The glories of Louis XIV. were fast vanishing. Added to the more circumscribed miseries, resulting to a portion of his subjects from the revocation of the edict of Nantes, was the universal distress of the people, loaded by taxation for the purpose of carrying on the war. Madame de Maintenon felt for all those who suffered. Her notions of religion, though not jansenist, yet rendered her strictly devout. To restore Louis to the practice of the virtues she considered necessary to his salvation, she had thrown him, as much as possible, into the hands of the jesuits. When the question had been his personal pleasures, she had ventured far to recall him to a sense of duty; but she never went beyond. If she governed in any thing, it was with a hidden influence which he could not detect: she never appeared to interfere; and her whole life was spent in a sacrifice of almost every pleasure of her own to indulge his tastes and enjoyments.
Madame de Maintenon was very partial to Racine. His conversation, his views, his sentiments, all pleased her. One day they conversed on the distress into which the country was plunged. Racine explained his ideas of the remedies that might be applied with so much clearness and animation, they appeared so reasonable and feasible to his auditress, that she begged him to put them in writing, promising that his letter should be seen by no eyes but her own. He, moved somewhat by a hope of doing good, obeyed. Madame de Maintenon was reading his essay when the king entered and took it up. After casting his eyes over it, he asked who was the author; and madame de Maintenon, after a faint resistance, broke her promise—and named Racine. The king expressed displeasure that he should presume to put forth opinions on questions of state:—"Does he think that he knows every thing," he said, "because he writes good verses? Does he wish to be a minister of state, because he is a great poet?" A monarch never expresses displeasure without giving visible marks of dissatisfaction. Madame de Maintenon felt this so much that she sent word to Racine of what had passed, telling him, at the same time, not to appear at court till he heard again from her. The poet was deeply hurt. He feared to have displeased a prince to whom he owed so much. He grew melancholy—he grew ill: his malady appeared to be a fever, which the doctors treated with their favourite bark; but an abscess was formed on the liver, which they regarded lightly.
Being somewhat embarrassed in his means at this time, he was desirous of being excused the tax with which his pension was burdened; he made the request. It had been granted on a former occasion—now it was refused; yet with a grace: for the king, in saying "It cannot be," added, "If, however, I can find some way of compensating him I shall be very glad." Heedless of this promise, discouraged by the refusal, he brooded continually over the loss of royal favour. He began to fear that his adherence to the tenets upheld by the Port Royal might have displeased the king: in shore, irritated by illness, depressed by his enforced absence from court, he gave himself up to melancholy. He wrote to madame de Maintenon on this new idea of being accused of jansenism. His letter does him little honour—it bears too deeply the impress of servility, and yet of an irritation which he ought to have been too proud to express. "As for intrigue," he writes, "who may not be accused, if such an accusation reaches a man as devoted to the king as I am: a man who passes his life in thinking of the king; in acquiring a knowledge of the great actions of the king; and in inspiring others with the sentiments of love and admiration which he feels for the king. There are many living witnesses who could tell you with what zeal I have often combatted the little discontents which often rise in the minds of persons whom the king has most favoured. But, madame, with what conscience can I tell posterity that this great prince never listened to false reports against persons absolutely unknown to him, if I become a sad example of the contrary?"
Madame de Maintenon was touched by his appeal: she wished to, yet dared not, receive him. He wandered sorrowfully about the avenues of the park of Versailles, hoping to encounter her—and at last succeeded: she perceived him, and turned into the path to meet him. "Of what are you afraid?" she said. "I am the cause of your disaster, and my interest and my honour are concerned to repair it. Your cause is mine. Let this cloud pass—I will bring back fair weather."—"No, no, madam," he cried, "it will never return for me!" "Why do you think so?" she answered; "Do you doubt my sincerity, or my credit?"—"I am aware of your credit, madam," he said, "and of your goodness to me; but I have an aunt who loves me in a different manner. This holy maiden prays to God each day that I may suffer disgrace, humiliation, and every other evil that may engender a spirit of repentance; and she will have more credit than you." As he spoke there was the sound of a carriage approaching. "It is the king!" cried madame de Maintenon—"hide yourself:" and he hurried to conceal himself behind the trees.
What a strange picture does this conversation give of the contradictions of the human heart. Here is a man whose ruling passion was a desire to attain eternal salvation and a fear to miss it; a man who believed that God called men to him by the intervention of adversities and sorrow; and that the truly pious ought to look on such, as marks of the Saviour's love: and yet the visitation of them reduced him to sickness and death. He had many thoughts of total retirement; but he felt it necessary, for the good of his family and the advancement of his sons, to continue his attendance at court: for, though not allowed to see the king and madame de Maintenon privately, he still appeared at the public levees. The sadness he felt at the new and humiliating part he played there, rendered this, however, a task from which he would gladly have been excused.
The abscess on the liver closed, and his depression and sense of illness increased. One day, while in his study, he felt so overcome that he was obliged to give over his occupation and go to bed. The cause of his illness was not known: it was even suspected that he gave way pusillanimously to a slight indisposition—while death had already seized on a vital part. He was visited by the nobles of the court, and the king sent to make inquiries.
His devotion and patience increased as his disease grew painful, and strength of mind sprang up as death drew near. He occupied himself by recommending his family to his friends and patrons. He dictated a letter to M. de Cavoie, asking him to solicit for the payment of the arrears of his pension for the benefit of the survivors. When the letter was finished, he said to his son, "Why did you not include the arrears due to Boileau in the request? We must not be separated. Write your letter over again; and tell Boileau that I was his friend till death." On taking leave of this dear friend he made an effort to embrace him, saying, "I look on it as a happiness that I die before you."
When it was discovered that an internal abscess was formed, an operation was resolved on. He consented to undergo it, but he had no hopes of preserving his life. "The physicians try to give me hope," he said, "and God could restore me; but the work of death is done." Hitherto he had feared to die—but its near approach found him prepared and courageous. The operation was useless—he died three days after its performance, on the 21st of April, 1699, in his sixtieth year.
It will be perceived that we have not said too much in affirming, that the qualities of his heart compensated for a certain weakness of character, which, fostered by a too enthusiastic piety, and the gratitude he owed to him whom he considered the greatest of monarchs, led him to waste at court, and in dreams of bigotry, those faculties which ought to have inspired him, even if the drama were reprehensible, with the conception of some great and useful work, redounding more to the honour of the Creator (since he gifted him with these faculties) than the many hours he spent in his oratory. It is plain from his letters that something puerile was thus imparted to his mind, which, from the first, needed strengthening. Yet one sort of strength he gained. He had a conscience that for ever urged him to do right, and a mind open to conviction. Under the influence of his religious system, he was led rather to avoid faults than to seek to attain virtues. He had an inclination for raillery, which, through the advice of Boileau, he carefully restrained: he was fond of pleasure; religion caused him to prefer the quiet of his home: and, as the same friend said, "Reason brings most men to faith—faith has brought Racine to reason." Fearful of pain himself, he was eager to avoid causing it to others. In society he was pliant; striving to draw others out rather than endeavouring to shine himself. "When the prince of Condé passes whole hours with me," he said to his son, "you would be surprised to find that I perhaps have not uttered four words all the time; but I put him into the humour to talk, and he goes away even more satisfied with himself than with me. My talent does not consist in proving to the great that I am clever, but in teaching them that they are so themselves." His faithful friendship for Boileau is one of the most pleasing circumstances of his life. His letters show the kindly nature of the intimacy. His wife and family often visited Auteuil; and Boileau, grown deaf, yet always kind, exerted himself to amuse or instruct, according to their ages, the children of his friend.
Of his tragedies the most contradictory opinions will, of course, be expressed. We cannot admire them as the French do. We cannot admit the superior excellence of their plan, because they bring the most incongruous personages into one spot; and, crowding the events of years into a few hours, call that unity of time and place: generally we are only shocked by the improbabilities thus presented; and when the author succeeds, it seems at best but a piece of legerdemain. Grandeur of conception is sacrificed to decorum, and tragedy resembles a dance in fetters. To this defect is added that of the choice of heroic subjects; which, while it brought the author into unmeet comparison with his masters, the Greeks, rendered his work a factitious imitation, leaving small space for the expression of the real sentiments of his heart; and he either fell into the fault of coldness, by endeavouring (vainly) to make his personages speak and feel as Greeks would have done, or incurred the censure applied to him of making his ancient heroes express themselves like modern Frenchmen. "Phædra" is the best of his heroic tragedies; and much in it is borrowed from Euripides. "Berenice" and "Britannicus" must always please more, because the conception is freer, as due solely to their author. "Athalie" is best of all; most original in its conception, powerful in its execution, and correct and beautiful in its language. There is, indeed, a charm in Racine's versification that wins the ear, and a grace in his characters that interests the heart. There is a propriety thrown over all he writes, which, if it wants strength, is often the soul of grace and tenderness. Had he, at the critical moment when he threw himself into the arms of the priests, and indulged the notion that to fritter away his time at court was a more pious pursuit than to create immortal works of art, had he, we repeat, at that time, dedicated himself to the strengthening and elevating his mind, and to the composition of poetry on a system at once pure and noble, and yet true to the real feelings of our nature, "Athalie" had, probably, not been his chef d'œuvre; and, on his death bed, he might have looked back with more pride on these testimonies of gratitude to God, for having gifted him with genius, than on the multitudinous times he had counted his rosary, or the many hours loitered away in the royal halls of Versailles.