him, and the obstinacy of the philosopher, a regular talking-machine
working automatically. As the scene progresses, the image of the
Jack-in-the-box becomes more apparent, so that at last the
characters themselves adopt its movements,--Sganarelle pushing
Pancrace, each time he shows himself, back into the wings, Pancrace
returning to the stage after each repulse to continue his patter.
And when Sganarelle finally drives Pancrace back and shuts him up
inside the house--inside the box, one is tempted to say--a window
suddenly flies open, and the head of the philosopher again appears
as though it had burst open the lid of a box.

The same by-play occurs in the Malade Imaginaire. Through the mouth
of Monsieur Purgon the outraged medical profession pours out its
vials of wrath upon Argan, threatening him with every disease that
flesh is heir to. And every time Argan rises from his seat, as
though to silence Purgon, the latter disappears for a moment, being,
as it were, thrust back into the wings; then, as though Impelled by
a spring, he rebounds on to the stage with a fresh curse on his
lips. The self-same exclamation: "Monsieur Purgon!" recurs at
regular beats, and, as it were, marks the TEMPO of this little
scene.

Let us scrutinise more closely the image of the spring which is
bent, released, and bent again. Let us disentangle its central
element, and we shall hit upon one of the usual processes of classic
comedy,--REPETITION.

Why is it there is something comic in the repetition of a word on
the stage? No theory of the ludicrous seems to offer a satisfactory
answer to this very simple question. Nor can an answer be found so