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The Life of Monsieur de Molière

Mikhail Bulgakov

Translated by Mirra Ginsburg

ALMA CLASSICS alma classics an imprint of: alma books ltd 3 Castle Yard Richmond TW10 6TF United Kingdom www.almaclassics.com

The Life of Monsieur de Molière first published in Russian as Zhizn’ gospodina de Mol’era in 1962

This translation originally published by Funk & Wagnalls, Inc., in 1970 Reissued clothbound and as New Directions Paperbook 601 in 1986

First published by Alma Classics in 2009 This new edition first published by Alma Classics in 2017 Translation © 1970 by Funk & Wagnalls, Inc. and © 1986 by Mirra Ginsburg

Background material © Alma Classics, 2009

Printed and bound in UK by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon CR0 4YY isbn: 978-1-84749-473-3

All the pictures in this volume are reprinted with permission or presumed to be in the public domain. Every effort has been made to ascertain and acknowledge their copyright status, but should there have been any unwitting oversight on our part, we would be happy to rectify the error in subsequent printings.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not be resold, lent, hired out or otherwise circulated without the express prior consent of the publisher. Contents

Translator’s Preface ix

The Life of Monsieur de Molière 1

Extra Material 163 Mikhail Bulgakov’s Life 165 Mikhail Bulgakov’s Works 178 Select Bibliography 194

Appendix 197 List of Plays 199

The Life of Monsieur de Molière

Prologue

My Conversation with a Midwife

What can prevent me from laughingly telling the truth? Horace

Molière was a famous of French comedies during the reign of Louis XIV. Antioch Kantemir

certain midwife, who had learnt her art at the Maternity House A of Divine Charity in under the tutelage of the famed Louise Bourgeois, attended the most charming Madame Poquelin, née Cressé, on 13th January 1622, at the birth of her first child, a premature male. I can safely say that, were I able to explain to the estimable midwife just who it was that she was helping to bring into the world, she might have injured the infant, and hence France, in her flustered condition. And now – I am dressed in a kaftan with huge pockets, and in my hand I have a goose quill, not a steel pen. Wax candles burn before me, and my mind is inflamed. “Madam,” I say, “be careful as you turn the infant, don’t forget that it is premature. This infant’s death would mean the gravest loss to your country!” “Good God! Madame Poquelin will have another!” “Madame Poquelin will never have another like him, nor will any other lady for several centuries to come.” “You amaze me, sir!” “I am amazed myself. But you must realize that three centuries hence, in a distant country, I shall remember you only because you held the son of Monsieur Poquelin in your arms.” “I have held infants of much nobler birth in my arms.” “Ah, but what do you mean by ‘noble’? This infant will become more famous than your reigning King, Louis XIII; he will become more famous than your next king, and that king, madam, will be called

 the life of monsieur de molière

Louis the Great or the Sun King! My good lady, there is a distant land, unknown to you, which is called Muscovy. It is inhabited by people who speak a language strange to your ear. And before long the words of him you are helping into the world will reach this land. A certain Pole, the jester of Tsar Peter I, will translate them into the barbarian tongue, not from your language, but from the German. “The jester, nicknamed the Samoyed King, will scribble clumsy lines with his scraping quill. Translator to the Russian Tsar, he will endeavour in his crude words to render in the tongue of Muscovy the lines of your infant’s comedy The Precious Ladies Ridiculed. “The Roster of Such Comedies as Are Reposited in the Department of Ambassadors to Foreign Courts, as of this Thirtieth Day of May, of the Year 1709 names, among others, the following: the clownish About the Doctor Who Was Thrashed (also known as A Doctor Against His Will), and The Breed of Hercules, with Jupiter as the Chief Personage. We recognize them. The first is The Doctor in Spite of Himself, another comedy by your infant. The second is Amphitryon, also by him. The same Amphitryon which will be played by Monsieur de Molière and his comedians in Paris in 1668, in the presence of Pyotr Ivanov Potemkin, Ambassador from the court of Tsar Alexei Mikhailovich. “And so you see that the will learn in this very century about the man you are now helping into the world. O, link of ages! O, currents of enlightenment! This infant’s words will be translated into German, into English, into Spanish and Dutch. Into Danish, Portuguese, Polish, Turkish, Russian—” “But is this possible, sir?” “Don’t interrupt me, madam! Into Greek! Into modern Greek, I mean. But also into ancient Greek. Into Hungarian, Romanian, Czech, Swedish, Armenian, Arabic!” “You astound me, sir!” “Oh, that isn’t all. I can name you dozens of translated into foreign languages who do not even deserve to be published in their own. But this one will not only be translated. He will himself become the subject of plays, and your own compatriots will compose dozens of them. Plays about him will also be written by Italians – among them Carlo Goldoni, who is said to have been born to the applause of the Muses himself – and by Russians.

 prologue · my conversation with a midwife

“And not only in your country, but also in others will writers imitate his plays and compose variations on them. Scholars in diverse lands will write detailed analyses of his works, seeking step by step to reconstruct the mysterious thread of his life. They will prove to you that the man who is now showing but faint signs of life in your arms will influence many writers of future centuries, including my compatriots – unknown to you, but known to me – Griboedov, Pushkin and Gogol.

You’re right: that man will come through fire unharmed Who spends a single day with you, Who breathes the air you breathe And keeps his reason sound. Away from ! Never to return. I flee without a backwards glance, to travel the wide world And seek some quiet corner where an injured heart can rest!

“These lines are from the end of Woe from Wit by my compatriot Griboedov. “And now hear this:

And I, weighed down by injustice and betrayed by all, Shall leave this pit where vice is king, And go to seek a corner in a distant land Where one is free to be an honourable man!

“These are lines from a play by this very Poquelin, The Misanthrope, to be translated one day, almost two hundred years from now, by the Russian writer Fyodor Kokoshkin. “Is there a similarity between these endings? Ah, good God! I’m not an expert, let scholars look into the matter! They will tell you how closely Griboedov’s Chatsky resembles Alceste the Misanthrope, and why Carlo Goldoni is considered a pupil of your Poquelin, and how Pushkin as a youth had imitated this Poquelin, and many other clever and interesting facts. I myself know little about it. “But I am concerned with something else: my hero’s plays will be performed for three centuries on all the stages of the world, and no one can tell when people will stop performing them. This is what interests me! Such is the man this child will grow into!

 the life of monsieur de molière

“Oh, yes, I wanted to speak about the plays. A most estimable lady, Madame Aurore Dudevant, better known as , will be among those who shall write plays about my hero. “In the finale of her play Molière will rise and say: “‘I want to die at home… I want to bless my daughter.’ “And Prince Condé, approaching him, will say: “‘Lean on me, Molière!’ “And the actor du Parc, who, incidentally, will no longer be among the living at the time of Molière’s death, will cry out, sobbing: “‘O, to lose the only man I have ever loved!’ “Ladies are known to write with sentiment, there’s not much to be done about it! But you, my poor and bloodied master! You did not want to die anywhere – either at home or away from home! And it is highly doubtful that, when the blood gushed from your mouth, you gave expression to a wish to bless your daughter Esprit-Madeleine, who is scarcely of any interest to anyone! “Who writes more touchingly than ladies? Why, some men. The Russian author Vladimir Rafailovich Zotov will provide an equally soul-felt finale. “‘The King is coming. He wishes to see Molière. Molière! What’s happened to him?’ “‘He died.’ “And the Prince, running to meet Louis, will exclaim: “‘Sire! Molière is dead!’ “And Louis XIV will remove his hat and say: “‘Molière is deathless!’ “Who can gainsay these words? Yes, a man who has now lived more than three hundred years is surely deathless. But the question is whether the King recognized it. “In the opera Arethuse, composed by Monsieur Campra, it was proclaimed: “‘Gods rule the heavens, and Louis rules the earth!’ “The one who ruled the earth had never removed his hat before anyone but ladies, and would not have come to visit the dying Molière. And indeed, he did not come, nor did the Prince. The one who ruled the earth regarded only himself as deathless, but I believe he was mistaken in this. He was mortal like everyone else, and hence, blind. Were he not blind, he might have come to the dying man, for he would

 prologue · my conversation with a midwife have foreseen the remarkable things to happen in the future and would, perhaps, have wished to touch true immortality. “He would have had a glimpse, in the Paris of my time, of the sharp corner where the streets of Richelieu, Thérèse and Molière converge, of a man sitting motionless between the columns. Below the man – two women of light marble, with scrolls in their hands. And still lower – lions’ heads over the dried-up basin of a . “There he is, the cunning and enchanting Gaul, the King’s comedian and playwright! There he is, in a bronze wig and with bronze bows on his shoes! There he is, the king of French drama! “Ah, dear lady! Why do you talk to me about the high-born infants you have once held in your arms? You must realize that the child you are holding now in the Poquelin home is none other than Monsieur de Molière! Ah! I see you understood me. Be careful, then, I beg you! Tell me, did he cry out? Is he breathing?… He is alive!”



1

In the Monkey House

nd so, on about the thirteenth of January, 1622, the first child, a A sickly infant, was born in Paris to Monsieur Jean-Baptiste Poque- lin and his spouse, Marie Cressé Poquelin. On 15th January he was christened in the church of Saint-Eustache and named, in honour of his father, Jean-Baptiste. Neighbours congratulated Poquelin, and it became known in the upholsterers’ guild that yet another upholsterer and furniture merchant had come into the world. Every architect follows his own fancy. At the corners of the pleasant three-storey house with a pointed roof sloping down on either side, situated on the corner of Rue Saint-Honoré and Rue des Vielles- Étuves, the street of the Old Baths, the fifteenth-century builder had placed wooden carvings of orange trees with neatly trimmed branches. Along these trees stretched a chain of tiny monkeys plucking the fruit. Naturally, the house became known among Parisians as the monkey house. And the comedian Molière had to pay dearly later on for these marmosets! Many a well-wisher was to say that it was no wonder the elder son of the estimable Poquelin had chosen the career of a buffoon. What, indeed, could be expected of a man who had grown up in the company of grimacing monkeys? Nevertheless, the future comedian never renounced his monkeys; and in his later days, designing his coat of arms – Heaven alone knows what he needed it for – he depicted on it his long-tailed friends, the guardians of his childhood home. This home was situated in the noisiest commercial section in the centre of Paris, not far from Pont-Neuf. The house was owned by Jean- Baptiste the father, Upholsterer and Draper to the Royal Court, who both lived and conducted his business in it. In time the upholsterer attained yet another title – that of Valet to His Majesty, the King of France. And he not only bore this title with honour, but also secured its succession for his elder son, Jean- Baptiste.

 the life of monsieur de molière

It was rumoured on the quiet that Jean-Baptiste the father, in addition to selling armchairs and wallpaper, engaged in lending money at handsome interest. I see nothing prejudicial in that for a merchant. But evil tongues asserted that Poquelin the elder somewhat overdid it in regard to interest extracted, and that the playwright Molière depicted his own father in the image of the revolting miser Harpagon. And Harpagon was the man who tried to palm off on a client all sorts of rubbish in lieu of money, including a crocodile stuffed with hay, which, he suggested, could be suspended from the ceiling as a decoration. I refuse to believe these empty gossip-mongers! The dramatist Molière did not malign his father’s memory, and I will not malign it either. Poquelin the father was a merchant, an eminent and respected member of his honourable guild. He sold his wares, and the entrance to the monkey shop was adorned with a flag bearing, yet once more, the image of the monkey. The darkish first floor, taken up by the shop, smelt of paint and wool, coins tinkled in the cash box, and all day long a stream of customers arrived to choose rugs and wallpaper. Among the customers were both bourgeois and aristocrats. And in the back, in the workshop with windows looking out upon the courtyard, the air was dense with dust, chairs were piled on chairs, everything was littered with pieces of furniture wood, scraps of leather and fabric; and in the midst of this chaos Poquelin’s master workmen and apprentices were busily at work with hammers and scissors. The rooms on the second storey, above the flag, were the mother’s domain, filled with the sounds of her constant, light coughing and the rustle of her heavy skirts. Marie Poquelin was a woman of substance. Her chests were filled with expensive dresses, cuts of Florentine materials, underwear of the finest linen. In the drawers she kept necklaces, diamond bracelets, pearls, emerald rings, gold watches and costly table silver. When she prayed, Marie fingered a rosary of mother of pearl. She read the Bible, and was even said – although I do not put much credence in it – to have read the Greek writer Plutarch in abridged translation. She was quiet, amiable and educated. Most of her forebears had been upholsterers, but there had also been occasional men of other professions, such as musicians and lawyers.

10 chapter 1 · in the monkey house

There was also in the upstairs rooms of the monkey house a fair- haired, thick-lipped boy. He was the eldest son, Jean-Baptiste. Sometimes he came down to the shop and the workshops and interfered with the apprentices, plying them with endless questions. The master workmen laughed good-naturedly at his stuttering, but were fond of him. At times he sat by the window, resting his cheeks on his fists, and looked at the dirty street where people hurried to and fro. On one occasion, his mother, passing by, patted him on the back and said: “Ah, my contemplator…” And one fine day the contemplator was sent off to the parish school. At the parish school he learnt precisely what could be learnt in such a school; namely, he mastered the first four rules of arithmetic, learnt to read freely, assimilated the rudiments of Latin, and became acquainted with many interesting facts related in the Lives of the Saints. And life went on, peacefully and happily. Poquelin the elder was growing wealthier; there were now four children, when suddenly misfortune struck the monkey house. In the spring of 1632 the delicate mother took ill. Her eyes began to glitter and looked strangely troubled. Within a single month she became so thin that she was scarcely recognizable, and ominous red spots bloomed on her pale cheeks. Then she began to cough blood, and a succession of doctors, mounted on donkeys and wearing sinister tall caps, began to frequent the monkey house. On 15th May the plump contemplator sobbed loudly, wiping his tears with grimy fists, and the entire household sobbed with him. The quiet Marie Poquelin lay motionless, her arms crossed on her breast. When she was buried, it was as though a constant twilight settled over the house. The father fell into distraction and melancholy, and his first-born saw him several times sitting alone on dark summer evenings, crying. The contemplator would get upset and wander all over the house, not knowing how to occupy himself. But then the father stopped crying and began to frequent a certain family by the name of Fleurette, and the eleven-year-old Jean-Baptiste was told that he would have a new mother. Soon after that Catherine Fleurette, the new mother, appeared in the monkey house. At this point, however, the family left the monkey house, because the father had bought a new one.

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