the boards the position and rank
which his genius deserved. Moliere's friends urged him to give up the
stage. "Your health is going," Boileau would say to him, "because the
duties of a comedian exhaust you. Why not give it up?" "Alas!" replied
Moliere, with a sigh, "it is a point of honor that prevents me."
"A what?" rejoined Boileau; "what! to smear your face with a mustache as
Sganarelle, and come on the stage to be thrashed with a stick? That is a
pretty point of honor for a philosopher like you!"

Moliere might probably have followed the advice of Boileau, he might
probably have listened to the silent warnings of his failing powers, if
he had not been unfortunate and sad. Unhappy in his marriage, justly
jealous and yet passionately fond of his wife, without any consolation
within him against the bitternesses and vexations of his life, he sought
in work and incessant activity the only distractions which had any charm
for a high spirit, constantly wounded in its affections and its
legitimate pride: _Psyche, Les Fourberies de Scapin, La Comtesse
d'Escarbagnas,_ betrayed nothing of their author's increasing sadness or
suffering. _Les Femmes Savantes_ had at first but little success; the
piece was considered heavy; the marvellous nicety of the portraits, the
correctness of the judgments, the delicacy and elegance of the dialogue,
were not appreciated until later on. Moliere had just composed
_Le Malade Imaginaire,_ the last of that succession of blows which he had
so often dealt the doctors; he was more ailing than ever; his friends,
even his actors themselves pressed him not to have any play. "What would
you have me do?" he replied; "there are fifty poor workmen who have but
their day's pay to live upon; what will they do if we have no play? I
should reproach myself with having neglected to give them bread for one
single day, if I could really help it." Moliere had a bad voice, a
disagreeable hiccough, and harsh inflexions. "He was, nevertheless," say
his contemporaries, "a comedian from head to foot; he seemed to have
several voices, everything about him spoke, and, by a caper, by a smile,
by a wink of the eye and a shake of the head, he conveyed more than, the
greatest speaker could have done by talking in an hour." He played as
usual on the 17th of February, 1673; the curtain had risen exactly at
four o'clock; Moliere could hardly stand, and he had a fit during the
burlesque ceremony (at the end of the pl