Moliere's Housekeeper

Actor and playwright Jean-Baptise Poquelin,
known to the world by his stage name, Molière,
read his plays first to his housekeeper. Only if
she liked them did he know they were ready
for the Paris stage.

It’s not as if the rabbits cook themselves,
And if dust appears on any of the shelves,
Who’s to blame for it? There are pots to scour,
Carrots to peel, and the kitchen floor
Could use another scrub. I tapped the cask
A week ago, but now I think the Basque
Who sold it must have siphoned off enough
To float a pig. The beef is getting tough,
Laundry’s piling up, and little Madeleine
Is pregnant by the footman once again.
Spread me a map and every compass point
Leads to another chore. I soon lose count,
Running here and there, all in a sweat,
When down he comes, down the stairs, his feet
Bare as a cricket’s, and his dingy blouse
Disheveled as though he’d come from a carouse.
—Francoise, he cries, you must hear what I wrote!
—But Monsieur Poquelin, here’s this fine trout
And who’ll prepare it if . . .
                                              But what’s the use?
I make a pretty silly looking muse,
But so he calls me. Francoise, he smiles,
Shameless as a boy using all his wiles
To wheedle candy from an aunt, My pet,
How will I know if I have got it right
Unless I see if Francoise shakes her sides?
I’m better with a trout, but since he needs,
Or thinks he needs, my help, I’m glad to toss
Aside my apron, pull a stool across
From his, plop down, and rest my aching feet
While Monsieur Poquelin begins to read.
Sometimes, you know, it isn’t very good,
And though I’m sure it’s all quite à la mode,
For all his monkey tricks I sit there dull
As a bishop. And as I start to mull
Over the menu and worry if the groom
Got taken on the oats, a kind of gloom
Falls on us both.
                             —I see I still have work,
He says, though I have labored like a Turk
On this already. Still, le grand Corneille
Could hardly write a more depressing play.
He cocks an arm to throw it in the fire,
Then stops himself and trudges up the stair
Glum as a schoolboy, leaving me to fret
That I’m to blame. Am I a judge of wit,
A connoisseur of plays? What if I yawned
At every joke that’d tickle the beau monde?
Well, he’s hardly one to leap into the Seine,
So let a few days pass, and he’s back again.
Francoise—Mon Dieu!—You’ve feathers in your hair!
Oh, leave that duck for now. Do we have beer?
Oh, that’s lovely, now sit sit sit. If this time
I haven’t reached the comical sublime,
I give it up.
                    He takes a swig and starts,
And soon, I swear, I’m laughing till it smarts,
The way I laughed when wily old Tartuffe
Was chasing Elmire round the table and her goof
Of a husband was hiding underneath.
When he finishes and I’m all out of breath,
He hoists his mug above his head and crows,
My Francoise shakes her sides! I hear applause
Bursting from every gallery and box
Already! And waltzing me about, he knocks
Against a row of hanging pans that chime
Like jangled bells.
                                Well, that’s it for a time,
Until one night, so late the morning pales
Behind the curtains, I hear carriage wheels
Clatter on the stones and then his cry
Soar like a rooster’s at the break of day:
Le roi n’est que le roi, je suis Molière!
I throw my robe on, ruffle up my hair,
And run to find him tipsy as a priest.
—There’s my critic! Francoise, we’ve surpassed
Even that comic genius, Poquelin!
The king adored it, not to mention the dauphin!
This night I lighted fireworks of mirth
For all of Paris!
                             Well, all of noble birth
At least, I whisper in my heart,
Comparing laundry, cabbages, and dirt
To lords and ladies shimmering in jewels.
I think of chandeliers and paneled walls,
Silk and silver flashing in the shine
Of all those candles, and every jolly scene
Stopping time itself as if it grabbed
The reins of Death’s own chariot and robbed
Him of his youthful prey. Sometimes I ache
Just once to dress in pretty things, to take
A carriage to the theatre, find my seat,
And see the play I’ve only heard him read
Beside the onions boiling on the fire.
Lord forgive me, it simply isn’t fair,
After all I’ve done, that—
                                           Well, let that be.
For after all, it was a thing to see
Him sitting there and playing the buffoon
So close I could’ve whacked him with my spoon.
I light a candle, Monsieur Poquelin
Accepts my arm, and in the feeble dawn
I see a haggard face, as if he’s laughed,
God help me, once too often. His eyes are soft.
He fumbles for the newel. And as we climb
The creaky stairs, I know it’s only time
Before an awful silence falls on France.
Alceste, Dorine, Monsieur Jourdain—bon chance!
And though I’ll never see you on the stage
Beneath the chandeliers, I bear no grudge.
Just you remember your old nurse, the one
Who clapped for you before you’d half begun
To speak a word.
                               Now, leave me to my trout.
Go. Make them laugh. Drown out the chariot
Whose pounding hooves we always seem to hear.
I’ll keep them fed. You keep them out of fear.

Measure, 2008, III (1): 146-149.