A Popular History of France from the Earliest Times Volume V Part 28

At the time when Racine was thus praising at the Academy the king and the great Corneille, his own dramatic career was already ended. He was born, in 1639, at La Ferte-Milon; he had made his first appearance on the stage in 1664 with the _Freres ennemis,_ and had taken leave of it in 1673 with _Phedre_. _Esther_ and _Athalie,_ played in 1689 and 1691 by the young ladies of St. Cyr, were not regarded by their author and his austere friends as any derogation from the pious engagements he had entered into.

Racine, left an orphan at four years of age, and brought up at Port-Royal under the influence and the personal care of M. Le Maitre, who called him his son, did not at first answer the expectations of his master. The glowing fancy of which he already gave signs caused dismay to Lancelot, who threw into the fire one after the other two copies of the Greek tale _Theayene et Chariclee_ which the young man was reading. The third time, the latter learnt it off by heart, and, taking the book to his severe censor, "Here," said he, "you can burn this volume too, as well as the others."

Racine's pious friends had fine work to no purpose; nature carried the day, and he wrote verses. "Being unable to consult you, I was prepared, like Malherbe, to consult an old servant at our place," he wrote to one of his friends, "if I had not discovered that she was a Jansenist like her master, and that she might betray me, which would be my utter ruin, considering that I receive every day letter upon letter, or rather excommunication upon excommunication, all because of a poor sonnet." To deter the young man from poetry, he was led to expect a benefice, and was sent away to Uzes to his uncle's, Father Sconin, who set him to study theology. "I pa.s.s my time with my uncle, St. Thomas, and Virgil," he wrote on the 17th of January, 1662, to M. Vitard, steward to the Duke of Luynes; "I make lots of extracts from theology and some from poetry. My uncle has kind intentions towards me, he hopes to get me something; then I shall try to pay my debts. I do not forget the obligations I am under to you. I blush as I write; _Erubuit puer, salva res est_ (the lad has blushed; it is all right). But that conclusion is all wrong; my affairs do not mend."

Racine had composed at Uzes the _Freres ennemis,_ which was played on his return to Paris in 1664, not without a certain success; _Alexandre_ met with a great deal in 1665; the author had at first intrusted it to Moliere's company, but he was not satisfied and gave his piece to the comedians of the Hotel de Dourgogne. Moliere was displeased, and quarrelled with Racine, towards whom he had up to that time testified much good will. The disagreement was not destined to disturb the equity of their judgments upon one another. When Racine brought out _Les Plaideurs,_ which was not successful at first, Moliere, as he left, said out loud, "The comedy is excellent, and they who deride it deserve to be derided." One of Racine's friends, thinking to do him a pleasure, went to him in all haste to tell him of the failure of the _Misanthrope_ at its first representation. "The piece has fallen flat," said he; "never was there anything so dull; you can believe what I say, for I was there."

"You were there, and I was not," replied Racine, "and yet I don't believe it, because it is impossible that Moliere should have written a bad piece. Go again, and pay more attention to it."

Racine had just brought out _Alexandre_ when he became connected with Boileau, who was three years his senior, and who had already published several of his satires. "I have a surprising facility in writing my verses," said the young tragic author ingenuously. "I want to teach you to write them with difficulty," answered Boileau, "and you have talent enough to learn before long." _Andromaque_ was the result of this novel effort, and was Racine's real commencement.

He was henceforth irrevocably committed to the theatrical cause. Nicole attacking Desmarets, who had turned prophet after the failure of his _Clovis,_ alluded to the author's comedies, and exclaimed with all the severity of Port-Royal, "A romance-writer and a scenic poet is a public poisoner not of bodies but of souls." Racine took these words to himself, and he wrote in defence of the dramatic art two letters so bitter, biting, and insulting towards Port-Royal and the protectors of his youth, that Boileau dissuaded him from publishing the second, and that remorse before long took possession of his soul, never to be entirely appeased. He had just brought out _Les Plaideurs,_ which had been requested of him by his friends and partly composed during the dinners they frequently had together. "I put into it only a few barbarous law-terms which I might have picked up during a lawsuit and which neither I nor my judges ever really heard or understood." After the first failure of the piece, the king's comedians one day risked playing it before him. "Louis XIV. was struck by it, and did not think it a breach of his dignity or taste to utter shouts of laughter so loud that the courtiers were astounded." The delighted comedians, on leaving Versailles, returned straight to Paris, and went to awaken Racine.

"Three carriages during the night, in a street where it was unusual to see a single one during the day, woke up the neighborhood. There was a rush to the windows, and, as it was known that a councillor of requests (law-officer) had made a great uproar against the comedy of the _Plaideurs,_ n.o.body had a doubt of punishment befalling the poet who had dared to take off the judges in the open theatre. Next day all Paris believed that he was in prison." He had a triumph, on the contrary, with _Britannicus,_ after which the, king gave up dancing in the court ballets, for fear of resembling Nero. _Berenice_ was a duel between Corneille and Racine for the amus.e.m.e.nt of Madame Henriette. Racine bore away the bell from his ill.u.s.trious rival, without much glory. _Bajazet_ soon followed. "Here is Racine's piece," wrote Madame de Sevigne to her daughter in January, 1672; if I could send you La Champmesle, you would think it good, but without her, it loses half its worth. The character of Bajazet is cold as ice, the manners of the Turks are ill observed in it, they do not make so much fuss about getting married; the catastrophe is not well led up to, there are no reasons given for that great butchery. There are some pretty things, however, but nothing perfectly beautiful, nothing which carries by storm, none of those bursts of Corneille's which make one creep. My dear, let us be careful never to compare Racine with him, let us always feel the difference; never will the former rise any higher than _Andromaque_. Long live our old friend Corneille! Let us forgive his bad verses for the sake of those divine and sublime beauties which transport us. They are master-strokes which are inimitable." Corneille had seen _Bajazet_. "I would take great care not to say so to anybody else," he whispered in the ear of Segrais, who was sitting beside him, "because they would say that I said so from jealousy; but, mind you, there is not in _Bajazet_ a single character with the sentiments which should and do prevail at Constantinople; they have all, beneath a Turkish dress, the sentiments that prevail in the midst of France." The impa.s.sioned loyalty of Madame de Sevigne, and the clear-sighted jealousy of Corneille, were not mistaken; Bajazet is no Turk, but he is none the less very human. "There are points by which men recognize themselves, though there is no resemblance; there are others in which there is resemblance without any recognition. Certain sentiments belong to nature in all countries; they are characteristic of man only, and everywhere man will see his own image in them." [_Corneille et son temps,_ by M. Guizot.] Racine's reputation went on continually increasing; he had brought out _Mithridate_ and _Iphigenie; Phedre_ appeared in 1677. A cabal of great lords caused its failure at first.

When the public, for a moment led astray after the _Phedre_ of Pradon, returned to the master-work of Racine, vexation and wounded pride had done their office in the poet's soul. Pious sentiments ever smouldering in his heart, the horror felt for the theatre by Port-Royal, and penitence for the sins he had been guilty of against his friends there, revived within him; and Racine gave up profane poetry forever. "The applause I have met with has often flattered me a great deal," said he at a later period to his son, "but the smallest critical censure, bad as it may have been, always caused me more of vexation than all the praises had given me of pleasure." Racine wanted to turn Carthusian; his confessor dissuaded him, and his friends induced him to marry. Madame Racine was an excellent person, modest and devout, who never went to the theatre, and scarcely knew her husband's plays by name; she brought him some fortune. The king had given the great poet a pension, and Colbert had appointed him to the treasury (_tresorier_) at Moulins. Louis XIV., moreover, granted frequent donations to men of letters. Racine received from him nearly fifty thousand livres; he was appointed historiographer to the king. Boileau received the same t.i.tle; the latter was not married, but Racine before long had seven children. "Why did not I turn Carthusian!" he would sometimes exclaim in the disquietude of his paternal affection when his children were ill. He devoted his life to them with pious solicitude, constantly occupied with their welfare, their good education, and the salvation of their souls. Several of his daughters became nuns. He feared above everything to see his eldest son devote himself to poetry, dreading for him the dangers he considered he himself had run. "As for your epigram, I wish you had not written it,"

he wrote to him; "independently of its being commonplace, I cannot too earnestly recommend you not to let yourself give way to the temptation of writing French verses which would serve no purpose but to distract your mind; above all, you should not write against anybody." This son, the object of so much care, to whom his father wrote such modest, grave, paternal, and sagacious letters, never wrote verses, lived in retirement, and died young without ever having married. Little Louis, or Lionval, Racine's last child, was the only one who ever dreamt of being a writer.

"You must be very bold," said Boileau to him, "to dare write verses with the name you bear! It is not that I consider it impossible for you to become capable some day of writing good ones, but I mistrust what is without precedent, and never, since the world was world, has there been seen a great poet son of a great poet." Louis Racine never was a great poet, in spite of the fine verses which are to be met with in his poems _la Religion_ and _la Grace_. His _Memoires_ of his father, written for his son, describe Racine in all the simple charm of his domestic life.

"He would leave all to come and see us," writes Louis Racine; "an equerry of the duke's came one day to say that he was expected to dinner at Conde's house. 'I shall not have the honor of going,' said he; 'it is more than a week since I have seen my wife and children who are making holiday to-day to feast with me on a very fine carp; I cannot give up dining with them.' And, when the equerry persisted, he sent for the carp, which was worth about a crown. 'Judge for yourself,' said he, 'whether I can disappoint these poor children who have made up their minds to regale me, and would not enjoy it if they were to eat this dish without me.' He was loving by nature," adds Louis Racine; "he was loving towards G.o.d when he returned to Him; and, from the day of his return to those who, from his infancy, had taught him to know Him, he was so towards them without any reserve; he was so all his life towards his friends, towards his wife, and towards his children."

Boileau had undertaken the task of reconciling his friend with Port-Royal. Nicole had made no opposition, "not knowing what war was."

M. Arnauld was intractable. Boileau one day made up his mind to take him a copy of _Phedre,_ pondering on the way as to what he should say to him.

"Shall this man," said he, "be always right, and shall I never be able to prove him wrong? I am quite sure that I shall be right to-day; if he is not of my opinion,--he will be wrong." And, going to M. Arnauld's, where he found a large company, be set about developing his thesis, pulling out _Phedre,_ and maintaining that if tragedy were dangerous, it was the fault of the poets. The younger theologians listened to him disdainfully, but at last M. Arnauld said out loud, "If things are as he says, he is right, and such tragedy is harmless." Boileau declared that he had never felt so pleased in his life. M. Arnauld being reconciled to _Phedre,_ the princ.i.p.al step was made next day the author of the tragedy presented himself. The culprit entered, humility and confusion depicted on his face; he threw himself at the feet of M. Arnauld, who took him in his arms; Racine was thenceforth received into favor by Port-Royal. The two friends were preparing to set out with the king for the campaign of 1677. The besieged towns opened their gates before the poets had left Paris. "How is it that you had not the curiosity to see a siege?" the king asked them on his return: "it was not a long trip." "True, sir,"

answered Racine, always the greater courtier of the two, "but our tailors were too slow. We had ordered travelling suits; and when they were brought home, the places which your Majesty was besieging were taken."

Louis XIV. was not displeased. Racine thenceforth accompanied him in all his campaigns; Boileau, who ailed a great deal, and was of shy disposition, remained at Paris. His friend wrote to, him constantly, at one time from the camp and at another from Versailles, whither he returned with the king. "Madame de Maintenon told me, this, morning,"

writes Racine, "that the king had fixed our pensions at four thousand francs for me and two thousand for you: that is, not including our literary pensions. I have just come from thanking the king. I laid more stress upon your case than even my own. I said, in as many words, 'Sir, he has more wit than ever, more zeal for your Majesty, and more desire to work for your glory than ever he had.' I am, nevertheless, really pained at the idea of my getting more than you. But, independently of the expenses and fatigue of the journeys, from which I am glad that you are delivered, I know that you are so n.o.ble-minded and so friendly, that I am sure you would be heartily glad that I were even better treated. I shall be very pleased if you are." Boileau answered at once: "Are you mad with your compliments? Do not you know perfectly well that it was I who suggested the way in which things have been done? And can you doubt of my being perfectly well pleased with a matter in which I am accorded all I ask? Nothing in the world could be better, and I am even more rejoiced on your account than on my own." The two friends consulted one another mutually about their verses; Racine sent Boileau his spiritual songs.

The king heard the _Combat du Chretien_ sung, set to music by Moreau

"O G.o.d, my G.o.d, what deadly strife!

Two men within myself I see One would that, full of love to Thee, My heart were leal, in death and life; The other, with rebellion rife, Against Thy laws inciteth me."

He turned to Madame de Maintenon, and, "Madame," said he, "I know those two men well." Boileau sends Racine his ode on the capture of Namur.

"I have risked some very new things," he says, "even to speaking of the white plume which the king has in his hat; but, in my opinion, if you are to have novel expressions in verse, you must speak of things which have not been said in verse. You shall be judge, with permission to alter the whole, if you do not like it." Boileau's generous confidence was the more touching, in that Racine was sarcastic and bitter in discussion.

"Did you mean to hurt me?" Boileau said to him one day. "G.o.d forbid!"

was the answer. "Well, then, you made a mistake, for you did hurt me."

[Ill.u.s.tration: Boileau-Despreaux----650]

Racine had just brought out _Esther_ at the theatre of St. Cyr. Madame de Brinon, lady-superior of the establishment which was founded by Madame de Maintenon for the daughters of poor n.o.blemen, had given her pupils a taste for theatricals. "Our little girls have just been playing your _Andromaque,_ wrote Madame de Maintenon to Racine, "and they played it so well that they never shall play it again in their lives, or any other of your pieces." She at the same time asked him to write, in his leisure hours, some sort of moral and historical poem from which love should be altogether banished. This letter threw Racine into a great state of commotion. He was anxious to please Madame de Maintenon, and yet it was a delicate commission for a man who had a great reputation to sustain.

Boileau was for refusing. "That was not in the calculations of Racine,"

says Madame de Caylus in her Souvenirs. He wrote _Esther_. "Madame de Maintenon was charmed with the conception and the execution," says Madame de La Fayette; "the play represented in some sort the fall of Madame de Montespan and her own elevation; all the difference was that Esther was a little younger, and less particular in the matter of piety. The way in which the characters were applied was the reason why Madame de Maintenon was not sorry to make public a piece which had been composed for the community only and for some of her private friends. There was exhibited a degree of excitement about it which is incomprehensible; not one of the small or the great but would go to see it, and that which ought to have been looked upon as merely a convent-play became the most serious matter in the world. The ministers, to pay their court by going to this play, left their most pressing business. At the first representation at which the king was present, he took none but the princ.i.p.al officers of his hunt. The second was reserved for pious personages, such as Father La Chaise, and a dozen or fifteen Jesuits, with many other devotees of both s.e.xes; afterwards it extended to the courtiers." "I paid my court at St. Cyr the other day, more agreeably than I had expected writes Madame de Sevigne to her daughter: listened, Marshal Bellefonds and I, with an attention that was remarked, and with certain discreet commendations which were not perhaps to be found beneath the head-dresses' of all the ladies present. I cannot tell you how exceedingly delightful this piece is; it is a unison of music, verse, songs, persons, so perfect that there is nothing left to desire. The girls who act the kings and other characters were made expressly for it.

Everything is simple, everything innocent, everything sublime and affecting. I was charmed, and so was the marshal, who left his place to go and tell the king how pleased he was, and that he sat beside a lady well worthy of having seen Esther. The king came over to our seats.

'Madame,' he said to me, 'I am a.s.sured that you have been pleased.'

I, without any confusion,' replied, 'Sir, I am charmed; what I feel is beyond expression.' The king said to me, 'Racine is very clever.'

I said to him, 'Very, Sir; but really these young people are very clever too; they throw themselves into the subject as if they had never done aught else.' 'Ah! as to that,' he replied, 'it is quite true.' And then his Majesty went away and left me the object of envy. The prince and princess came and gave me a word, Madame de Maintenon a glance; she went away with the king. I replied to all, for I was in luck."

_Athalie_ had not the same brilliant success as _Esther_. The devotees and the envious had affrighted Madame de Maintenon, who had requested Racine to write it. The young ladies of St. Cyr, in the uniform of the house, played the piece quite simply at Versailles before Louis XIV. and Madame de Maintenon, in a room without a stage. When the players gave a representation of it at Paris, it was considered heavy; it did not, succeed. Racine imagined that he was doomed to another failure like that of _Phedre,_ which he preferred before all his other pieces. "I am a pretty good judge," Boileau kept repeating to him: "it is about the best you have done; the public will come round to it." Racine died before success was achieved by the only perfect piece which the French stage possesses,--worthy both of the subject and of the sources whence Racine drew his inspiration. He had, with an excess of scrupulousness, abandoned the display of all the fire that burned within him; but beauty never ceased to rouse him to irresistible enthusiasm. Whilst reading the Psalms to M. de Seignelay, when lying ill, he could not refrain from paraphrasing them aloud. He admired Sophocles so much that he never dared touch the subjects of his tragedies. "One day," says M. de Valicour, "when he was at Auteuil, at Boileau's, with M. Nicole and some distinguished friends, he took up a Sophocles in Greek, and read the tragedy of _OEdipus,_ translating it as he went. He read so feelingly that all his auditors experienced the sensations of terror and pity with which this piece abounds. I have seen our best pieces played by our best actors, but nothing ever came near the commotion into which I was thrown by this reading, and, at this moment of writing, I fancy I still see Racine, book in hand, and all of us awe-stricken around him." Thus it was that, whilst repeating, but a short time before, the verses of _Mithridate,_ as he was walking in the Tuileries, he had seen the workmen leaving their work and coming up to him, convinced as they were that he was mad, and was going to throw himself into the basin.

Racine for a long while enjoyed the favors of the king, who went so far as to tolerate the attachment the poet had always testified towards Port-Royal. Racine, moreover, showed tact in humoring the susceptibilities of Louis XIV. and his counsellors. "Father Bonhours and Father Rapin (Jesuits) were in my study when I received your letter," he writes to Boileau. "I read it to them, on breaking the seal, and I gave them very great pleasure. I kept looking ahead, however, as I was reading, in case there was anything too Jansenistical in it. I saw, towards the end, the name of M. Nicole, and I skipped boldly, or, rather, mean-spiritedly, over it. I dared not expose myself to the chance of interfering with the great delight, and even shouts of laughter, caused them by many very amusing things you sent me. They are both of them, I a.s.sure you, very friendly towards you, and indeed very good fellows."

All this caution did not prevent Racine, however, from dis pleasing the king. After a conversation he had held with Madame de Maintenon about the miseries of the people, she asked him for a memorandum on the subject. The king demanded the name of the author, and flew out at him.

"Because he is a perfect master of verse," said he, "does he think he knows everything? And because he is a great poet, does he want to be minister?"---Madame de Maintenon was more discreet in her relations with the king than bold in the defence of her friends; she sent Racine word not to come and see her 'until further orders.' "Let this cloud pa.s.s,"

she said; "I will bring the fine weather back." Racine was ill; his naturally melancholly disposition had become sombre. "I know, Madame,"

he wrote to Madame de Maintenon, "what influence you have; but in the house of Port-Royal I have an aunt who shows her affection for me in quite a different way. This holy woman is always praying G.o.d to send me disgraces, humiliations, and subjects for penitence; she will have more success than you." At bottom his soul was not st.u.r.dy enough to endure the rough doctrines of Port-Royal; his health got worse and worse; he returned to court; he was re-admitted by the king, who received him graciously. Racine continued uneasy; he had an abscess of the liver, and was a long while ill. "When he was convinced that he was going to die, he ordered a letter to be written to the superintendent of finances, asking for payment, which was due, of his pension. His son brought him the letter. 'Why,' said he, 'did not you ask for payment of Boileau's pension too? We must not be made distinct. Write the letter over again, and let Boileau know that I was his friend even to death.' When the latter came to wish him farewell, he raised himself up in bed with an effort. 'I regard it as a happiness for me to die before you,' he said to his friend. An operation appeared necessary. His son would have given him hopes. 'And you, too,' said Racine, 'you would do as the doctors, and mock me? G.o.d is the Master, and can restore me to life, but Death has sent in his bill.'"

He was not mistaken: on the 21st of April, 1699, the great poet, the scrupulous Christian, the n.o.ble and delicate painter of the purest pa.s.sions of the soul, expired at Paris, at fifty-nine years of age; leaving life without regret, spite of all the successes with which he had been crowned. Unlike Corneille with the Cid, he did not take tragedy and glory by a.s.sault, he conquered them both by degrees, raising himself at each new effort, and gaining over, little by little, the most pa.s.sionate admirers of his great rival. At the pinnacle of this reputation and this victory, at thirty-eight years of age, he had voluntarily shut the door against the intoxications and pride of success; he had mutilated his life, buried his genius in penitence, obeying simply the calls of his conscience, and, with singular moderation in the very midst of exaggeration, becoming a father of a family and remaining a courtier, at the same time that he gave up the stage and glory. Racine was gentle and sensible even in his repentance and his sacrifices. Boileau gave religion the credit for this very moderation. "Reason commonly brings others to faith; it was faith which brought M. Racine to reason."

Boileau had more to do with his friend's reason than he probably knew.

Racine never acted without consulting him. With Racine, Boileau lost half his life. He survived him twelve years without ever setting foot again within the court after his first interview with the king. "I have been at Versailles," he writes to his publisher, M. Brossette, "where I saw Madame de Maintenon, and afterwards the king, who overcame me with kind words; so, here I am more historiographer than ever. His Majesty spoke to me of M. Racine in a manner to make courtiers desire death, if they thought he would speak of them in the same way afterwards.

Meanwhile that has been but very small consolation to me for the loss of that ill.u.s.trious friend, who is none the less dead though regretted by the greatest king in the universe." "Remember," Louis XIV. had said, "that I have always an hour a week to give you when you like to come."

Boileau did not go again. "What should I go to court for?" he would say; "I cannot sing praises any more."

At Racine's death Boileau did not write any longer. He had entered the arena of letters at three and twenty, after a sickly and melancholy childhood. The _Art Poetique_ and the _Lutrin_ appeared in 1674; the first nine _Satires_ and several of the _Epistles_ had preceded them.

Rather a witty, shrewd, and able versifier than a great poet, Boileau displayed in the _Lutrin_ a richness and suppleness of fancy which his other works had not foreshadowed. The broad and cynical buffoonery of Scarron's burlesques had always shocked his severe and pure taste. "Your father was weak enough to read _Virgile travesti,_ and laugh over it," he would, say to Louis Racine, "but he kept it dark from me." In the _Lutrin,_ Boileau sought the gay and the laughable under n.o.ble and polished forms; the gay lost by it, the laughable remained stamped with an ineffaceable seal. "M. Despreaux," wrote Racine to his son, "has not only received from heaven a marvellous genius for satire, but he has also, together with that, an excellent judgment, which makes him discern what needs praise and what needs blame." This marvellous genius for satire did not spoil Boileau's natural good feeling. "He is cruel in verse only," Madame de Sevigne used to say. Racine was tart, bitter in discussion; Boileau always preserved his coolness: his judgments frequently antic.i.p.ated those of posterity. The king asked him one day who was the greatest poet of his reign. "Moliere, sir," answered Boileau, without hesitation. "I shouldn't have thought it, rejoined the king, somewhat astonished; "but you know more about it than I do."

Moliere, in his turn, defending La Fontaine against the pleasantries of his friends, said to his neighbor at one of those social meals in which the ill.u.s.trious friends delighted, " Let us not laugh at the good soul (bonhomme) he will probably live longer than the whole of us." In the n.o.ble and touching brotherhood of these great minds, Boileau continued invariably to be the bond between the rivals; intimate friend as he was of Racine, he never quarrelled with Moliere, and he hurried to the king to beg that he would pa.s.s on the pension with which he honored him to the aged Corneille, groundlessly deprived of the royal favors. He entered the Academy on the 3d of July, 1684, immediately after La Fontaine. His satires had r.e.t.a.r.ded his election. "He praised without flattery; he humbled himself n.o.bly" says Louis Racine; "and when he said that admission to the Academy was sure to be closed against him for so many reasons, he set a-thinking all the Academicians he had spoken ill of in his works." He was no longer writing verses when Perrault published his _Parallele des anciens et desmodernes-. "If Boileau do not reply," said the Prince of Conti, "you may a.s.sure him that I will go to the Academy, and write on his chair, 'Brutus, thou sleepest.'" The ode on the capture of Namur,--intended to crush Perrault whilst celebrating Pindar, not being sufficient, Boileau wrote his _Reflexions sur Longin,_ bitter and often unjust towards Perrault, who was far more equitably treated and more effectually refuted in Fenelon's letter to the French Academy.

[Ill.u.s.tration: La Fontaine, Boileau, Moliere, and Racine----657]

Boileau was by this time old; he had sold his house at Auteuil, which was so dear, but he did not give up literature, continuing to revise his verses carefully, pre-occupied with new editions, and reproaching himself for this pre-occupation. "It is very shameful," he would say, "to be still busying myself, with rhymes and all those Parna.s.sian trifles, when, I ought to be thinking of nothing but the account I am prepared to go and render to G.o.d." He died on the 13th of March, 1711, leaving nearly all he had to the poor. He was followed to the tomb by a great throng. "He had many friends," was the remark amongst the people, "and yet we are a.s.sured that he spoke evil of everybody." No writer ever contributed more than Boileau to the formation of poetry; no more correct or shrewd judgment ever a.s.sessed the merits of authors; no loftier spirit ever guided a stronger and a juster mind. Through all the vicissitudes undergone by literature, and spite of the sometimes excessive severity of his decrees, Boileau has left an ineffaceable impression upon the French language. His talent was less effective than his understanding; his judgment and his character have had more influence fluence than his verses.

Boileau had survived all his friends. La Fontaine, born in 1621 at Chateau-Thierry, had died in 1695. He had entered in his youth the brotherhood of the Oratory, which he had soon quitted, being unable, he used to say, to accustom himself to theology. He went and came between town and town, amusing himself everywhere, and already writing a little.

"For me the whole round world was laden with delights; My heart was touched by flower, sweet sound, and sunny day, I was the sought of friends and eke of lady gay."

Fontaine was married, without caring much for his wife, whom he left to live alone at Chateau-Thierry. He was in great favor with Fouquet. When his patron was disgraced, in danger of his life, La Fontaine put into the mouth of the nymphs of Vaux his touching appeal to the king's clemency:--

"May he, then, o'er the life of high-souled Henry pore, Who, with the power to take, for vengeance yearned no more O, into Louis' soul this gentle spirit breathe."

Later on, during Fouquet's imprisonment at Pignerol, La Fontaine wrote further,--

"I sigh to think upon the object of my prayers; You take my sense, Ariste; your generous nature shares The plaints I make for him who so unkindly fares.

He did displease the king; and lo his friends were gone Forthwith a thousand throats roared out at him like one.

I wept for him, despite the torrent of his foes, I taught the world to have some pity for his woes."

La Fontaine has been described as a solitary being, without wit, and without external charm of any kind. La Bruyere has said, "A certain man appears loutish, heavy, stupid; he can neither talk nor relate what he has just seen; he sets himself to writing, and it is a model of story-telling; he makes speakers of animals, trees; stones, everything that cannot speak. There is nothing but lightness and elegance, nothing but natural beauty and delicacy in his works." "He says nothing or will talk of nothing but Plato," Racine's daughters used to say. All his contemporaries, however, of fashion and good breeding did not form the same opinion of him. The Dowager-d.u.c.h.ess of Orleans, Marguerite of Lorraine, had taken him as one of her gentlemen-in-waiting; the d.u.c.h.ess of Bouillon had him in her retinue in the country; Madame de Montespan and her sister, Madame de Thianges, liked to have a visit from him. He lived at the house of Madame de La Sabliere, a beauty and a wit, who received a great deal of company. He said of her,

"Warm is her heart, and knit with tenderest ties To those she loves, and, elsewise, otherwise; For such a sprite, whose birthplace is the skies, Of manly beauty blent with woman's grace, No mortal pen, though fain, can fitly trace."

"I have only kept by me," she would say, "my three pets (_animaux_): my dog, my cat, and La Fontaine." When she died, M. and Madame d'Hervart received into their house the now old and somewhat isolated poet. As D'Hervart was on his way to go and make the proposal to La Fontaine, he met him in the street. "I was coming to ask you to put up at our house,"

said he. "I was just going thither," answered Fontaine with the most touching confidence. There he remained to his death, contenting himself with going now and then to Chateau-Thierry, as long as his wife lived, to sell, with her consent, some strip of ground. The property was going, old age was coming:--

"John did no better than he had begun, Spent property and income both as one: Of treasure saw small use in any way; Knew very well how to get through his day; Split it in two: one part, as he thought best, He pa.s.sed in sleep--did nothing all the rest."

He did not sleep, he dreamed. One day dinner was kept waiting for him.

"I have just come," said he, as he entered, "from the funeral of an ant; I followed the procession to the cemetery, and I escorted the family home." It has been said that La Fontaine knew nothing of natural history; he knew and loved animals; up to his time, fable-writers had been, merely philosophers or satirists; he was the first who was a poet, unique not only in France but in Europe, discovering the deep and secret charm of nature, animating it, with his inexhaustible and graceful genius, giving lessons to men from the example of animals, without making the latter speak like man; ever supple and natural, sometimes elegant and n.o.ble, with penetration beneath the cloak of his simplicity, inimitable in the line which he had chosen from taste, from instinct, and not from want of power to transport his genius elsewhither. He himself has said,

"Yes, call me truly, if it must be said, Parna.s.sian b.u.t.terfly, and like the bees Wherein old Plato found our similes.

Light rover I, forever on the wing, Flutter from flower to flower, from thing to thing, With much of pleasure mix a little fame."

And in _Psyche:_--

"Music and books, and junketings and love, And town and country--all to me is bliss; There nothing is that comes amiss; In melancholy's self grim joy I prove."