“Truly a useful lesson for our neighbor;
And if all husbands who live in this town
Would thus receive their wives’ adorers,
The roll of cuckolds would not be so long.”
(L’École des Femmes, Act IV.)
“This popinjay, speaking with all respect,
Makes me a cuckold, madame, at his own sweet will.”
(Sganarelle, Sc. XVI.)
You shall learn, knave, to laugh at our expense,
And, lacking due respect, to make men cuckolds.
(Sganarelle, Sc. XVII.)
“His heart was seen to burn,
Despite us and our teeth, with an illicit flame;
And so at last, striving to be convinced,
I learned, nor boasted, he had made me cuckold.”
(MONTFLEURY, La Femme Juge et Partie.)
“What! I myself cast blame and obloquy upon myself!
Myself proclaim the shame of my own wife!
And, although at last I am too well persuaded,
Seek witnesses to prove that she has made me cuckold.”
(Ibid.)
I know that someone will say: “What was all right long ago may not be right now; other times, other morals.”
I will answer: Other times, other customs, other styles of clothes, other hours for meals,—that is all very true; but as to other morals, I refuse to believe it. We have the same passions, the same failings, the same absurdities as our fathers. I am fully convinced that we are no better than they; those passions and vices may be concealed under more polished forms, but the substance is always the same. Civilization makes men more amiable, more clever in concealing their faults; the progress of knowledge makes them better informed and less credulous. But whereby will you prove to me that it makes them less selfish, less ambitious, less envious, less dissipated? No; the men of to-day are no better than those of an earlier day, or than those who will live a thousand years hence, if men still exist at that time, which I will not assert, but which may be presumed. Let us not be scandalized to-day by what made our ancestors laugh; let us not make a show of being so strict, so fastidious—for that proves nothing in favor of our virtue. At the theatre respectable mothers of families laugh heartily at a somewhat broad jest, but kept women make wry faces, or hold their fans before their eyes.
Secondly, when authors go so far in what is called the romantic style, why should people be any more rigorous with respect to the jovial style, in regard to pictures of society? Because I describe a contemporaneous scene, must I be on my guard against allowing my pen too free a swing? Is that privilege reserved exclusively for those who carry us back to past ages, and who array their characters in vast top boots and short cloaks?
While I am addressing my readers, especially those of the fair sex, I cannot resist the temptation to reply to the criticism that has sometimes been made to the effect that I write immoral books.
Books that are merry, that tend to arouse laughter only, may be a little free, without being licentious for that reason. Although sensuality is dangerous, jests never arouse it. A work which makes the reader sigh, which excites the imagination, is far more dangerous than one which causes laughter. Those persons who have failed to see the moral purpose of my novels have not chosen to see it. I do not consider it necessary to be morose, in order to offer a lesson or two to one’s readers. Molière did not chastise the faults and follies of men, and turn their vices into ridicule, with a scowl on his face.