His unhappiness in marriage.

It is said that Moliere knew by experience the uneasiness of husbands that are jealous, or have reason to be so. I have read in a small book printed in the year 1688, that he was less praised than his wife was courted; that she “was the daughter of the deceased Mrs Bejard a country actress, who made many young sparks of Languedoc happy when her daughter was born; and therefore,” adds the author, “it were a very difficult thing to know who was her father among so many gallants: all that we know of it is, that her mother affirmed she never admitted any but persons of quality, except Moliere, and that therefore her daughter was of a very noble blood; and indeed, the only thing she recommended to her all all along was, to prostitute herself to none but the best sort of people. Moliere was thought to be her father, though he married her afterwards; however the truth of it is not well known. Moliere married young Mrs Bejard some time after he he had settled his company at Paris. He made some pieces for the stage, and among others La Princesse d’Elide, wherein his wife who acted the part of the princess, shone so brightly, that he had all the reason in the world to repent his having exposed her in the middle of all the sprightly youth of the court; for she was hardly got to the chamber where the king gave that

entertainment, but she fell desperately in love with the count de Guiche, and the count de Lauzun fell desperately in love with her. Moliere was made sensible that the great care he took to please the public, kept him from observing how his wife behaved herself; and that whilst he made it his business to divert every body, every body made it their business to divert his wife. Jealousy awakened his tenderness, which had lain asleep by reason of his application to study; he immediately went and made great complaints to his wife, telling her in a reproachful manner how carefully he had brought her up, how he had stifled his passion, how he had behaved himself towards her more like a lover than a husband, and that to reward him for so many kindnesses, she made him ridiculous to the whole court. His wife fell a weeping, and confessed to him that she had had an inclination for the count de Guiche; but she swore that the only fault she was guilty of, consisted in the intention; she added that he should forgive the first fault of a young woman, who for want of experience will be apt to make such steps; but that the kindness she was sensible he had for her, would prevent for the time to come, her being guilty of such a weakness. Moliere being persuaded of her virtue by her tears, begged her pardon a thousand times for the anger he had expressed, and gently represented to her that a good conscience was not sufficient to preserve reputation, but that we should take care to do nothing that may occasion ill reports, especially in an age wherein people are so apt to think ill, and so little disposed to judge favourably of things?”

She however quickly began again her old trade more openly than ever. “Moliere being informed of his wife’s behaviour, by some people who were willing to make him uneasy, renewed his complaints with more violence than he had done before, and even threatened to get her confined; on which being

provoked to the highest degree with his reproaches, she wept and fell into a swoon. Her husband, who was extremely fond of her, repented of having put her into that condition, and did his best to recover her spirits, intreating her to consider that nothing but love was the occasion of his passion; and that she might be sensible of the great power she had over him, since notwithstanding all the reasons he had to complain of her, he was ready to forgive her provided she would be more cautious for the time to. come. One would think that so extraordinary a husband should have made her sensible of her fault, and brought her off from her ill course, but his kindness produced quite a contrary effect. She thought she had a fair opportunity of parting with him, and therefore she spoke in a high strain, and told him that she knew well enough from whom he had those false stories; that she was weary of being every day accused of a thing she was not guilty of; that he might think of a separation; and that she could no longer endure a man who was always intimate with Mad. de Brie who lived in the house, and had never left it since they were married. The care that was taken to pacify Moliere’s wife proved ineffectual; from that very moment she conceived an extreme aversion for him, and when he had a mind to make use of the privileges of a husband, she treated him with the utmost contempt. At last she carried things to such an extremity, that Moliere who began to perceive her wicked inclinations, consented to the separation she continually desired since their quarrel, so that without a decree of parliament, they agreed to have no commerce with one another; but Moliere could not resolve upon it without doing himself a great violence.

“One day as he was thinking upon it in his garden at Auteuil, one of his friends called Chapelle, who came to walk there by chance, accosted him, and

finding him more uneasy than he used to be, asked him several times the reason of it. Moliere being somewhat ashamed of showing so little constancy under a misfortune that was so much in fashion, held out as much as he could, but having his heart then full, a thing well known to those that have been in love, he ingenuously confessed to his friend that the grief wherewith he was overwhelmed, proceeded from his being obliged to use his wife as he did. Chapelle, who thought he was above things of that nature, jeered him, and told him he wondered that a man who knew so well how to represent the weak side of other men, should be guilty of a weakness he blamed every day, and showed him that the most ridiculous of all was, to love a woman when her love is not reciprocal. ‘ For my part,’ added he, ‘ I must needs tell you that if I were so unhappy as to find myself in such a condition, and if I were fully persuaded that the woman I love grants some favours to others, I should have such a contempt for her, that it would infallibly cure my passion. You have a satisfaction you could not have if she were your mistress, and revenge which commonly succeeds love in an injured lover, may make amends for all the uneasiness your wife gives you, since you need only get her shut up, and this will be a sure way to quiet your mind.’ Moliere, who heard his friend quietly enough, interrupted him, and asked whether he had ever been in love. ‘ Yes,’ replied Chapelle, ‘ I have been in love as a man of sense ought to be, but I should not have been so much troubled for a thing which my happiness should have required from me, and I am ashamed to see you so uncertain? ‘ I perceive,’ replied Moliere, ‘ that you have never been a true lover, and that you have taken the figure of love for love itself. I will not allege many examples whereby you might know the power of that passion, but shall only give you a faithful account of the perplexity I am in, to make you sensible how little a man is master of himself, when love has got its usual ascendant over him. Wherefore in answer to what you say, that I have a perfect knowledge of men’s hearts, as it appears by the public descriptions I daily make of them, I confess that I made it my chief study to know their weak side; but if I have learned that the danger may be shunned, experience has but too well taught me that it is impossible to avoid it. I judge of it every day by myself.’ ”

He afterwards gives an account of his marriage, and after some reflections, adds, “I am therefore resolved to live with her as if she were not my wife; but if you knew the anguish I am in, you would pity me: my passion is come to such a pitch, that I cannot forbear being concerned for; and when I consider that it is impossible for me to overcome my affection for her, I am apt to fancy that perhaps she finds it no less difficult to conquer her inclinations to be a coquet, and I am more disposed to pity her than to blame her. You will say that none but a poet can love in such a manner; but it is my opinion there is but one sort of love, and that those who have never been so nice, are perfect strangers to true love. Do not you wonder that my reason should serve only to make me sensible of my weakness, without being able to conquer it?” “I must needs tell you,” replied his friend,” that you are more to be pitied than I thought; but I hope time will cure you, and I beseech you to use your endeavours towards it.”

Such was the fate of that wit. In the midst of the acclamations of the whole court, shining with glory, and admired in France and in foreign countries, he was tormented with a thousand domestic griefs. His marriage deprived him of his honour and quiet: nay, he could not have the satisfaction of hating his cross, I mean the person who was the cause of so much vexation. He might have been told, “physician, cure thyself: Moliere, you who give so much diversion

to the public, cannot you divert yourself? You laugh at every body, you give very good advice to the poor cuckolds, why do not you make use of it yourself first?” Perhaps he said a thousand times, as Horace did, “I had rather be accounted the meanest of all authors, than have so much wit, and live such an uneasy life.”