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Updated: June 26, 2025
The man of science, in fact, simply uses with scrupulous exactness the methods which we all, habitually and at every moment, use carelessly; and the man of business must as much avail himself of the scientific method must be as truly a man of science as the veriest bookworm of us all; though I have no doubt that the man of business will find himself out to be a philosopher with as much surprise as M. Jourdain exhibited vhen he discovered that he had been all his life talking prose.
Like Monsieur Jourdain when he learned the rules of grammar, they marvelled at their knowledge: "D, a, Da; F, a, Fa; R, a, Ra.... Ah! How fine it is!... Ah! How splendid it is to know something!..." They only babbled of theme and counter-theme, of harmonies and resultant sounds, of consecutive ninths and tierce major.
There is a poet, whom I mean to introduce you to by and by, if you will allow me; and there is the very embodiment of prose close beside you, although I don't believe that he writes any, and, like M. Jourdain, talks it without knowing that it is prose." Lettice glanced involuntarily at the man beside her, and glanced again. Where had she seen his face before?
Jourdain was afraid of the queer things you say and do. You told me yourself you'd have gone to him if he hadn't come to you." She remembered. Yes, she had said that. "Did he know about Aunt Charlotte?" "You may be sure he did." Mamma didn't know. She never would know what it had been like, that night. But there were things you didn't know, either. "What did Aunt Charlotte do?" "Nothing.
I saddle their mild memory a bit "subjectively" perhaps with the burden of that character making out that they were interesting really in spite of themselves and as unwittingly as M. Jourdain expressed himself in prose; owing their wild savour as they did to that New England stamp which we took to be strong upon them and no other exhibition of which we had yet enjoyed.
Harpagun is not more unlike to Jourdain, Joseph Surface is not more unlike to Sir Lucius O'Trigger, than every one of Miss Austen's young divines to all his reverend brethren. And almost all this is done by touches so delicate, that they elude analysis, that they defy the powers of description, and that we know them to exist only by the general effect to which they have contributed.
The man of science, in fact, simply uses with scrupulous exactness, the methods which we all, habitually and at every moment, use carelessly; and the man of business must as much avail himself of the scientific method must be as truly a man of science as the veriest bookworm of us all; though I have no doubt that the man of business will find himself out to be a philosopher with as much surprise as M. Jourdain exhibited, when he discovered that he had been all his life talking prose.
This belief was well founded, so far as concerned part of the field of foreign affairs, but it failed to recognize the striking advance made in other areas. We were like M. Jourdain of Molière's comedy, who was surprised to find that he had been talking prose all his life without knowing it.
Jourdain heard me, he would infer, no doubt, from my two exclamations that prose and poetry are two forms of language reserved for books, and that these learned forms have come and overlaid a language which was neither prose nor verse. Speaking of this thing which is neither verse nor prose, he would suppose, moreover, that he was thinking of it: it would be only a pseudo-idea, however.
That would have been dishonourable to myself." "You'd rather be jilted?" "Much rather. It's more honourable to be jilted than to jilt." "That's not the world's idea of honour." "It's my idea of it.... And, after all, he was Maurice Jourdain." The pain hung on to the left side of her head, clawing. When she left off reading she could feel it beat like a hammer, driving in a warm nail.
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