses, perhaps, are tedious to you. Hen. No. I do not listen. Phil. Ah! Let us hear the epigram. But our readers, we think, will consent to spare the epigram. They will relish, however, a fragment taken from a subsequent part of the same protracted scene. The conversation has made the transition from literary criticism to philosophy, in MoliÈre's time a fashionable study rendered such by the con Arm. It is insulting our sex too grossly to limit our intelligence to the power of judging of a skirt, of the make of a garment, of the beauties of lace, or of a new brocade. BÉl. We must rise above this shameful condition, and bravely proclaim our emancipation. Triss. Every one knows my respect for the fairer sex, and that, if I render homage to the brightness of their eyes, I also honor the splendor of their intellect. Phil. And our sex does you justice in this respect: but we will show to certain minds who treat us with proud contempt, that women also have knowledge; that, like men, they can hold learned meetings—regulated, too, by better rules; that they wish to unite what elsewhere is kept apart, join noble language to deep learning, reveal nature's laws by a thousand experiments; and, on all questions proposed, admit every party, and ally themselves to none. Triss. For order, I prefer peripateticism. Phil. For abstractions, I love platonism. Arm. Epicurus pleases me, for his tenets are solid. BÉl. I agree with the doctrine of atoms; but I find it difficult to understand a vacuum, and I much prefer subtile matter. Triss. I quite agree with Descartes about magnetism. Arm. I like his vortices. Phil. And I, his falling worlds. Arm. I long to see our assembly opened, and to distinguish ourselves by some great discovery. Triss. Much is expected from your enlightened knowledge, for nature has hidden few things from you. Phil. For my part, I have, without boasting, already made one discovery; I have plainly seen men in the moon. BÉl. I have not, I believe, as yet quite distinguished men, but I have seen steeples as plainly as I see you. Arm. In addition to natural philosophy, we will dive into grammar, history, verse, ethics, and politics. Phil. I find in ethics charms which delight my heart; it was formerly the admiration of great geniuses: but I give the preference to the Stoics, and I think nothing so grand as their founder. "Les PrÉcieuses Ridicules" is an earlier and lighter treatment of the same theme. The object of ridicule in both these pieces was a lapsed and degenerate form of what originally was a thing worthy of respect, and even of praise. At the HÔtel de Rambouillet, conversation was cultivated as a fine art. There was, no doubt, something overstrained in the standards which the ladies of that circle enforced. Their mutual communication was all conducted in a peculiar style of language, the natural deterioration of which was into a kind of euphuism, such as English readers will remember to have seen exemplified in Walter Scott's Sir Piercie Shafton. These ladies called each other, with demonstrative fondness, "Ma prÉcieuse." Hence at last the term prÉcieuse as a designation of ridicule. Madame de SÉvignÉ was a prÉcieuse. But she, with many of her peers, was too rich in sarcastic common sense to be a prÉcieuse ridicule. MoliÈre himself, thrifty master of policy that he was, took pains to explain that he did not satirize the real thing, but only the affectation. "Tartuffe, or the Impostor," is perhaps the most celebrated of all MoliÈre's plays. Scarcely comedy, scarcely tragedy, it partakes of both characters. The original "Tartuffe," like the most of MoliÈre's comedies, is written in rhymed verse. We could not, with any effort, make the English-reading student of MoliÈre sufficiently feel how much is lost when the form is lost which the creations of this great genius took, in their native French, under his own master hand. A satisfactory metrical rendering is out of the question. The sense, at least, if not the incommunicable spirit, of the original is very well given in Mr. C. H. Wall's version, which we use. The story of "Tartuffe" is briefly this: Tartuffe, the hero, is a pure villain. He mixes no adulteration of good in his composition. He is hypocrisy itself, the strictly genuine article. Tartuffe has completely imposed upon one Orgon, a man of wealth and standing. Orgon, with his wife, and with his mother, in fact, believes in him absolutely. These people have received the canting rascal into their house, and are about to bestow upon him their daughter in marriage. The following scene from act first shows the skill with which MoliÈre could Orgon (to ClÉante). Brother, pray excuse me: you will kindly allow me to allay my anxiety by asking news of the family. (To Dorine, a maid-servant.) Has every thing gone on well these last two days? What has happened? How is everybody? Dor. The day before yesterday our mistress was very feverish from morning to night, and suffered from a most extraordinary headache. Org. And Tartuffe? Dor. Tartuffe! He is wonderfully well, stout and fat, with blooming cheeks and ruddy lips. Org. Poor man! Dor. In the evening she felt very faint, and the pain in her head was so great that she could not touch any thing at supper. Org. And Tartuffe? Dor. He ate his supper by himself before her, and very devoutly devoured a brace of partridges, and half a leg of mutton hashed. Org. Poor man! Dor. She spent the whole of the night without getting one wink of sleep: she was very feverish, and we had to sit up with her until the morning. Org. And Tartuffe? Dor. Overcome by a pleasant sleepiness, he passed from the table to his room, and got at once into his warmed bed, where he slept comfortably till the next morning. Org. Poor man! Dor. At last yielding to our persuasions, she consented to be bled, and immediately felt relieved. Org. And Tartuffe? Dor. He took heart right valiantly, and fortifying his soul against all evils, to make up for the blood which our lady had lost, drank at breakfast four large bumpers of wine. Org. Poor man! Dor. Now, at last, they are both well; and I will go and tell our lady how glad you are to hear of her recovery. Tartuffe repays the trust and love of his benefactor by making improper advances to that benefactor's wife. Orgon's son, who does not share his father's confidence in Tartuffe, happens to be an unseen witness of the man's infamous conduct. He exposes the hypocrite to Orgon, with the result of being himself expelled from the house for his pains; while Tartuffe, in recompense for the injury done to his feelings, is presented with a gift-deed of Orgon's estate. But now Orgon's wife contrives to let her husband see and hear for himself the vileness of Tartuffe. This done, Orgon confronts the villain, and, with just indignation, orders him out of his house. Tartuffe reminds Orgon that the shoe is on the other foot; that he is himself now owner there, and that it is Orgon, instead of Tartuffe, who must go. Orgon has an interview with his mother, who is exasperatingly sure still that Tartuffe is a maligned good man:— Madame Pernelle. I can never believe, my son, that he would commit so base an action. Org. What? Per. Good people are always subject to envy. Org. What do you mean, mother? Per. That you live after a strange sort here, and that I am but too well aware of the ill will they all bear him. Org. What has this ill will to do with what I have just told you? Per. I have told it you a hundred times when you were young, that in this world virtue is ever liable to persecution, and that, although the envious die, envy never dies. Org. But what has this to do with what has happened to-day? Per. They have concocted a hundred foolish stories against him. Org. I have already told you that I saw it all myself. Per. The malice of evil-disposed persons is very great. Org. You would make me swear, mother! I tell you that I saw his audacious attempt with my own eyes. Per. Evil tongues have always some venom to pour forth; and here below, there is nothing proof against them. Org. You are maintaining a very senseless argument. I saw it, I tell you,—saw it with my own eyes! what you can call s-a-w, saw! Must I din it over and over into your ears, and shout as loud as half a dozen people? Per. Gracious goodness! appearances often deceive us! We must not always judge by what we see. Org. I shall go mad! Per. We are by nature prone to judge wrongly, and good is often mistaken for evil. Org. I ought to look upon his desire of seducing my wife as charitable? Per. You ought to have good reasons before you accuse another, and you should have waited till you were quite sure of the fact. Org. Heaven save the mark! how could I be more sure? I suppose, mother, I ought to have waited till—you will make me say something foolish. Per. In short, his soul is possessed with too pure a zeal; and I cannot possibly conceive that he would think of attempting what you accuse him of. Org. If you were not my mother, I really don't know what I might now say to you, you make me so savage. The short remainder of the scene has for its important idea, the suggestion that under the existing circumstances some sort of peace ought to be patched up between Orgon and Tartuffe. Meantime one Loyal is observed coming, whereupon the fourth scene of act fifth opens:— Loy. (to Dorine at the farther part of the stage). Good-day, my dear sister; pray let me speak to your master. Dor. He is with friends, and I do not think he can see any one just now. Loy. I would not be intrusive. I feel sure that he will find nothing unpleasant in my visit: in fact, I come for something which will be very gratifying to him. Dor. What is your name? Loy. Only tell him that I come from Mr. Tartuffe, for his benefit. Dor. (to Orgon). It is a man who comes in a civil way from Mr. Tartuffe, on some business which will make you glad, he says. ClÉ. (to Orgon). You must see who it is, and what the man wants. Org. (to ClÉante). He is coming, perhaps, to settle matters between us in a friendly way. How, in this case, ought I to behave to him? ClÉ. Don't show any resentment, and, if he speaks of an agreement, listen to him. Loy. (to Orgon). Your servant, sir! May heaven punish whoever wrongs you! and may it be as favorable to you, sir, as I wish! Org. (aside to ClÉante). This pleasant beginning agrees with my conjectures, and argues some sort of reconciliation. Loy. All your family was always dear to me, and I served your father. Org. Sir, I am sorry and ashamed to say that I do not know who you are, neither do I remember your name. Loy. My name is Loyal; I was born in Normandy, and am a royal bailiff in spite of envy. For the last forty years I have had the good fortune to fill the office, thanks to Heaven, with great credit; and I come, sir, with your leave, to serve you the writ of a certain order. Org. What! you are here— Loy. Gently, sir, I beg. It is merely a summons,—a notice for you to leave this place, you and yours; to take away all your goods and chattels, and make room for others, without delay or adjournment, as hereby decreed. Org. I! leave this place? Loy. Yes, sir; if you please. The house incontestably belongs, as you are well aware, to the good Mr. Tartuffe. He is now lord and master of your estates, according to a deed I have in my keeping. It is in due form, and cannot be challenged. Damis (to Mr. Loyal). This great impudence is, indeed, worthy of all admiration. Loy. (to Damis). Sir, I have nothing at all to do with you. (Pointing to Orgon.) My business is with this gentleman. He is tractable and gentle, and knows too well the duty of a gentleman to try to oppose authority. Org. But— Loy. Yes, sir: I know that you would not, for any thing, show contumacy; and that you will allow me, like a reasonable man, to execute the orders I have received.... The scene gives in conclusion some spirited by-play of asides and interruptions from indignant mem Org. Well, mother, you see whether I am right; and you can judge of the rest by the writ. Do you at last acknowledge his rascality? Per. I am thunderstruck, and can scarcely believe my eyes and ears. The next scene introduces ValÈre, the noble lover of that daughter whom the infatuated father was bent on sacrificing to Tartuffe. ValÈre comes to announce that Tartuffe, the villain, has accused Orgon to the king. Orgon must fly. ValÈre offers him his own carriage and money,—will, in fact, himself keep him company till he reaches a place of safety. As Orgon, taking hasty leave of his family, turns to go, he is encountered by—the following scene will show whom:— Tar. (stopping Orgon). Gently, sir, gently; not so fast, I beg. You have not far to go to find a lodging, and you are a prisoner in the king's name. Org. Wretch! you had reserved this shaft for the last; by it you finish me, and crown all your perfidies. Tar. Your abuse has no power to disturb me, and I know how to suffer every thing for the sake of Heaven. ClÉ. Your moderation is really great, we must acknowledge. Da. How impudently the infamous wretch sports with Heaven! Tar. Your anger cannot move me. I have no other wish but to fulfil my duty. Marianne. You may claim great glory from the performance of this duty: it is a very honorable employment for you. Tar. The employment cannot be otherwise than glorious, when it comes from the power that sends me here. Org. But do you remember that my charitable hand, ungrateful scoundrel, raised you from a state of misery? Tar. Yes, I know what help I have received from you; but the interest of my king is my first duty. The just obligation of this sacred duty stifles in my heart all other claims; and I would sacrifice to it friend, wife, relations, and myself with them. Elmire. The impostor! Dor. With what treacherous cunning he makes a cloak of all that men revere!... Tar. (to the Officer). I beg of you, sir, to deliver me from all this noise, and to act according to the orders you have received. Officer. I have certainly put off too long the discharge of my duty, and you very rightly remind me of it. To execute my order, follow me immediately to the prison in which a place is assigned to you. Tar. Who? I, sir? Officer. Yes, you. Tar. Why to prison? Officer. To you I have no account to render. (To Orgon.) Pray, sir, recover from your great alarm. We live under a king [Louis XIV.] who is an enemy to fraud,—a king who can read the heart, and whom all the arts of impostors cannot deceive. His great mind, endowed with delicate discernment, at all times sees things in their true, light.... He annuls, by his sovereign will, the terms of the contract by which you gave him [Tartuffe] your property. He moreover forgives you this secret offence in which you were involved by the flight of your friend. This to reward the zeal which you once showed for him in maintaining his rights, and to Dor. Heaven be thanked! Per. Ah! I breathe again. El. What a favorable end to our troubles! Mar. Who would have foretold it? Org. (to Tartuffe, as the Officer leads him off). Ah, wretch! now you are— Tartuffe thus disposed of, the play promptly ends, with a vanishing glimpse afforded us of a happy marriage in prospect for ValÈre with the daughter. MoliÈre is said to have had a personal aim in drawing the character of Tartuffe. This, at least, was like Dante. There is not much sweet laughter in such a comedy. But there is a power that is dreadful. Each succeeding generation of Frenchmen supplies its bright and ingenious wits who produce comedy. But as there is no second Shakspeare, so there is but one MoliÈre. |
|
