Such a slip of the tongue helped to bring about the disgrace of Racine. He had long been admitted on an intimate friendly footing with the royal family, and having in mind a wish to write a history of the reign of Louis XIV., he was in the habit of bringing his notes on the projected work to read to Madame de Maintenon. His honest and veracious nature would have been untrue to itself if he had failed to animadvert on the defectiveness of the system of administration in regard to the people, burdened and suffering as they were under heavy taxation, resulting from prodigality in high places, and the enormous expenses of the wars, which, glorious as they were, spelt ruin for the general population. The sympathy and pity of Madame de Maintenon were genuinely and deeply stirred by the eloquent word-picture the poet had drawn of this; and she suggested that he should draw up a memoir of what he thought could be done for alleviating the widespread misery and distress. Upon this memoir Racine fell to work, and when completed, he first submitted it for Madame’s perusal; but, unfortunately, Louis entering at the moment, glanced his eye over the manuscript, and his wrath kindled. “As Monsieur Racine could make excellent verses, he fancied that he knew everything,” he said. “Not content with being a great poet, he must needs imagine he could be a minister of State,” and wrathfully frowning, the king went out. And in addition to this offence, Racine had stumbled on the almost more heinous crime of stirring up the memory of Scarron. Louis, in course of discussion with Racine on the cause of the decadence of comedy, or, rather, the diminution of the favour with which it had come to be regarded, expressed wonder that this should be the case.
“Sire,” said Racine, “there are several causes. Since Molière’s death, no comedy-writer seems, if he exists, to have dared to enter his field, and the actors have no material. One cannot always play Molière; and lacking other plays, they find refuge in the detestable pieces of Scarron, and—”
But Racine never finished that comment. The words froze on his lips, and silenced by the scarlet flush on Madame de Maintenon’s face, and the uncontrollable trembling of the king, as if some reptile had stung him, Racine, recognising his blunder, stammered out some words which only made things worse. The whilom wife of the criticised dead play-writer cast furious glances at the tragic poet, while Louis said, in tones seething with anger—“I have recently seen certain scribbled comments of yours, Monsieur, in which you make an attempt to account for the misery suffered by the people during my rule. Poets are generally wretched statesmen, and, moreover, we do not permit criticism, direct or indirect upon our authority. Ah,” he added, when again Racine strove to defend himself, “no excuses. Remain at home for the future; and direct the course of your studies into other channels.”
So Racine received his dismissal from Versailles, and soon after, taking his disgrace to heart, the melancholy, long stolen over him from ill-health, increased, and aggravated the cruel disease to which he succumbed after an operation conducted by the unskilful physician who attended him. The king’s heart softened towards him during those last days, and he was constantly sending messengers to inquire after him. Racine was interred in the cemetery of the place to which his heart had so warmly attached itself—Port Royal; but after the destruction of the monastery and the Grange, some twelve years later, his remains were transferred to Paris, and laid in the church of St Étienne du Mont, beside those of Pascal; and Louis bestowed a pension of 2000 livres on his widow, and a reversion of it to her children, till the death of the last of them.
In the death of Madame de Sévigné, Ninon lost another friend. The troops of enthusiastic admirers of this most delightful woman and letter-writer would render further endeavour in the way of eulogy trite and superfluous. To know her in life must have been to experience an extraordinary satisfaction; but the content is left to know her through that flow of correspondence—the voluminous letters touching upon every conceivable topic of contemporary interest. From descriptions of Court life and its glitter and splendour, to the hideous details recorded of the prisoner Brinvilliers, or the terrible tragedy of the Brittany gentleman in the ballroom, or the skilful gamester, Dangeau, or Picard, the Paris footman who wouldn’t make hay. “He was not engaged,” he said, “for such work. It was none of his business—the silly fellow. If you see him, don’t welcome him; don’t protect him; and don’t blame me. Only look upon him as of all the servants in the world the least addicted to hay-making.”
“It is the same with her,” says one English commentator. “From the first letter quoted, to the last; from the proud and merry boasting of the young mother with a boy, to the candid shudder about the approach of old age, and the refusal of Death to grant a moment to the dying statesman Louvois—‘No, not a single moment.’ She loved nature and truth without misgiving, and nature and truth loved her in return, and have crowned her with glory and honour.”[9]
CHAPTER XXVI
Leaving the Old Home—“Wrinkles”—Young Years and Old Friends—“A Bad Cook and a Little Bit of Hot Coal”—Voltaire—Irène—Making a Library—“Adieu, Mes Amis”—The Man in Black.