My experience in 1976 forced me to rethink what I was doing in a department of literature, a discipline that tended to ignore and often denigrate the contributions of women writers, however outstanding. In casting about for a different way of using my professional skills, I chanced upon the newly created Center for Research on Women at Stanford University. There I was able to find a home as a senior research scholar and, later, as one of its directors. Since that transition I have been engaged in writing about women’s cultural history, with a special focus on women in France and the United States.
Thinking about women, I have never been far away from their relationships with men. I have tried to understand how men and women see themselves within a given culture and historical moment. I have read, with fascination, their accounts of how they acquired gender-specific traits and roles. While males and females in France and the United States pass through the same biological stages of infancy, childhood, adolescence, young adulthood, maturity, and old age, each of these stages is so shaped by a person’s specific time and place that they often bear little resemblance to each other across the divide of language, region, and class, not to mention sex. The first great American poet, Anne Bradstreet (circa 1616–1672), who wrote amazing love poems for her husband, was born scarcely a generation earlier than Madame de La Fayette; yet in Puritan New England where Anne lived as an adult (after her earlier life in England), she conceptualized love in a manner so different from the courtiers of seventeenth-century France that we wonder if she and they are writing about the same thing. Love, too, we are forced to admit, is socially constructed.
For Madame de La Fayette, love was fabricated according to the rules of galanterie as dictated in the salons of the precious ladies and as practiced at the court of Louis XIV. While Louis XIV was alive—he did not die until 1715—gallantry remained an honored French attribute, a sophisticated game as in the title of Marivaux’s famous comedy, Le jeu de l’amour et du hasard (The Game of Love and Chance), published in 1730.
In the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, one learned how to please the opposite sex by reading novels and poetry, by attending plays, and by observing the conduct of one’s elders and contemporaries. It was understood that a man should always make the first advance, never a woman. She, on the other hand, had the right to encourage or discourage a would-be suitor. This verbal play between man and woman was as essential to court life as music and dance. Let us not forget that in 1656, when Louis XIV was only eighteen, he danced in Lully’s ballet entitled La Galanterie du Temps (Gallantry in Our Times). Following the example of their king, men were proud to be called galants. For women, however, the term femme galante was less flattering, implying “an easy woman” or even a courtesan.
By the time of Madame de La Fayette, in the last third of the seventeenth century, gallantry implied a certain emotional lightness. If you could manage it, it was even possible to juggle several affairs at the same time without sanction from one’s peers—something that would have been denounced by Marie de Champagne in her twelfth-century verdicts.
The Duc de Nemours excelled at gallantry. His striking appearance, polite manners, and way with words lifted him far above the ordinary suitor. He was a star in a firmament of lovers, a catch for any woman, even for the Princess de Clèves. And yet . . . what woman would not fear that this very same man, with a string of love affairs behind him, would cast her off when the pleasures of love had become too familiar? Her all-engrossing fairy tale might eventually deteriorate into a demonic nightmare. She could not risk a catastrophic ending to her unparalleled story. Let it be one of emotion recollected in tranquility (pace Wordsworth) rather than in bitterness. Let it be a story that ennobles, without the negative side of gallantry.
Although the dissolute side of gallantry would become more pronounced in the eighteenth century, the French would continue to claim it with pride. Pierre Darblay, in his 1889 Physiologie de l’amour, would call it the “character of our nation.”5 In our own time, Alain Viala asks whether gallantry is a cultural category peculiar to the French. Indeed, when he mentioned his intended book title—La France galante—to British colleagues at Oxford, one called it a pleonasm.6 He was right to associate gallantry with the French, not only for its privileged history within the ancien régime but also for its ongoing presence in postrevolutionary France, where it continues to inspire considerable admiration and a measure of mistrust from Anglo-Saxons.
The difference between English and French modes came home to me vividly when I was at Oxford many years ago. Nearing the end of my sabbatical stay, I knew something had gone awry. I was supposed to be researching a paper on the reception of George Sand in England, but spent most of my time caring for a willful five-year-old and keeping order in an antiquated thatched cottage outside the city. Sometimes on weekends, hoping to liven up my neutered state, I would go into town and attend a formal dinner party given by one of the Oxford faculty. The food was invariably bland and the conversation desexualized. Where were the playful innuendos I associated with European living?
“Enough,” I silently screamed one day. “Enough of British dinners featuring stewed lamb and cauliflower. Enough of men who avoid my glance and make me feel like a talking block of wood. I’m going to France!”
As soon as school was out and I could place my son in an overnight boys’ camp, I took off for Paris. The minute I dropped my suitcase in a small Left Bank hotel and strolled out into the street, I began to feel different. Outside my hotel, a street cleaner using one of those old-fashioned twig brooms looked me up and down admiringly and said, “Bonjour, Madame” in a suggestive tone I shall never forget. I was once again in France, a land where pleasing the ladies had not gone out of style.
I cannot resist one further anecdote of how French boys are, to this day, indoctrinated into the art of gallantry. My American friend Judy, who has lived in Paris since she married a Frenchman some twenty-five years ago, recalled this incident from the life of her son, Albert. He was three or four years old, playing on the floor, while she and her American brother discussed the differences between heterosexual relations in France and the United States. Her brother spoke of the ease with which Frenchmen attract women, while he lamented his own ineptness with the opposite sex. Judy agreed that Frenchmen certainly know how to turn on the charm. Witness her husband, who had wooed her away from less seductive Americans. These words were apparently not wasted on her son. He looked up from his toys and carefully said: “Mommy, you have such pretty lips!”
I met Albert much later, when he was seventeen and in the last year of a prestigious French lycée. As he was considering various university possibilities, both in France and in the United States, I encouraged him to apply to my home university, Stanford. He was subsequently accepted, decided to go there, and ultimately made a name for himself, not only with his schoolwork but also with the ladies. Whatever elements of gallantry he had brought from France served him well on “the Farm.”
CHAPTER THREE
Comic Love, Tragic Love
Molière and Racine
LOVE IS A GREAT TEACHER: WHAT ONE NEVER WAS, IT TEACHES US TO BE.
Molière, L’école des femmes, 1662
THE CURSE OF VENUS IS FATAL.
Jean Racine, Phèdre, 1677
Front-page engraving of L’école des femmes, 1719 edition. From Wikipedia, “The School for Wives” entry.
Most French people were still illiterate during the seventeenth century. Only members of the nobility and the bourgeoisie could read and write. For those who could read with ease, a steady stream of novels, poems, fables, maxims, and memoirs familiarized them with the rules of gallantry. For the rest, as in Shakespearean England, you could keep abreast of the latest fashions by going to the theater, where there were comfortable boxes for the well-heeled and standing room in the pit for only fifteen sous. Paris, like London, was a mecca for playwrights, and even the provinces had their share of theatrical productions. The illustrious names of Corneille, M
olière, and Racine speak for an era when dramatic spectacle reached Olympian heights, never attained before or since in France, and most of these plays dealt directly or indirectly with love.
Molière and his younger contemporary Racine were first inheritors of and then contributors to the latest fashions in loving. Love showed its comic face in Molière’s works, though sometimes those same comic faces betrayed inner anguish, whereas love was resolutely tragic in the world of Racine. Through the masks of comedy and tragedy, we can approach the meaning and practice of love during the 1660s and 1670s, the same period that gave rise to La Princesse de Clèves. At Versailles, in Paris, and in the major provincial cities, love onstage attracted spectators who could never get enough of beautiful young people magnetically drawn to one another despite the forces that conspired to pull them apart. As in real life, love knew no age barriers, with older men comically in love with younger women and older women tragically in love with younger men. In both instances, theater would take on a psychological dimension it didn’t have before. Spectators who went to the theater to be entertained might come away with insights into their own amorous entanglements and erotic longings.
Molière’s Comedies of Passion
During the years that Molière was traveling in the provinces with his theater troupe, from 1643 to 1658, précieuses controlled the salons that legislated correct French usage and refined modes of behavior. Yet even as preciosity dictated proper speech and conduct, its excesses would ultimately doom it to ridicule. Les précieuses ridicules (The Pretentious Young Ladies), the play that put Molière on the Parisian map in 1659, made a mockery of naïve young women bitten by the bug of romance. Better yet, listen to Magdelon, one of the two young protagonists, as she lays out her improbable vision of love to her incredulous father.
Father, my cousin will tell you, just as well as I, that marriage should never occur until after all the other adventures are over. A lover, in order to be acceptable, should be able to toy with noble fancies, and play the gamut of emotion, sweet and tender and impassioned. And he should woo according to the rules. . . . The day of the declaration arrives; this should usually take place on a garden path, while the rest of the party has gone out. . . . Then come the adventures: rivals who threaten an already established affection, persecutions by fathers, jealousies conceived on some false basis, reproaches, despairs, abductions and all the consequences. That’s how matters are treated according to proper etiquette; those are rules of gallantry which can hardly be set aside.1
Magdelon’s father has entirely different ideas. Marriage is where love should begin, and he has already chosen husbands for his daughter and his niece, Cathos, on the basis of their suitors’ families and finances.
Magdelon reacts with outrage. “What? Begin with marriage?” And Cathos, in an oft-quoted line, adds: “As for me, all I can tell you is that I find marriage very shocking. How can one endure the idea of sleeping beside a man who is absolutely nude?”
The father warns the two young ladies: “Either you’ll both be married very soon, or you’ll go into a nunnery.”
Magdelon dismisses her father’s position as “utterly bourgeois,” and Cathos condemns him as “coarse.” But this is a play in which the common sense of the coarse bourgeois wins out over the affectations of the two damsels, who have come up from the provinces equipped with nothing more than precious language and far-fetched romantic notions acquired from books. While they hungrily look upon Paris as “the office of marvels, the center of good taste, wit, and gallantry,” they are unable to distinguish between what is authentic and what is false and are taken in by two lackeys masquerading as gentlemen. Molière uses this old theatrical ploy to deflate the sentimental notions of two gullible young women and shame them into submission.
The bourgeois ideal of marriage espoused by Magdelon’s father does not fare so well in Molière’s subsequent plays. In fact, once settled in Paris after the success of Les précieuses ridicules and after Louis XIV had given him the Palais-Royal theater in 1660, he produced works that were more sympathetic to women’s marital aspirations. The School for Husbands (1661), The School for Wives (1662), and The Learned Ladies (1672), written in the verse couplets that would become Molière’s trademark, feature young women who succeed in marrying the men of their choice.
First, The School for Husbands pits old-fashioned patriarchal dominance against the new mode of love, which champions claims of the heart. These two positions are incarnated in two brothers, Sganarelle and Ariste, who have as their wards two sisters of marriageable age. Sganarelle, entrenched in the old order, insists that his ward, Isabelle, should live according to his reactionary ideas: she should stay at home and apply herself to domestic duties such as mending his underwear and knitting socks. She should shut her ears to romantic talk and never go out without a chaperon. Since he himself intends to marry Isabelle, despite their great difference in age, he is intent upon keeping her pure, or, in the language of Molière, “I don’t want to wear horns on my head,” the traditional symbol of cuckoldry.
His brother, Ariste, representing the new order, expresses the credo of gallant love: “I believe the heart is what must be won.” He, too, wants to marry his ward, Léonor, and has brought her up according to an entirely different formula.
My care of Léonor has followed these maxims:
I have not turned her slight liberties into crimes.
I’ve always consented to her youthful desires.
And, thank God, I haven’t had to repent.
I’ve allowed her attractive company;
Entertainment, balls, and comedies;
These are things, in my opinion, which are always
Very suitable for forming young people’s wit;
And the school of the world, in that air which gives life,
Is better instruction than any book.
As for his marital plans, Ariste does not want to force Léonor’s hand. He hopes that his great affection and kindness, plus a fortune of 4,000 crowns a year, will make up for the difference in age. But if not, she has the right to look elsewhere for a husband.
In the end, it is Ariste’s version of female liberation that wins over Sganarelle’s old-fashioned script. Léonor chooses Ariste rather than the blond-wigged fops who pursue her at balls, but Isabelle contrives to wed Valère, the young man who has secretly captured her heart, leaving Sganarelle to declaim misogynistically:
He who trusts a woman will always be deceived;
Even the best of them are fecund in evil;
It is a sex born to damn the whole world!
The real message is not so much the warfare between youthful love and parental authority, as one finds in many English and Italian plays of the same period, but the emergence of a radically new spirit announcing the partial emancipation of women. Early in the play Léonor’s female attendant, Lisette, attacks Sganarelle’s efforts to keep his ward a semiprisoner. She asks pointedly: “Are we among the Turks who lock up their women?” The Turkish harem was a symbol of female repression that seemed totally alien to seventeenth-century France, just as the Afghan burqa appears to Westerners today. Yet the liberties that many upper-class women enjoyed during the reign of Louis XIV were by no means universal, and they rarely included the choice of a marriage partner. Freedom, of a sort, was to begin only after marriage.
Not so long ago, Frenchwomen of the nobility and haute bourgeoisie were still brought up with this sequence in mind. When I was at Wellesley College in the 1950s, one of my housemates announced that she was returning to France to marry a man she hardly knew. Why, I asked, would anyone want to marry so young? Her answer was: to be free. Free? Weren’t we free at college, despite curfews and overnight prohibitions? She was tired of such constraints and wanted to be “truly free.” But how can one be truly free in marriage? Lillian had been brought up in an affluent family, without ever having been away from prying eyes. She went from a girls’ boarding school to a women’s college and was tired of her same-se
x world. Marriage was the gateway into heterosexuality. She envisioned a life of relative independence, with opportunities to entertain and be entertained in the company of both men and women. So, back she went to France the summer after our freshman year, to marry, to live in Paris, and, God knows, enjoy the delights of gallant relationships. Though I once visited her in a luxurious Right Bank apartment, we lost touch over the years, and I wonder about the end of her story. Did her marital decision bring her the satisfaction she had anticipated?
The School for Husbands is a victory for female choice—Isabelle chooses Valère, Léonor chooses Ariste. But since one of the two women prefers to marry her older guardian, it does not argue against the marriage of an older man and a younger woman. Indeed, in 1662, Molière, aged forty, would marry Armande Béjart, a woman twenty-one years his junior—a fact that undoubtedly contributed to his understanding of an older suitor’s plight. Simultaneously, as he became caught up in the social whirl of Paris and the court, Molière limited his attacks against preciosity and gallantry to their most outrageous excesses. How could he not when Louis XIV honored him in 1663 as godfather to his first-born child (a son who died shortly after birth) and sponsored the production of Molière’s plays at Versailles in the presence of the king himself and his first official mistress, Mademoiselle de La Vallière?
The year of Molière’s marriage is better known as the year of his controversial School for Wives, a fully developed five-act play that once again takes up the subject of an older man with a younger ward whom he intends to marry. Like Sganarelle in The School for Husbands, Arnolphe in The School for Wives is convinced that his ward Agnès’s thorough education in the domestic arts and thorough ignorance of everything else will ensure that she will be the perfect wife. It should be enough for her “to know how to pray to God, to love me, and to sew.”
How the French Invented Love: Nine Hundred Years of Passion and Romance Page 7