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M. Jourdain's discovery that he had been speaking and writing prose all his life is nothing to that of the man who finds out in middle life, or even later, that he might have been writing poetry all his days, if he had only known how perfectly easy and simple it is.
All the aristocracy of the plough were eating there at Mait' Jourdain's, the innkeeper's, a dealer in horses also and a sharp fellow who had made a great deal of money in his day. The dishes were passed round, were emptied, as were the jugs of yellow cider. Every one told of his affairs, of his purchases and his sales. They exchanged news about the crops.
No doubt the fellow has committed an unpardonable sin in daring to come into the world when there was no call for him; one used to think, certainly, that children's opinions were not consulted on such points before they were born, and that therefore it might be hard to visit the sins of the fathers on the children, even though the labour-market were a little overstocked "mais nous avons change tout cela," like M. Jourdain's doctors.
When he was seated at the table, in Jourdain's Inn, he set about explaining the affair once more. A horse-trader from Montvilliers called out to him: "Nonsense, nonsense, you old dodger! I know all about your string!" "But they've found the wallet!" faltered Hauchecorne. "None of that, old boy; there's one who finds it, and there's one who carries it back.
This is illustrated in the eternal dispute among M. Jourdain's masters, when the fencing-master says: "And from this we know what great consideration is due to us in a State; and how the science of Fencing is far above all useless sciences, such as dancing and music." The first lectures on Aesthetics and Musical History were not given in France until after the war of 1870.
At Jourdain's the great room was filled with eaters, just as the vast court was filled with vehicles of every sort wagons, gigs, chars-a-bancs, tilburies, innumerable vehicles which have no name, yellow with mud, misshapen, pieced together, raising their shafts to heaven like two arms, or it may be with their nose, on the ground and their rear in the air.
At Jourdain's the great room was filled with eaters, just as the vast court was filled with vehicles of every sort wagons, gigs, chars-a-bancs, tilburies, innumerable vehicles which have no name, yellow with mud, misshapen, pieced together, raising their shafts to heaven like two arms, or it may be with their nose on the ground and their rear in the air.
M. Jourdain's discovery that he had been speaking and writing prose all his life is nothing to that of the man who finds out in middle life, or even later, that he might have been writing poetry all his days, if he had only known how perfectly easy and simple it is.
It no more knows that it has been using language than M. Jourdain knew he had been speaking prose, but M. Jourdain's knowing or not knowing was neither here nor there. Anything which can be made to hitch on invariably to a definite idea that can carry some distance say an inch at the least, and which can be repeated at pleasure, can be pressed into the service of language. Mrs.
Morell we determined to write an oratorio that should attempt to supply the want. In order to make our libretto as plausible as possible, we adopted the dictum of Monsieur Jourdain's Maitre a danser: "Lorsqu'on a des personnes a faire parler en musique, il faut bien que, pour la vraisemblance, on donne dans la bergerie."
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