bad head, and he is so curiously organised, that he neither sees
nor hears what he does see and hear, as the thing really is; he is
always like a man who is dreaming, and who thinks all that he has
dreamed quite real."[261]

_The Father of the Family_, written in 1758, and first acted in 1761,
is very superior to _The Natural Son_; it even enjoyed a certain
popularity. In Germany it became an established favourite, and in Italy
it was only less popular than a piece of Goldoni's. The French were not
quite so easy to please. In 1761 its reception was undoubtedly
favourable, and it ran for more than a week. In 1769 it was reproduced,
and, according to Diderot's own account, with enthusiasm. "There was a
frightful crowd," he says, "and people hardly remember such a success. I
was surprised at it myself. My friends are at the height of exultation.
My daughter came home intoxicated with wonder and delight." Even Madame
Diderot at length grew ashamed at having to confess that she had not
seen her husband's triumph, and throwing aside her horror of the stage,
was as deeply moved as every one else.[262]

Notwithstanding this satisfactory degree of success, and though it was
performed as late as 1835, the play never struck root in France. It is
indeed a play without any real quality or distinction. "Diderot, in his
plays," said Madame de Stael, "put the affectation of nature in the
place of the affectation of convention."[263] The effect is still more
disagreeable in the first kind of affectation than the second. _The
Father of the Family_ is made more endurable than _The Natural Son_ by a
certain rapidity and fire in the action, and a certain vigour in the
characters of the impetuous son (Saint Albin) and the malignant
brother-in-law (the Commander). But the dialogue is poor, and the Father
of the Family himself is as woolly and mawkish a figure as is usually
made out of benevolent intentions and weak purpose combined. The woes of
the heavy father of the stage, where there is no true pathos, but only a
sentimental version of it, find us very callous. The language has none
of that exquisite grace and flexibility which makes a good French comedy
of own day, a piece by Augier, Sandeau, Feuillet, Sardou, so delightful.
Diderot was right in urging that there is no reason why a play should be
in verse; but then the prose of a play ought to have a point, elegance,
and highly-wrought perfection, which shall fill us with a sense of art,