Part 3 (1/2)

Under these circ.u.mstances, a reconciliation could be only a matter of time, and, thanks to the good offices of their common friends, Chapelle and the Marquis de Jonzac, it took place towards the end of the year 1671. The author of the _Fameuse Comedienne_ is discreetly silent about this, fearing that it might weaken her indictment; and, between whiles, places a new intrigue of Armande; this time with a member of her husband's troupe.

Some years before, Moliere had rescued a little boy named Michel Baron from the hands of some strolling players, and, perceiving in him the makings of an excellent actor, had attached him to himself and trained him for the stage. His confidence was justified, for Baron became in later years the greatest actor of his time and also a successful dramatist. Armande, however, was far from sharing Moliere's liking for the boy; she detested him for his precocity and impertinent airs, and still more for the influence which she suspected him of exercising over her husband; and one day, during a rehearsal of _Melicerte_, in which Baron had been cast for the t.i.tle-part, carried her resentment to the point of dealing him a sound box on the ear. In high dudgeon, Baron forthwith took himself off and joined a strolling company; nor was it until four years later that, at the urgent entreaty of Moliere, he consented to return. He was then a tall lad of seventeen, exceedingly handsome, full of a.s.surance, and ”already in great request among the ladies of the theatre and also among certain ladies of the fas.h.i.+onable world.” It did not appear at first, says the author of the _Fameuse Comedienne_, that time had greatly modified the hostility with which Mlle. Moliere and he regarded one another. But when they appeared together in _Psyche_, at the carnival of 1671, Armande in the t.i.tle-part, Baron as Love, there came a change. ”The common praises that they received compelled them to examine one another more attentively, and even with some degree of pleasure. He was the first to break the silence by complimenting her on the good fortune that had befallen him in being chosen to represent her lover, and observing that he owed the approbation of the public to this happy chance, and that it was not difficult to play the part of a person whose feelings one could so well understand. The Moliere replied that the praises bestowed on a man like himself were the reward of merit, and that she had no share in them; but that gallantry on the part of one who was said to have so many mistresses did not surprise her, and that he must be as accomplished an actor outside the theatre as he was on the stage.

”Baron, to whom these kind of reproaches were not displeasing, told her that he had indeed some habits that one might call _bonnes fortunes_, but that he was prepared to sacrifice all for her, and that he would set more value on the smallest of her favours than on any which the ladies who had smiled upon him were able to bestow. And he mentioned their names, with a discretion which was natural to him.”

Armande is, of course, enchanted by this proof of devotion, and, to cut a long story short, they resolve to continue their respective roles off the stage.

We have related this supposed intrigue at far greater length than it deserves, since it furnishes a fair sample of the materials upon which M. Loiseleur and other historians have based their judgments of Armande.

But, in point of fact, it is no more worthy of belief than the stories about Lauzun, Guiche, and the Abbe de Richelieu. Although the insufferable c.o.xcomb whom La Bruyere has depicted under the name of Roscius, and who is said to have depicted himself in his comedy, _L'Homme a bonnes fortunes_, was not the kind of person to be deterred by any honourable scruples from making love to the wife of his benefactor, had he been so minded, we can hardly suppose that an intrigue between Armande and a member of his own troupe could have been carried on without Moliere becoming aware of it, or that, when aware of it, he would have permitted Baron to retain his place in the company.

Moreover, apart from the statement in the _Fameuse Comedienne_, there is no reason to believe that the old antipathy between Armande and Baron ever ceased to exist, far less that they became lovers. What is certain, is that no sooner was Moliere dead than Baron quitted the Palais-Royal and went over to the Hotel de Bourgogne, at a moment when Armande, become chief of the troupe, was urgently in need of his services. This, it must be admitted, was hardly the conduct of a friend, to say nothing of a lover.

By the side of these intrigues, apocryphal or doubtful, it is pleasant to be able to record a friends.h.i.+p of an altogether unexceptional nature.

The great Corneille, in spite of his affection for his wife, Marie de Lemperiere, whose hand Cardinal de Richelieu is said to have obtained for him, after her father had sent the poet about his business, was of a very gallant disposition and in the habit of offering incense at the shrine of any G.o.ddess of the theatre who was inclined to accept his devotion. At Rouen, in 1758, he had, like Moliere at an earlier date, fallen desperately in love with Mlle. du Parc, but had fared no better at the hands of that haughty beauty than the chief of the Ill.u.s.tre Theatre. This rebuff, which drew from the chagrined poet the well-known _Stances a une marquise_, seems to have brought home to Corneille the fact that he was no longer young, and to have somewhat damped his amorous ardour. At any rate, when Armande appeared upon the scene, he contented himself with offering her a platonic admiration, charmingly expressed in the third act of _Psyche_.

_Psyche._--”Can one be jealous of the affection of relatives?”

_Amour._--”I am so, my Psyche; I am so of all nature. The sun's rays kiss you too often; your tresses suffer too many caresses from the wind.

The moment it toys with them, I murmur at it. The very air you breathe with too much pleasure pa.s.ses between your lips. And, so soon as you sigh, I know not what affrights me, and makes me fear, among your sighs, some errant ones.”

Not content with this tribute to the lady's charms, the old poet conceived the idea of writing for Armande a play in which she might impersonate the heroine, and he might portray himself in the character of a chivalrous old man in love with her. He, accordingly, composed his _Pulcherie_, which, as Moliere, for some reason, could not see his way to accept it for the Palais-Royal, was produced at the Marais on November 2, 1672. It was a poor play, the dramatist having failed to endow either the plot with interest, or the characters, apart from the amorous old senator Martian, with any special individuality; and even Corneille's devoted admirer, Madame de Sevigne, was compelled to admit that ”_Pulcherie_ was not a success.” Nevertheless the terms in which Martian speaks of the heroine were so very flattering that Armande must have regretted that circ.u.mstances had prevented her undertaking the latter part.

The reconciliation between Moliere and Armande was in all likelihood facilitated by a serious illness with which the latter was seized in the early autumn of 1671, during the run of _Psyche_. Under such circ.u.mstances the most legitimate grievances are apt to be forgotten, and it must have needed but very little persuasion on the part of their common friends to induce Moliere, with all his love for his wife revived at the sight of her suffering, to hasten her convalescence by an a.s.surance of his full forgiveness. In the following February, Madeleine Bejart died, leaving the bulk of her property to Armande, and, towards the middle of that year, Moliere removed from the Place du Palais-Royal, where he had lived for so long with the Bejarts and Mlle. de Brie, to a large house in the Rue de Richelieu, near the Academie des Peintres, which he furnished very sumptuously. Here, on September 15, Armande gave birth to her third child--a son--baptized as Pierre Jean Baptiste Armand on October 1, Boileau-Puimorin, brother of Boileau-Despreaux, and Mlle.

Mignard, daughter of the celebrated painter, acting as sponsors. The little boy, however, only survived this ceremony a few days, thus preceding his ill.u.s.trious father to the grave by rather less than four months.

The reconciliation with his wife, indeed, in itself so happy, was destined to prove fatal to Moliere, and was undoubtedly one of the causes of his premature death. For some years, the poet had suffered from a chest affection, very possibly due to frequent exposure during his provincial tours. In the winter of 1665-1666, we learn from Robinet that he had had an illness which all but terminated fatally, and in the spring of 1667 he was again ”_tout proche d'entrer dans la biere_,” was absent from the theatre for two months, and was compelled to restrict himself to a milk diet, and speak as little as possible when not on the stage. The retired life he had led during his breach with Armande had, of course, favoured the adoption of this regimen, and under it his health had so much improved that, believing himself cured, and unwilling to impose on his wife the cheerless society of a valetudinarian, he abandoned his abstemious habits, entertained largely, and, in short, resumed his former mode of life. The result was a rapid aggravation of his complaint; his nights were sleepless, he was racked by a terrible cough, and, at the beginning of the year 1673, it became evident that his days were numbered. In this condition, by the irony of Fate, it fell to him to represent the folly of a man in perfect health who, imagining himself the victim of all manner of fell diseases, is ready to submit to any and every remedy that may be suggested to him,--that is to say, the exact counterpart of his own state. On February 10, the _Malade imaginaire_, a happy conception in the composition of which the author had doubtless contrived to find some relief from his sufferings, both of body and mind--for there is some reason to believe that his relations with his wife were again becoming strained--was produced at the Palais-Royal, and played for three nights to crowded houses. On the morning of the fourth performance, February 17,[30] Moliere was so weak that Armande and Baron united in urging him not to play, but their efforts were unavailing. ”How,” he asked, ”can I refuse to appear when so many persons' bread depends upon it? I should reproach myself for the distress I might cause them, as I have sufficient strength to prevent it.” This speech is often quoted as a proof of Moliere's consideration for others, but though the great writer's unselfishness and generosity are happily beyond dispute, it would appear more probable that his plea was merely an excuse for disregarding the advice of his wife and friend, as he was sufficiently well off to have been able to compensate those who would have suffered by the temporary closing of the theatre without any very serious inconvenience.[31] No; Moliere knew that his end was near, and, like the brave man he was, he preferred to die in harness, rather than, by taking to his bed, prolong his sufferings a few days longer.

Accordingly, when the play began at four o'clock, he again appeared in the high-backed arm-chair of the imaginary invalid, and acted the part with as much whimsical humour as on the three previous occasions, though it was obvious to those on the stage that every speech and movement cost him a terrible effort; and in the burlesque ceremony where Argan takes the oath as a new doctor, swearing to adhere to the remedies prescribed by antiquity and to ignore modern discovery, he was seized with a convulsion, which he endeavoured vainly to disguise by forcing a laugh.

When the curtain fell, he made his way to Baron's dressing-room and complained that he was ”peris.h.i.+ng of cold.” A chair was obtained, and the dying man conveyed to his home, where he was put to bed. Feeling that his last hour was at hand, he asked for the consolations of religion, and Armande and Baron hurried off to Saint-Eustache, where, however, the two priests in attendance, learning who it was who required their help, declined to leave the church. The next priest applied to had a better sense of his duty, and consented to administer the Sacraments.

But, in the meanwhile, much precious time had been wasted, and when he reached the house, Moliere had no further need of his services. He had died at ten o'clock, in the arms of two Sisters of Charity, to whom he had long given shelter during their Lenten visits to Paris, and who had but that day arrived in the capital.

Notwithstanding the a.s.sistance of these two nuns, and the fact that a priest had been summoned to his death-bed, Moliere was none the less regarded as having died without the consolations of religion, and M.

Merlin, the cure of Saint-Eustache, refused ecclesiastical burial to his remains.

Armande at once addressed a pet.i.tion to the Archbishop of Paris, Harlay de Chanvalon, explaining the circ.u.mstances of the case, and laying stress upon the fact of her husband having communicated at the previous Easter. It has been stated that the archbishop's reply was an absolute refusal. This is incorrect; he confined himself to referring the pet.i.tion to an official whose duty it was to inquire into such matters.

However, Armande, dreading an unfavourable answer, determined to seek the intervention of the King, and, accompanied by the cure of Auteuil, a liberal-minded ecclesiastic and a personal friend of Moliere, she set off for Saint-Germain, where the Court then was. Even her enemies are compelled to admit that, in these trying circ.u.mstances, she showed both dignity and courage. ”If,” she exclaimed, when the King demurred to granting her request, ”if my husband was a criminal, his crimes were authorised by your Majesty in person.” This was certainly true, though to remind his Majesty of the fact was hardly calculated to further her cause, nor did the cure of Auteuil improve matters by embarking on a theological argument, apparently with the view of antic.i.p.ating an attack upon his orthodoxy by his more bigoted brethren. Nevertheless, Louis XIV., though obviously much annoyed at such outspokenness, behaved with that tact which is one of his best claims to our respect. He dismissed the widow and the cure, telling them that the matter was one which concerned the archbishop and not himself; but, at the same time, he wrote to the prelate, bidding him ”take steps to avoid _eclat_ and scandal.”

The archbishop, as became a good courtier, bowed to the royal commands, but, in order to save appearances, compromised the matter. He permitted ”the cure of Saint-Eustache to give ecclesiastical burial to the body of the deceased in the cemetery of the parish, on condition, nevertheless, that it should take place without any ostentation, with two priests only, and after dusk had fallen; that there should be no solemn service on his behalf, either in the said parish of Saint-Eustache or even in any church of the regular clergy, and that our present permission shall be without prejudice to the rules of the ritual of our Church, which we desire shall be observed according to their form and tenor.”[32]

Much has been written on the refusal of the cure of Saint-Eustache to accord Moliere Christian burial, and on the conditions imposed by the Archbishop of Paris after the official intervention of the king; and the bigotry and inhumanity of both priest and prelate have been denounced in scathing terms. But the majority of those who have treated of the incident were better acquainted with the theatre than the Sorbonne, for, though the souvenirs of _Tartuffe_ and _Don Juan_ no doubt counted for much in the matter, Harlay de Chanvalon and his subordinate were, after all, only putting into force a rule of the Church which had existed for centuries, though in recent times it had, happily, been more honoured in the breach than the observance. As, however, the question is of great interest, and one, also, to which we shall have occasion to return more than once in the course of the present volume, it may be as well for us to give here a brief sketch of the doctrine of the Church in regard to the actor.

The hostility of the Christian Church to the theatre may be traced back to very early times. The Fathers of the Church--Tertullian, Saint-Cyprian, Saint-Chrysostome, and others--had been unsparing in their condemnation of the actor,[33] whilst Saint-Salvien, a priest of the fourth century, went so far as to declare that ”comedy was worse than blasphemy, theft, homicide, and all other crimes, and that the spectator was the accomplice of the performer.” Nor was this hostility by any means confined to treatises and sermons. The Council of Elvira, in 305, enacted that no actor was to be received into the Church unless he had solemnly engaged to renounce his profession; if he failed to keep his promise, he was to be immediately excommunicated. At the Council of Arles, held five years later, all circus-performers and actors were excluded from the Sacraments, so long as they exercised their profession; and the third Council of Carthage (A.D. 397) denied them baptism or absolution. Henceforth, the Church regarded actors as beyond her pale, and, imitating the severity of the Roman Law, placed them on the same footing as prost.i.tutes. She refused them baptism; she refused them absolution; she refused to marry them; she refused to accept them as sponsors at the baptism of the children of their relatives and friends; she refused them the Holy Communion, in public or in private, in life or on their death-beds; finally, she refused them even Christian burial.

Extravagantly severe as all these canons may, at first sight, appear, they were none the less perfectly logical. It was indeed only natural that the early Church should insist that actors who desired to partic.i.p.ate in her Sacraments should forthwith abjure their profession, when we pause to consider the exceedingly licentious character of the Roman theatre and the powerful influence it exercised in perpetuating the memory of Paganism. It is to be remarked, however, that the censures p.r.o.nounced against the actor emanated not from any Pope or ec.u.menical council, but from provincial synods, and when, in process of time, Paganism disappeared and practically the whole of civilised Europe became Christian, they naturally ceased to be enforced--though they were never formally abrogated--in every country, save one. The exception was France, where the old anathemas remained in force, as a natural consequence of the independent att.i.tude adopted by the French clergy towards the Holy See.