counterpart, he was a homosexual. Having left the army in 1641, he studied under the famous philosopher Pierre Gassendi and frequented free-thinking literary circles. In addition to the aforementioned States and Empires of the Moon, he wrote Comical History of the States and Empires of the Sun, also published posthumously (1662), and a play, La Mort d’Agrippine (The Death of Agrippine; 1654), which was performed at the Hotel de Bourgogne but was closed down on account of some lines suggesting an atheistic worldview (“These gods that man made, and which did not make man”). His death in 1655 may have been due to an aggravation of an existing illness—he had been suffering from a venereal disease since 1645—or it may have been the result of an incident in which a beam of wood fell on his head (assassination has not been ruled out).

What did Rostand retain from his reading of Le Bret, of Gautier, and of Cyrano himself? A good number of things, many highly serviceable from a dramatic point of view—the quarrel with the actor Monfleury (act one, scene iv), the possibility that Cyrano might have known Molière (see act five, scene vi), his fanciful ideas for traveling to the moon (act three, scene xiii), the manner of his death, etc. And, of course, one other, very big thing: the nose. It was Gautier who, extrapolating on a passage in States and Empires of the Moon, insisted on the importance of the nose to Cyrano’s physiognomy and to his psychology, and developed something of a philosophy around it: “Without the nose, according to Cyrano, there can be nothing of worth, no finesse, no passion, nothing of what truly makes man: The nose is the seat of the soul.” In Rostand’s play, the “tirade of the nose” in act one (pp. 29—30) is one of the most memorable moments in French theatrical history; many French people can recite at least some of it. It is important to point out, I think, just what an enormous risk Rostand took when he decided to create a play based on a man with a very large nose (“If it wasn’t for the nose, he’d be a very handsome fellow,” writes Gautier). The risk of farce could never be very far. Ripert mentions that a friend tried to prevail upon Madame Rostand to have her husband excise the nose scene, which would obviously have required on the part of Rostand some major rewriting but which would avoid “covering the play in ridicule” (pp. 75-76).

And it is important to note also that Rostand based most of the characters in this play on figures from Savinien de Cyrano’s life and times: Christian (based on Christophe de Champagne, baron de Neuvillette, who married Madeleine Robineau—Roxane—and who died in the siege of Arras); De Guiche (Antoine de Gramont, Richelieu’s nephew); Roxane (Madeleine Robineau, baronne de Neuvillette, Cyrano’s cousin); Le Bret (himself); Ragueneau (Cyprien Ragueneau, pastry cook, then actor and poet, and candlesnuffer for Molière); as well as many of the smaller roles, including Castel-Jaloux, Lignière, Montfleury, Cuigy, Brissaille, even Mother Margaret of the Convent of the Sisters of the Cross (for details, see Besnier, pp. 427—433). There is in Rostand an almost manic concern for precision, both in terms of historical exactitude, which contributes to the overall verisimilitude of the settings, and in the scenic indications (both concerning the decor and the attitudes and movements of the actors), which are unusually detailed. Rostand cannot be so easily divorced from naturalism, it seems. But it is Rostand’s blending of realism and fantasy that so seduces in this play, for he manages both to temper the harshness of naturalism and to avoid the emptiness of pure fantasy.

Cyrano de Bergerac carries the subtitle “Heroic Comedy” and Cyrano, of course, is its hero. The historical Cyrano was perhaps heroic in battle, but his life, which took many turns, ending in penury and possibly with his murder, was less than romantic. His writings went virtually unknown in his lifetime. Rosemonde Gerard, Rostand’s wife, has something interesting to say about Cyrano and Rostand’s attraction to him: “Cyrano had the touching grace to be a failure—and this is above all what must have seduced the poet, for could there exist anything more paradoxically poetic than to crown with such glory a failure?” (Gerard, Edmond Rostand, p. 9). Her judgment of Savinien de Cyrano may seem harsh, but her insight into her husband’s empathy for the great losers of the world (she cites a paean to