Chapter XII

What the Ingénu thinks of plays.

The young Ingénu resembled one of those vigorous trees that, born in barren soil, spread their roots and branches in a short time when transplanted into favorable ground; and it was extraordinary indeed that a prison should be that ground.

Among the books that occupied the two prisoners' leisure were poems, translations of Greek tragedies, and a few French plays. Verses that spoke of love brought pleasure and pain together into the Ingénu's soul. They all spoke to him of his dear Saint-Yves. The fable of the Two Pigeons pierced his heart; he was far indeed from being able to return to his dovecote.

Molière enchanted him. He taught him the ways of Paris and of humankind. "Which of his comedies do you prefer?" "Tartuffe, without question." "I agree with you," said Gordon. "It was a Tartuffe who plunged me into this dungeon, and perhaps Tartuffes have brought about your misfortune."

"What do you think of these Greek tragedies?" "Good for Greeks," said the Ingénu. But when he read the modern Iphigenia, Phaedra, Andromache, and Athalie, he was in raptures: he sighed, he shed tears, he knew them by heart without ever meaning to learn them.

"Read Rodogune," Gordon told him. "They say it is the masterpiece of the theater; the other plays that gave you so much pleasure are little enough in comparison." On the very first page, the young man said, "This is not by the same author." "How can you tell?" "I do not know yet; but these verses reach neither my ear nor my heart." "Oh! The verses are nothing," Gordon replied. The Ingénu answered, "Then why write them?"

After reading the play very attentively, with no purpose but enjoyment, he looked at his friend with dry, astonished eyes and did not know what to say. At last, pressed to give an account of what he had felt, he answered as follows: "I scarcely understood the beginning; the middle revolted me; the last scene moved me greatly, though it seems implausible. I cared about no one, and I have not remembered twenty lines—I, who remember every one when they please me."

"Yet this play is considered the best we have." "If so," he replied, "perhaps it is like many people who do not deserve their positions. After all, this is a matter of taste; mine cannot yet be formed. I may be mistaken; but you know I am fairly accustomed to saying what I think, or rather what I feel. I suspect that there is often illusion, fashion, and caprice in men's judgments. I have spoken as nature prompted me; perhaps nature is very imperfect in me, but perhaps most men also consult her too seldom." Then he recited verses from Iphigenia, which filled his thoughts; and though his delivery was poor, he put such truth and tenderness into them that he made the old Jansenist weep. Next he read Cinna; he did not weep, but he admired it.

What the Ingénu thinks about plays.

The young Ingénu was like a strong tree grown in poor soil: once moved to good ground, it quickly spreads its roots and branches. It was remarkable that a prison should be that good ground.

Among the books the two prisoners read in their free time were poems, translations of Greek tragedies, and some French plays. Verses about love brought the Ingénu both pleasure and pain. They all spoke to him of his dear Saint-Yves. The fable of the Two Pigeons pierced his heart. He was very far from being able to return to his own dovecote.

Molière delighted him. He showed him the ways of Paris and of humanity. "Which of his comedies do you like best?" "Tartuffe, without question." "I agree," said Gordon. "A tartuffe put me in this dungeon, and perhaps tartuffes caused your troubles too."

"What do you think of these Greek tragedies?" "Good for Greeks," said the Ingénu. But when he read the modern Iphigenia, Phaedra, Andromache, and Athalie, he was carried away. He sighed and cried. He knew them by heart without trying to learn them.

"Read Rodogune," Gordon told him. "They say it's the theater's masterpiece. The other plays that gave you so much pleasure are little beside it." On the very first page the young man said, "This isn't by the same author." "How can you tell?" "I don't know yet. But these verses reach neither my ear nor my heart." "Oh, verse is nothing," Gordon replied. "Then why write it?" the Ingénu answered.

He read the play very carefully, wanting nothing but pleasure. Then he looked at his friend with dry, astonished eyes, not knowing what to say. At last, pressed to explain what he had felt, he answered, "I hardly understood the beginning. The middle disgusted me. The last scene moved me a great deal, though I don't find it very believable. I cared about nobody, and I haven't remembered twenty lines, although I remember every line when I like them."

"Yet it's considered our best play." "If so," he replied, "perhaps it's like many people who don't deserve their positions. After all, this is a question of taste. Mine can't be developed yet. I may be wrong, but you know I'm fairly used to saying what I think, or rather what I feel. I suspect people's judgments often contain illusion, fashion, and whim. I've spoken from nature. Perhaps nature in me is very imperfect. But perhaps most people sometimes pay too little attention to it." Then he recited verses from Iphigenia, which filled his mind. Although he did not deliver them well, he put so much truth and feeling into them that he made the old Jansenist cry. Next he read Cinna. He did not cry, but he admired it.