Molière himself played the part of Alceste, and his wife played Célimène. The play, we are told, was not one of his greatest popular successes. As one reads it, indeed, one is puzzled at times as to why it should be giving one such exquisite enjoyment. There is less action in it than in any other great play. The plot never thickens, and the fall of the curtain leaves us with nothing settled as to Alceste’s and Célimène’s future. To write a comedy which is not very comic and a drama which is not very dramatic, and to make of this a masterpiece of comic drama, is surely one of the most remarkable of achievements. It can only be explained by the fact that Molière was a great creator and not a great mechanician. He gives the secret of life to his people. His success in doing this is shown by the way in which men have argued about them ever since, as we argue about real men and women. There are even critics who are unable to laugh at Molière, so overwhelming is the reality of his characters. Mr. Tilley quotes M. Donnay as saying, “Aujourd’hui nous ne rions pas de Tartuffe ni même d’Orgon”; and even Mr. Tilley himself, discussing _Le Malade imaginaire_, says that we realise that Argan--Argan of the enemas--is “at bottom a tragic figure.” Again, he sees a “tragic element” in the characterisation of Harpagon in _L’Avare_, and, speaking of Alceste in _Le Misanthrope_, he observes that, “though we may be sure that [Molière] fully realised the tragic side of his character, it was not this aspect that he wished to present to the public.” It seems to me that there is a good deal of unreality in all this. It is as though the errors of men were too serious things to laugh at--as though comedy had not its own terrible wisdom and must not venture into the depths of reality. Molière would probably have had a short way with those who cannot laugh at _Tartuffe_, as Cervantes would have had a short way with those who cannot laugh at _Don Quixote_. There is as much imagination--as much sympathy, even, perhaps--in the laughter of the great comic writers as in the tears of the sentimentalist. And Molière’s aim was laughter achieved through an exaggerated imitation of reality. He was the poet of good sense, and he felt that he had but to hold up the mirror of good sense in order that we might see how absurd is every form of egotism and pretentiousness. He took the side of the simple dignity of human nature against all the narrowing vices, the anti-social vices, whether of avarice, licentiousness, self-righteousness or preciosity. He has written the smiling poetry of our sins. Not that he is indulgent to them, like Anatole France, whose view of life is sentimental. Molière’s work was a declaration of war against all those human beings who are more pleased with themselves than they ought to be, down to that amazing coterie of literary ladies in _Les Femmes savantes_, concerning whose projected academy of taste one of them announces in almost modern accents: