My Thighs and Body make another; and my Head, leaning perpetually
over my Belly, I fancy makes me not very unlike the Letter Z. My Arms
are shortened, as well as my Legs; and my Fingers as well as my Arms. In
short, I am a living Epitome of human Misery. This, as near as I can
give it, is my Shape. Since I am got so far, I will e'en tell thee
something of my Humour. Under the Rose, be it spoken, Courteous Reader,
I do this only to swell the Bulk of my Book, at the Request of the
Bookseller--the poor Dog, it seems, being afraid he should be a Loser by
this Impression, if he did not give Buyer enough for his Money.'
This allusion to the publisher reminds us that, on the suppression of
his pension--on hearing of which Scarron only said, 'I should like,
then, to suppress myself'--he had to live on the profits of his works.
In later days it was Madame Scarron herself who often carried them to
the bookseller's, when there was not a penny in the house. The publisher
was Quinet, and the merry wit, when asked whence he drew his income,
used to reply with mock haughtiness, 'De mon Marquisat de Quinet.' His
comedies, which have been described as mere burlesques--I confess I have
never read them, and hope to be absolved--were successful enough, and if
Scarron had known how to keep what he made, he might sooner or later
have been in easy circumstances.
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