His irritable disposition made him a trying companion, but to his last day he was the "spoiled child" of Madame de Rambouillet and all the society of the Salon; he was gay, simple, boyish, and natural, and the Circle loved him "because he had none of the affected gravity and the importance of the other men of letters, and because his manners were not precise." More than thirty years after his death Mme. de Sévigné recalled "his free wit and his charming ways" with delight. ("So much the worse," she said, "for them who do not understand such things!"[54])
Voiture might have lived independently and dispensed with the favours and the benefits which he solicited. His father was a very successful business man (he dealt in wines), but in those days it was customary for literary men to depend upon other men, and "little Voiture," thinking that it was a part of his glory to take his share of the general cake, profited by his social relations, and stretched his hands out in all directions, receiving such pensions, benefits, and "offices" as were bestowed upon all prominent men of letters. His income was large, and as he was nourished and cared for by Madame de Rambouillet, he had few expenses.
Valentin Conrart, the first perpetual Secretary of the Académie Française, was the most useful, if not the most brilliant member of the Salon; he was the common sense of the Blue Room: the wise and discreet friend to whom the most delicate secrets were fearlessly confided, the unfailing referee to whom the members of the Circle applied for decisions of all kinds, from the question of a debated signification to the pronunciation of a word; naturally he was somewhat pedagogical; incessant correction of the works of others had impressed him with the instincts and the manners of a teacher; to the younger members of the Circle he was a most awe-inspiring wiseacre. Conrart bore the mark of a deep-seated consciousness of Protestantism, and whether he was speaking, walking, or engaged in his active duties it was evident that he was absorbed in reflections concerning his religious origin; people who had seen him when he was asleep affirmed that he wore an alert air of cogitation when wrapt in slumber, and when he was rhyming his little verses to Alphise or to Lycoris his aspect was the same. His attitude was logical: he knew that he was a Protestant; he knew that that fact was a thing that no man could be expected to forget. In 1647 he wrote to a fellow coreligionist[55]: "As the world regards it, what a disadvantage it is to be a Huguenot!" The Académie Française emanated from social meetings held in Conrart's house and the serious association could not have had a more suitable cradle.
It is a pleasure to think of that easy and independent home, where guests were met with outstretched hands, where wisdom was dispensed without thought of recompense. Conrart was generous and just, a loyal and indulgent friend who did good for the love of goodness. The wife of Conrart was an excellent and worthy creature, who received dukes and peers and the ladies of the Court as simply as she received the friends of her youth; she was not a respecter of persons and she saw no reason for embarrassment when the Marquise de Rambouillet wished to dine with her. She took pride in "pastelles," cordials, and other household delicacies, which she made and offered to her husband's friends with her own hands.
Vaugelas was timid and innocent; misfortune was his habit; he had always been unfortunate, and no one expected him to be anything else. He was very poor; he had been stripped of everything (even to the pension given him by the King) as punishment for following Gaston d'Orléans. Everything that he did turned against him. One day when he was in great need Mme. de Carignan told him that she would hire him as tutor; she had two sons whom she aspired to educate according to the methods of the Hôtel de Rambouillet. Naturally the impecunious Vaugelas thanked God for his rescue. When his pupils were presented to him he found that one of them was deaf and dumb, the other was a phenomenal stutterer, barely able to articulate his name. Vaugelas had been so uniformly unfortunate that his woes had created a nervous tension in the minds of the Circle, and every new report of his afflictions called forth an outburst of hysterical laughter from his sympathisers. The Hôtel de Rambouillet knew his intrinsic value. Fair Arthénice and her company essayed to bring him forward, and failed; he was bashful, an inveterate listener, obstinately silent; in the Salon he sat with head drooping and with lips half open, eagerly listening to catch the delicately turned phrases of the quality, or to surprise some noble error; a grammatical lapsus stung his keen perceptions, and he was frequently seen writhing as if in agony, no one knew why. In a word he was worthless in a salon,—and the same must be said of Corneille. Corneille felt that he was not brilliant, and he never attended the Salon unless he had written something new; he read his plays to "the Circle" before he offered them to the publishers. Men of genius are not always creditable adjuncts to a salon; Corneille was known in the fine world as "that fellow Corneille." As far as his capacity for furnishing the amount of amusement which all men individually owe it to their fellows to provide is concerned, it is enough to say that he was one of the churchwardens in his parochial district; this fact, like the accident of birth, may pass as a circumstance extenuating his involuntary evil. Speaking of the Salon la Bruyère wrote: "Corneille, another one who is seen there, is simple, timid, and—when he talks—a bore; he mistakes one word for another, and considers his plays good or bad in proportion to the money he gains by them. He does not know how to recite poetry, and he cannot read his own writing."
In a club of pretty women ten Corneilles would not have been worth one Antoine Godeau. Godeau was as diminutive in his verse as in his person; but he was a fiery fellow and a dashing gallant, always in love. When he was studying philosophy the German students in his boarding-house so attached themselves to his lively ways that they could not live away from him. The gravest of the bookworms thought that they could study better in his presence, and his chambers presented the appearance of a class-room. He sat enthroned at his table, and the Germans sat cross-legged around him blowing clouds from their china pipes and roaring with laughter at his sallies. He sang, he rhymed, he drank; he was always cracking his funny jokes. He was born to love, and as he was naturally frivolous, his dulcineas were staked out all over the country awaiting his good pleasure. Presented to the Circle of the Hôtel de Rambouillet when he was very young, he paled the star of "little Voiture." When Voiture was at a distance from Paris Mlle. de Rambouillet wrote to him: "There is a man here now who is a head shorter than you are, and who is, I swear to you, a thousand times more gallant!"
Godeau was a conqueror; he had "entrapped all the successes." Every one was amazed when it was discovered that he was a bishop, and they had barely recovered from their amazement when it was learned that he was not only a bishop but a good bishop. He had other titles to distinction (of one kind or another), "and withal he still remained" (as Sainte Beuve said) "the foppish spark of all that world." The only passport required by the Hôtel de Rambouillet was intellect. The Circle caressed Sarrazin, despite his baseness, his knavery, his ignoble marriages, and his ridiculous appearance, because he was capable of a pleasant repartee when in general conversation. George de Scudéry, a "species of captain," was protected by the Circle because he was an author. Scudéry was intolerable! his brain cells were clogged by vanity, he was humming from morning till night with his head high in the clouds, beating his ancestors about the ears of any one who would listen to him, and prating of his "glory," his tragic comedies, and his epic poem Alaric. He was on tiptoe with delight because he had eclipsed Corneille. The Hôtel de Rambouillet smiled upon Colletet, the clever drunkard who had taken his three servants to wife, one after the other, and who had not talent enough to counterbalance his gipsy squalor. But all passed who could hold a pen. Many a scruple and many a qualm clamoured in vain for recognition when the fair creator of the Circle organised the Salon. Nothing can be created—not even a salon—without some sacrifice, and Mme. de Rambouillet laid a firm hand upon her predilections and made literary merit the only title to membership in the Salon. Every one knew the way to the Hôtel de Rambouillet. Every one but Balzac was seen there. Balzac lived in a distant department (la Charente), so it is probable that he knew Mme. de Rambouillet only by letter, though he is named as an attendant of the Salon. Had the Salon existed in this day it is possible that our moderns, who demand a finer mortar, would have left the coarser pebbles in the screen, but Mme. de Rambouillet closed her eyes, put forth her hand, and as blindly as Justice drew authors out of their obscure corners and placed them on a footing with the fine flower of the Court and the choice spirits of the city, with all that was gay or witty, with all who were possessed of curiosity concerning the things of the mind. She forced the frivolous to habituate themselves to serious things, she compelled the pedants to toss their caps to the thistles, to cast aside their pretensions and their long-drawn-out phrases, and to stand forth as men. No one carried the accoutrements of his authorship into the Blue Room, no one was permitted to play the part of "pedant pedantising"; all was light, rapid, ephemeral; the atmosphere was fine and clear, and to add to the tranquil aspect of the scene, several very youthful ladies (the young daughters of Mme. de Rambouillet and "la pucelle Priande" among others) were permitted to pass like butterflies among the thoughtful groups; their presence completed the illusion of pastoral festivity. Before that time young girls had never mingled freely with their elders.
As mixed as the gatherings were, and as radical as was the social revolution of the Salon, the presence of innocent youth imposed the tone of careful propriety. I am not counting "La Belle Paulet" as an innocent young girl, though she too was of the Salon. Paulet was called "the lioness" because of the ardent blonde colour of her hair; she was young enough, and amiable even to excess, but she had had too much experience. She was "a bit of driftwood," one of several of her kind whom Mme. de Rambouillet had fished from the vortex, dried, catechised, absolved, and restored to regular conduct and consideration. Neither do I class "the worthy Scudéry" among young girls. She could not have been called "young" at any age. She was (to quote one of her contemporaries) "a tall, black, meagre person, with a very long face, prolix in discourse, with a tone of voice like a schoolmaster, which is not at all agreeable." Although Tallemant drew this picture, its lines are not exaggerated. It is impossible to regard Mlle. de Scudéry as a young girl. When I say that there were young girls in the Salon, I have in mind the daughters of the house, from whom emanated excess of delicacy, precocity, and decadence, Julie d'Angennes, for whom was created "the garland of Julie," who became Mme. Montausier, Angélique de Rambouillet,—the first of de Grignan's three wives,—and Mlle. de Bourbon, who married de Longueville, and at a later day was known as the heroine of the Hôtel-de-Ville. We must not imagine that a reception at the Hôtel de Rambouillet was a convocation like a seance at the Institute of France. At such an assembly a de Sévigné, a Paulet, a Lafayette would have been out of place, nor would they have consented to sit like students in class discussing whether it were better to say avoine and sarge (the pronunciation given by the Court) or aveine and serge (the pronunciation used by the grain-handlers in the hay-market). Neither would it have been worth while to collect such spirits had the sole object been a discussion of the last new book, or the last new play; but literary and grammatical questions were rocks in the seas on which the brilliant explorer of the Blue Room had set sail and on the rocks she had planted her buoys. She navigated sagaciously, taking the sun, sounding and shaping her course to avoid danger. "Assaults of eloquence," however important, were cut short before they resembled the lessons of the schoolroom. Before the innovation of the Salon, the critics had dealt out discipline with heavy hands. We are confounded by the solemnity with which Conrart informed Balzac of a "tournament" between Voiture and Chapelain on the subject of one of Ariosto's comedies, when "decisions" were rendered with all the precision of legal sentences by "the hermit of Angoumois."[56] So manifest a waste of energy proved that it was time for the world's people to interfere, to restrain the savants from taking to heart things which were not worth their pains.