Chapter 1
The Struggle for Influence
I. The Stakes and Their Protagonists
We are concerned here with a portion of French history that sits between the two great crises of the ancien régime: the Wars of Religion and the Revolution. Or, to put it another way, our period falls between the Renaissance and the Enlightenment, at the time of the French Counterreformation when there was a powerful push in France to enforce the principles set out during the Council of Trent.1 Although the Tridentine decrees never gained official legal status in France (the Assembly of the Clergy made a declaration of reception of the decrees in 1615, but this was never validated by any French king),2 their influence was keenly felt. Indeed, according to Jean Calvet, the Counterreformation changed midcentury France more than even the civil wars of the Fronde did.3 Certainly its influence is difficult to overestimate, and the tension identified by Calvet between the dévots (the devout) and the mondains (the worldly) offers a useful framework by which to approach the period. The controversy over Molière’s Tartuffe, which is our primary concern here, was played out in the 1660s during the early reign of the young Louis XIV, when the tension between devotion and worldliness was at its height. In the context of French Catholic reform, the extent and exact role of religion in daily life was one of the two most pressing issues facing the country at this time. And, as Calvet puts it, the dévots were, following the death of Louis XIII, trying to seize the opportunity to “orienter le nouveau règne” (shape the new reign) just as the mondains “eux aussi prétendaient bien donner le ton au nouveau règne et dominer” (55) (also hoped to set the tone of the new reign and to dominate it). Their efforts in this regard are part of what I am calling the struggle for influence.
The other most pressing issue, illustrated graphically but not uniquely by the events of the Fronde, was that of the official balance of political power and the struggle for influence between various parties, including the king and his first minister, the monarchy and the parlement, the monarchy and the French Church, the monarchy and Rome, the French Church and Rome, the French Church and the French Church, the monarchy and a series of powerful individuals including noble politicians such as Fouquet, and potential pretenders to the crown in the shape of the king’s close blood relatives. The death of Louis XIII in 1643, when his eldest son was not yet five years old, signaled an opportunity for a number of factions,4 religious, political, and personal, to attempt to influence the direction that France and the future reign would take.5 If the Fronde was the most conspicuous attempt to change things, pressure was, as we shall see here and throughout this study, being brought to bear in many other ways as well.
As I shall argue, this historical context is no mere backdrop to the Tartuffe controversy; rather, the controversy provoked by Molière’s play is inextricably bound to contemporary debates about religion and politics (national and individual).6 More than that, though, I hope to demonstrate that the theatre in general, and Tartuffe in particular, became a testing ground and even a battle ground in the struggle for influence between competing movements at a time when the new reign was still taking shape.
Armand de Bourbon, Prince de Conti (1629–1666)
As a means of introducing the context in which this struggle for influence took place, let us take the example of Armand de Bourbon, prince de Conti (1629–1666), whose story touches upon all the principal stakes and debates, as well as most of the individuals, that we shall encounter in the course of this study and who had a personal but checkered relationship with Molière, and even with Tartuffe. It should be noted, however, that Conti is not in any way representative of a seventeenth-century French aristocrat; rather, his extraordinarily colorful biography is useful to us precisely because it covers so many different aspects of seventeenth-century France; it offers an unusual microcosm of all the major contemporary tensions and conflicts at work at the same time that it illustrates both the possibility of change (in one individual, at any rate) and, ultimately, the triumph of Louis XIV and traditional, hereditary monarchy. We shall focus here on the events that are most relevant to the present discussion—namely, the Fronde and Conti’s relationship with the monarchy, as well as his religious conversion and subsequent affiliation with the Company of the Holy Sacrament. We shall also touch upon Conti’s early encounters with Molière and his attitude toward the theatre, which underwent a complete volte-face.
The youngest child of Henri II, prince de Condé, and Charlotte-Marguerite de Montmorency, the future Conti was born in Paris on October 11, 1629, and had Richelieu as his godfather.7 A diminutive hunchback, Conti was educated by the Jesuits at the Collège de Clermont, and La Grange and Vivot in the preface to their edition of Molière’s complete works state that Conti overlapped in his studies there with Jean-Baptiste Poquelin (the future Molière).8 Given the uncertainty regarding Molière’s education and the fact that he was more than seven years Conti’s senior, this is, however, unlikely. Destined for a career in the Church, Conti submitted his thesis at the Sorbonne on July 10, 1646, and on January 10, 1647, he took over the governorship of Champagne and Brie from his father. Conti’s shifting roles in the Fronde (or, as some historians prefer, Frondes)9 illustrate both how significant these rebellions were and how unformed and unfocused the rebels’ goals and strategies ultimately proved to be. They also speak of how quickly and easily allegiances might be made and unmade, and of how factions might unite and disunite at will. As will be seen, Conti’s two siblings, the prince de Condé (1621–1686, later known as le grand Condé in recognition of his exceptional military achievements) and the duchesse de Longueville (1619–1679) also participated actively and erratically in the Fronde.
Stirred up by the agitator, Jean-François Paul Gondi (1614–79), future cardinal de Retz and later Archbishop of Paris, Conti sided with the parlement at the beginning of the Fronde in 1648 and was soon made commander of its Parisian troupes. After the Peace of Rueil (March 30, 1649), a compromise agreement that brought the first Fronde to an end, Conti made overtures to the court, hoping to be made a cardinal, and was permitted to lead two regiments on the crown’s behalf. When he was not put forward for a cardinal’s hat, however, Conti reconciled himself with his older brother, Condé (who will reappear in Chapter 5), and his brother-in-law, Longueville, in opposition to the crown. The three men were arrested by order of Anne of Austria on January 18, 1650, an event that John C. Rule describes as being “tantamount to a coup d’état” (Louis XIV 17). The rebellious princes were imprisoned first in Vincennes; on August 29 they were moved to Marcoussis, and on November 15, they were moved again to Le Havre, where they remained until their release on February 13, 1651. According to a treaty signed with the frondeurs on January 30, 1651, Conti was to have married Charlotte, daughter of the duchesse de Chevreuse, but the treaty was retracted in April that year. The unrest continued despite Mazarin’s exile, and toward the end of 1651, Conti presided over an insurrectional government in Bordeaux with his older sister, Mme de Longueville, and was involved in the battles of Agen and Miradoux (the latter led by Condé in February 1652). He refused the general amnesty of October 22, 1652, and was declared guilty of lèse-majesté on November 13, 1652. On July 20, 1653, he finally submitted and went to Pézenas, to the château de La Grange. This is where he met Molière, who was touring the provinces, and became official patron of Molière’s troupe between 1653 and 1656.
If Conti’s personal experience of the Fronde was checkered, including as it did a series of successful military operations alongside at least one barefaced change of allegiance and with no obviously coherent agenda to speak of, other participants who were somewhat clearer in their goals were no more successful in achieving them. Orest Ranum neatly summarizes the overall failure of the Fronde thus: “Despite their erudition, patriotism, and articulate perception of alternative forms of government, the Frondeurs never developed a program of reforms subversive to absolute monarchy. Their proposals remained negative, while their profound and justifiable uneasiness came from the fear that their own power and wealth would be reduced, rather than from a vision of an ideal society which they sought to realize.”10 The Fronde’s legacy should not, however, be considered null and void. The fact remained that the can of worms that is the nature, extent, and legitimacy (and, one might add, durability) of monarchical power had once again been opened at a time when the future of France was uncertain and when it might, therefore, be particularly open to influence. Without doubt, it left a lasting impression on the young Louis XIV. Most of the hopes for the future of France expressed in the series of antigovernmental pamphlets known collectively as the Mazarinades were concerned, as their epithet suggests, primarily with the pernicious and illegitimate nature of Mazarin’s person and of his office as first minister and stressed the urgent need to dismiss the cardinal.11 At the same time, dévots did not pass up the opportunity to make other recommendations to the young king with regard to issues as diverse as luxurious waste (which should be abolished) and the tax burden (which should be reduced) or the French people (who should be listened to) and to insist again and again that a good monarch is a God-fearing monarch.12
However, Mazarin was not, in the end, removed from office, and in order to consolidate good relations with the court, Conti, who had by this time contracted syphilis (from which he would eventually die) from another woman, agreed to marry one of Mazarin’s nieces. He gave up his ecclesiastical benefits and eventually married Anne-Marie Martinozzi on February 22, 1654, after which he commanded the French army’s invasion of Catalonia. He fought successfully for France and was rewarded with the governorship of Guyenne; he enjoyed further military successes and replaced the Grand Condé as Grand Master of France on March 28, 1656. On May 5, 1657, Conti became commander of the French forces in Italy jointly with the Duke of Modena. He came back to France in October 1657 and did not serve again. Conti was awarded the governorship of the Languedoc on February 26, 1660, and took up residence in Pézenas. On November 7, 1659, he passed the governorship of Guyenne to the duc d’Epernon and the position of Grand Master to the duc d’Enghien. Conti became increasingly ill and dictated his will on May 24, 1664; he went back to the château de La Grange, where he died on February 21, 1666. After his death, a number of works were published under Conti’s name, including Les devoirs des grands (1666) and the antitheatrical Traité de la comédie et des spectacles selon les traditions de l’Eglise (1667).
When Conti died, his antitheatrical credentials had been established, and he was, as will be seen, at least tangentially involved in the dévots’ campaign against Tartuffe. Yet only a decade earlier he had been an active supporter of Molière and his troupe. Between 1653 and 1656, Conti received Molière’s troupe on a number of occasions and in a number of locations across the Languedoc region. Joseph de Voisin wrote:
Monseigneur le Prince de Conty avoit eu en sa jeunesse tant de passion pour la Comedie, qu’il entretint long-temps à sa suite une troupe de Comediens, afin de gouster avec plus de douceur le plaisir de ce divertissement: Et ne se contentant pas de voir les representations du Theatre, il conferoit souvent avec le chef de leur troupe, qui est le plus habile Comedien de France, de ce que leur Art a de plus excellent, & de plus charmant. Et lisant souvent avec luy les plus beaux endroits, & les plus delicats des Comedies tant ancienes [sic] que modernes, il prenoit plaisir à les luy faire exprimer naifvement: de sorte qu’il y avoit peu de personnes qui pussent mieux juger d’une piece de Theatre que ce Prince.13
During his youth, His Highness Prince Conti was so passionate about the theatre that for a long time he maintained at his side a troupe of actors in order to enjoy more easily the pleasures of this type of entertainment. Not content simply to see theatrical performances, Conti often discussed the most admirable and delightful aspects of the actor’s art with the troupe’s director, who was the most talented actor in France. Often, when they read together the most beautiful and delicate excerpts from various plays, old and new alike, he took pleasure in asking this actor to perform them in his natural style. As a result, there were few people better positioned than this prince to evaluate a play.
Conti’s appreciation and patronage of the theatre was entirely fitting for a known bon viveur or, as some would have said, libertin. However, in every libertin lies a potential dévot (this, certainly, was the hope of every proselytizing Christian at the time), and for reasons that are not entirely clear, Conti began, from 1655, the process of conversion under the auspices of Nicolas Pavillon, Bishop of Alet, and the abbé de Ciron. Pavillon was an acknowledged rigorist who took a particularly hard line against the theatre, condemning not only actors but also those who attended the theatre.14 Conti’s conversion in May 1656 is described in the Dictionnaire de biographie française as “aussi complète que sincère” (539) (as complete as it was sincere). While we can never in fact know the extent to which Conti’s conversion was complete or sincere, we do know that it was taken seriously by all but the most cynical or satirical of Conti’s contemporaries, and this is an important reminder of the fact that change did take place in seventeenth-century France and that those struggling to influence others did not always struggle in vain. A year after his conversion, Conti wrote from Lyon to the abbé de Ciron, “il y a des comédiens ici qui portaient mon nom autrefois: je leur ai fait dire de le quitter [i.e., son nom], et vous croyez bien que je n’ai eu garde de les aller voir”15 (there are some actors here who used to bear my name; I have told them to give it [i.e., my name] up, and you can be sure that I was careful not to go and see them). What this letter reveals is not only an antagonism between austere religion and the theatre but also, and more important for the present discussion, the fact that an individual’s relationship with the theatre was sometimes used as a touchstone for his personal devotion. Conti’s active decision not to go see Molière’s troupe perform is presented as evidence of his piety; his conscious disassociation from it represents the completeness of his conversion and rupture ...