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18. be fought out upon an open arena—a day which must decide either
for the triumph or for the failure of the new doctrines in literature.
Alas for the feebleness of human foresight! This so decisive day has
passed, and, on the whole, we remain in very nearly the same
position as before. The work of the great British tragedian was
saluted with a thunder of applause; this intelligence was
communicated by these same journals, but they also informed us
that the thunder of applause proceeded almost exclusively from a
small group of passionate admirers, who had come with the set
purpose of going into ecstasies at every point, comma, or
interjection, and of bestowing with profuse liberality the epithets of
idiot, imbecile, and dolt upon every one who might seem to
hesitate. On the other hand, sufficiently audible hisses broke out in
different places; but it appeared that these hisses proceeded not
less exclusively from another small group, quite as insignificant as
the other, of embittered detractors, resolved to consider every thing
detestable, and to repay with equal liberality the vituperative
epithets hurled at them by their adversaries. Between these two
factions, the body of the audience in the pit appears to have
preserved a reasonable neutrality. They were evidently on their
guard, fearing lest their consecrated maxims should be violated,
and they be led into some hasty demonstrations of feeling; and yet
they were sensible, profoundly sensible, of the great beauties of
the piece. Accordingly, during the whole course of the
representation, they appeared constantly curious, astonished,
moved, indulgent, submitting with good grace to the boldest
departures from received rules; they willingly, though without
warmth or violence, joined in the attempt to silence the detractors;
and they good-naturedly allowed free scope to the enthusiasts,
while taking great care not to enlist themselves on their side, or to
mingle in their transports. Thus, then, their hearts were gained, but
their minds remained still undecided; the difficulty with our
reformers is not in obtaining a hearing; it is in procuring an open
recognition even from those who give them their best possible
wishes. They are in the same position as that which the negroes of
19. Saint Domingo occupied during twenty years; the public refuses, or
at least hesitates, to recognize them. But with patience they will
ultimately attain their end; when once, in a revolution, power has
been decidedly gained, right is never long withheld; they have
triumphed over unreasonable habits and prejudices, and over
involuntary opposition; this was the most intricate part of their
work; theories, especially those which are a little superannuated,
have not so lingering an existence.
Such, then, being the state of things—the progress of the spirit of
innovation becoming every day increasingly manifest—it remains
that we should inquire into the cause of this, and ask whether the
change is for the better or for the worse—whether the spirit of
innovation is, this time, a spirit of light or a spirit of darkness!
A spirit of darkness, it is exclaimed, from one quarter—a veritable
child of perdition!
Consult, for instance, many of our men of taste; enter, if admission
is allowed to you, into one of their assemblies; and there, at first,
you will hear much noise about the confusion of species, the
neglect of rules, the forgetfulness of sound doctrines, and the
contempt for true models; afterward, however little you may feel at
ease in this select committee, you will speedily learn the parties to
whom all this disorder is attributed. The author of "L'Allemagne,"
the writer of the "Génie du Christianisme," the translator of
"Wallenstein," the two Schlegels, besides many others, are the
guilty individuals; their heads have been turned, and so they have
turned the heads of their fellows. M. De Stendhal takes his share in
these anathemas; the "Globe" has its allotment. Not even M.
Ladvocat, the publisher of the "Thèâtre Etranger," has escaped from
them. More than one sage poet, whether in the tragic or comic
line, will inform you of this with all the seriousness in the world. If
no one had ever taken it into his head to translate by the yard the
monstrous productions of the countries situated beyond the Rhine,
the Channel, or the Pyrenees; if he had not afterward taken pains
20. to publish them on fine paper and in elegant type, all with a huge
parade of advertisements and placards, we should not have been
brought into our present condition.
Well said this, undoubtedly, and still better reasoned!
The innocence of this unsuspecting public has been wantonly
abused. The Parisian folk, like the Pnyxian people in the "Knights"
of Aristophanes, are poor fools who allow themselves to be misled
and duped by evil counsels.
If we diligently make all possible inquiries, we shall also find, on
the left bank of the Seine, a number of saloons, in which are
gathered every evening a company of worthy souls, who lament,
with the truest sincerity, over the corruption of our manners.
Hearing them, we might suspect that fire from heaven must fall
upon us sooner or later; our wretched country is in a worse pass
than even Sodom and Gomorrah; the French Revolution has fatally
corrupted the very core of our hearts; and whom have we to thank
for this accursed revolution? The Encyclopedists, M. Turgot and his
reforms, the publication of M. Necker's Compte-Rendu, the—who
knows what? perhaps the substitution of waistcoats for vests, and
the introduction of cabs!
The two arguments are equally forcible. To throw fire and flames at
the corruption of manners, and to raise loud cries about the decay
of taste, to attribute it either to this or that event, to accuse these
or those writers—one is, in truth, worth about as much as the
other; the justice, good sense, and discernment are equal in either
case.
May we not, in fact, say that the general sentiments of the masses,
their habitual dispositions, and the ideas which rule them, are
things which attach themselves to nothing, and which totter when
they are but touched with the finger's end? May we not say that
21. these are at the mercy of any fortuitous circumstances—things to
be disposed of at pleasure by any half dozen volumes?
The influence of great men is, indeed, vast; we can not forget it—
we would thank Heaven that it is so. And this influence is especially
striking at epochs in which any important change is accomplished in
government, laws, manners, or national taste; nothing, assuredly, is
more natural than this—nothing can be more just and salutary. But
whence do great men derive this unquestionable ascendency?
They belong to their time—in this fact is the mystery explained;
they respond to its instincts, they anticipate its tendencies; the
appeal which is addressed to all indiscriminately, they are the first
to hear. That which to others is as yet only an indistinct longing,
has disclosed its secret to them. Superior as they are, they march
at the head, unfolding their wings to every breeze that rises,
clearing the path, removing obstacles, and revealing to the
astonished masses the luminous truths and the eternal laws which
occasion their confused desires and their latest fancies. Herein, and
herein only, resides all their power: this is the condition of their
success.
The philosophers of the last century, then, were not the efficient
causes of the great and glorious movement of 1789: such honor is
not theirs. The general causes which, during a long course of
years, prepared for 1789, these same causes in their early infancy
gave birth to the philosophers of the last century.
And neither are the great writers of the present day the men who
have transformed the taste of the public; we would rather say that
the general causes, which were destined to produce this
metamorphosis, excited and inspired, when the proper moment
arrived, the great writers of our time.
What, then, were the causes of the French Revolution?
22. This, certainly, is neither the time nor the place to make such an
inquiry; but every man of good sense and true wisdom will
unhesitatingly allow that the causes for such an event must have
been, and in fact were, very numerous, very profound, and very
diversified; that they were active and potent causes—causes which,
by reason of their number, their depth, and their diversity, were
beyond all external control, and against which it were puerile to
entertain any spite, and absurd to attempt any revolt.
And, perchance, no other than these same causes have now
changed the face of our literature—perchance these same causes
have now renovated the theatre, after having reformed, and
precisely because they have reformed the spectators. If so, need
we feel surprise? is there any thing very extraordinary in this?
Would it not argue a ridiculous puerility to take offense at such a
circumstance, and angrily to hurl stones at it?
Indeed, every thing depends upon the state of all other things; the
human mind is one single fabric. The different faculties, which in
their union constitute the entire man, aid and appeal to one
another continually. Rarely do they march in a regular and parallel
advance; but as soon as any one of them has gained decidedly
upon the others, the others hasten to overtake it.
During two centuries, the French people offered a singular
spectacle to the world; for that time it moved in the foremost ranks
of European civilization, that is to say, so far as it was intrinsically
worthy of occupying such a position; but to any one who takes
merely a superficial glance, it might appear almost to have solved
the problem of being at once the most frivolous and the most
serious of all peoples—the most frivolous in important matters, the
most flippant in all that affects the great interests of society and
humanity, and the most grave, the most pedantic in puerilities and
trifles. It was, by a hierarchical division, separated into classes, but
this classification no longer corresponded to any thing that was
useful or even real; it had no end out of itself, that is to say, it only
23. existed for the mere sake of existence, to excite arrogance and
vanity in the higher ranks, and envy in the lower. However, all
social conditions had this in common, that they were all equally
deprived of all political rights, equally estranged from all public
existence, equally excluded from all participation in affairs of state,
and from all active or civic callings.
The first rank was held by the court nobility. This nobility, excepting
some months of occupation in times of war, was, by its very birth-
right, given up to enjoyment; and this was their glory.
The provincial nobility occupied the second rank. These, in their
smaller circle, imitated their betters at court. While detesting their
brilliant model, they yet copied it; it never entered into the
thoughts of any of their members to seek, by relations with the
people, a credit and importance which they did not possess by any
qualities of their ancestors, or any favors from their prince.
The civic robe had its functions; it was absolutely necessary that
the townsmen should embrace different professions; but the
functions of the magistracy were often an object of ridicule and
disdain. In the great parliamentary families, each aimed at laying
aside the civic robe, in order to become invested with the
embroidered dress. The professions of civic life stamped those who
abandoned themselves to it with vulgarity; in the good families
among the townspeople, each aimed at acquiring some polish by
purchasing a position as secretary to the king.
The artisans in the towns, the villagers in the country, worthy heirs
of Jacques Bonhomme—a gentleman subject to taxes and duties at
discretion—counted for nothing, and were nothing.
What must have been the preferences of a society so constituted?
Three things—three, in truth, and no more: ambition, gallantry, and
dissipation. Ambition, that is to say, the disposition to gain
advancement from a master, to obtain favors, distinctions, eminent
24. positions, pensions, and to obtain them by favoritism and the
power of being agreeable, by intrigues and solicitations. Gallantry—
the gratification of personal vanity or sensuality. Lastly, dissipation—
dissipation under all forms, hunting parties and gambling parties,
assemblies for pleasure or debauchery, balls, suppers, sights;
dissipation as the definitive aim of existence, the final end of all
means—life having apparently been given to man only for
enjoyment, and time only to be squandered and killed.
We are speaking of society in general, and without forgetting the
fact that these absolute verdicts, by reason of their very
absoluteness, are always somewhat unjust and exaggerated.
But it is worthy of remark that in this so vain a mode of existence,
in this state of living and acting, of thinking and feeling, in which
vanity was so predominant, nothing was abandoned to caprice; no
one affected a style of independence; on the contrary, all was done
according to rule—every where was method to be observed.
Louis XIV., while changing his nobles into courtiers, reducing his
Parliaments to the level of dramatic critics, despoiling the
townspeople of their franchises, and, to say all in one word, while
transforming the political order of the entire nation into a civil order
—had nevertheless contrived in some sort to impress on the
manners and habits which resulted therefrom something of dignity
and formality which belonged not to their nature—far from it—but
to his character.
His court was grave, although the morals of the courtiers were in
no respect better on this account; his magistrates were grave
without being independent; the temper of his times was grave, and
yet servile.
After his reign, that imperious necessity by which man is impelled
to exalt into maxims the motives, whatever they may be, which
determine his conduct, and to refer his own conduct to certain
25. principles, were it only in order that he may know what he has
done and whither he is tending—which also leads him thus to
regard the actions of others, were it only that he may be able to
approve or condemn them—this necessity operated, if not in the
same sense, yet in one analogous to that in which it had operated
under Louis XIV. Thus the best method of making way in the world
became a science which the old courtier taught ex cathedra to his
children—a science which had its dogmas, its precepts, and its
traditions.
Not more methodically does an engineer make his approaches to a
place which he is besieging, than did those ambitious of vindicating
the worthiness of their descent push their researches into the
offices of the minister and the cabinets of Versailles. The Duke De
Saint Simon, the most severe, the sincerest, and the most
honorable man that ever lived at the court, devoted three fourths
of his honorable life to the decision of points of precedence or
respect, on his own account or for those connected with him—
questions of which even the most important could, at the present
day, only induce us to shrug our shoulders and to smile derisively.
Sometimes he displayed more character than would have been
necessary, on the other side of the Channel, to enable a
Marlborough or a Bolingbroke to impose peace or war on their
sovereign, and more erudition and research than a Benedictine
would put into a folio volume.
Gallantry was a perpetual war between the two sexes—a war which
had its tactics and stratagems, its principles of attack and defense,
its appropriate times for resistance and surrender, its rights of
conquest, and its law of nations.
In fact, the life of society was obliged to submit to all the
exigencies of a conventional morality, very different from true
morality, often in direct opposition to it, but quite as rigorous, and
even more inaccessible to repentance. It recognized as the
supreme law, even in its most minute details, a certain code of
26. proprieties, the yoke of which must be borne gracefully—the
sensibilities were to be controlled, while the scholar must appear
perfectly at ease.
Good breeding was the highest of human attainments, and the art
of living the first of all arts.
27. It is said that literature expresses the life of society— especially is
this affirmed of dramatic literature. If this be true, and, in a certain
sense, it undoubtedly is true, due limitations being conceded, then
our general literature, and more especially our drama, must have
reflected more or less accurately this two-fold character of frivolity
as to the essence of things, and pedantry as to their forms.
Accordingly it has done both. Here, too, undoubtedly, exceptions
must be made, and that to a considerable extent. Our literature has
ruled in Europe for a hundred years, and never has it demanded
from men an admiration to which it was not reasonably and justly
entitled; but still, with regard to its most general features, we may
admit that it has been neither learned, as the literature of Germany
at the present time is, and as was Italian literature in the times of
Petrarch and Politian, nor popular as the literature of Spain was
during the period of its greatest vigor. It was essentially and pre-
eminently a polite literature, in which the main result aimed at was
conversation.
The same may be said of our drama. Regarded in its most general
features, it was not so much a national drama as an elegant and
fashionable amusement, a pastime for gentlemen of respectable
station and bearing, at which the public might assist if it paid
liberally for the honor; nearly as it is allowed occasionally to look
on from the outer side of the barriers, and watch the progress of a
dress ball or a state dinner.
Admiration for the ancients was universally affected; our watch-
word was, "Imitate the Ancients;" this was our "Montjoie Saint-
Denis!" in literature. And yet a true appreciation of antiquity was
not possessed by really learned men, even by those who really did
possess a hearty appreciation of the refinements of Greek and Latin
idiom. It is, however, well known that the period of erudition
quickly passed. It is not to be denied that, by the middle of the
seventeenth century, sound learning and substantial erudition were
28. every where on the decline, and that, at the end of the eighteenth,
they had fallen almost into entire neglect. Accordingly, our dramatic
productions only resembled the master-pieces of Greece in name
and in the choice of subjects, by certain purely external
characteristics, by the blind observance of certain maxims, whose
origin was not cared for and whose relative importance was not
appreciated, and by a punctilious deference to the distinction
between different species of the drama. So far as the real character
of the works was concerned, as to the characters, sentiments,
ideas, and colorings introduced, all this was not only modern, but
belonged to the existing state of society—not only French, but the
French of Paris, or even of Versailles.
The appreciation of national history and monuments was hardly in
a better position. There was no taste for antiquities; no sympathy
with the recollections of the masses and the traditions of the
country; there was nothing fresh and living in the study of foreign
languages and literatures.
And how can we wonder at it? In mental culture, as in all other
things, the thread of destiny was in the keeping of good society. At
the cost of living and dying ignorant, it was necessary to be
fashionable, first in the ruelles, then in the circles and
entertainments of social life. Poets, orators, historians, or moralists,
under the influence of the court during the reign of Louis XIV., who
honored them increasingly with his notice, but who always kept
them at a proper distance, became all-powerful under his successor,
so as to be in some sort a fourth order in the state, astonishing at
that time France and Europe by the boldness of their thoughts and
the ascendency of their talent: they were not ashamed to affect the
lofty airs of nobles of high rank, and the petty dignities of
coxcombs. Thus the writers of France have always ruled the life of
men of the world, and have by their intrigues gained successes in
society, degraded their genius to the limits of its narrow and
confined atmosphere, and flattered those very whims which they
professed to ridicule. No country has shown itself more fertile in
29. men of great mind than ours; no country has, so much as our own,
compelled these minds, whether they like it or not, to muffle
themselves up in the livery of respectability. We may find even
books of the greatest literary weight which seem, like their authors,
to have adopted the fineries of the time, in order to adorn their
exterior. Can we forbear smiling, for example, when we see the
illustrious Montesquieu sometimes decking his great work with
spangles, and oftener still using epigrams for the purpose of giving
smartness to it; and all in order that the leaves of his immortal
work might enjoy the rare advantage of being turned over by
flippant spirits, and read aloud at ladies' toilets.
And then, what immeasurable importance was attached to light
literature! What an event was the publication of a new piece, or of
a collection of fugitive poems! What a hit for some election to a
chair, or for some green-room intrigues! What a swarm of
poetasters of all dimensions! What a herd of pretentious prose-
writers on all subjects of interest! And what a conviction on the
part of all these, that the human race ought, laying aside every
other occupation, to fix its eyes upon them alone; and that the
world had been created, five or six thousand years before, merely
that it might enjoy their small productions, assist in their small
triumphs, and take part in their small controversies!
The French Revolution cast down the whole of this social edifice;
and it has, so to speak, razed it to the ground!
Whether this is an evil or a good, each man must determine for
himself. Certain it is that we owe to this revolution the restitution of
men to their proper ranks, and of things to their appropriate
places; this it is that has restored the true relation of names and
things. Henceforth the serious is serious, the frivolous is frivolous.
Conventionalities have given place to realities.
The French are equal among themselves; they have their individual
rights to carry out; and they have duties to fulfill toward the state.
30. All honorable professions are honored; each leads to a worthy end.
No longer are there legal distinctions which are not derived from
any diversity of rights and functions; no longer are there social
distinctions which rest upon no superior merit, education, or
enlightenment. Ambition is obliged to exhibit its titles, and to show
itself in open daylight; depraved habits must seek concealment;
crime must shelter itself under excuses.
In presence of such a new condition of men and things, that which
was formerly denominated the great world must consent that its
star should decline. It has finished as the monarchy of the great
King Louis has finished; it has abdicated as did the Emperor
Napoleon, who regarded the great king as his predecessor, and
neglected no means of reviving the state that existed in his time.
We have seen this great world pass away, with its fantastic
prohibitions and its immoral indulgences, with its flimsy proprieties
and its scrupulous injunctions, with its heroes of good fortune and
its jurisdiction of old women. Our court is now only a coterie, if,
indeed, it can claim even to be so much as that; a thousand other
coteries share the town among them; each city of any considerable
extent has its own coteries; all these partial societies are
independent of each other, and make no foolish pretensions to
mutual domination or remonstrance; every one amuses himself
where and how he can, and no one finds fault with him; and,
accordingly, no one attempts to extract glory out of his pleasures,
and to believe himself on this account a great man.
With a change of manners there has been a change of tastes.
General life has become simple and active, laborious and animated.
Every man occupies his place, has a distinct aim, and aims at that
which is worth the labor he bestows upon it. Public discussions and
a free press afford an uninterrupted stream of information
concerning the greatest human and national interests. The
bloodless, but ardent and vehement, struggles of the tribune divide,
excite, irritate, or enliven every day, and carry us onward from fear
to hope, from triumph to defeat.
31. In order to beguile the attention of the public from these powerful
attractions, literature must present something else besides
distractions which it no longer needs; and must afford a means of
passing the time which shall not impose any extra burden.
Literature must either attract or instruct—it must raise man from
himself and from all around him, or it must powerfully urge him to
reflection and meditation. The rivalries of poets are no longer any
thing to him; academic disputes lie out of his world. He has no
disposition to engage in the controversy which would determine,
"Des deux Poinsinet lequel fait le mieux les vers;"
nor to subsist for a fortnight on that which is worth no more than
one of Chamfort's epigrams, one of Panard'a songs, or one of
Dorat's heroics.
Accordingly, for the last twelve or fifteen years, that is to say, since
the time when France first began to breathe quietly again after the
horrors of anarchy and the confusions of conquest, while we see all
that small, affected literature which had its summer of Saint
Martin under the empire, fall into insignificance and disrepute, at
the same time that we see genteel garbs, court manners, and
beautiful monarchical principles abandoned, we also see springing
up on all sides a taste for whatever is solid and true. Erudition is
being restored; there is a more real appreciation of the ancients
now than there ever was in any former time; the knowledge of
foreign languages is being extended every day; voyages are being
multiplied; scientific and literary correspondence is being extended
on all sides; central institutions for intellectual pursuits are
established in our departments, and are beginning to undertake
laborious inquiries respecting our national antiquities. The Normal
School glittered only for a season, but it has left permanent
memorials of its existence; it has founded, for example, a
philosophical school, which now occupies a foremost position in
Europe, which does not swear by the words of any master, which
does not despise the labors of any of its predecessors, which does
32. not blink any of the great problems of the world and of humanity;
while it neither arrogantly attempts to decide them by a few
phrases, nor infatuatedly dismisses them with disdain. Side by side
with this philosophical school, a historical school has arisen, in
which a union is often effected between that vast erudition which
allows no details to escape it, and that powerful imagination, we
would willingly say, that half-creative imagination, which knows how
to revive times and men that have passed away, and presents them
before us glowing with the colors of life and of truth The admirable
romances of the most original and fertile genius of our period, so
riveting and instructive, filled at once with reality and poetic
invention, with the idiosyncrasy of the writer and the erudition of
the schools, with ability and gracefulness—these romances all
testify, by their immense popularity, to the not less popularity of
that mental disposition which they inspire. For, in fact, the delight
felt by the upper classes, and the admiration expressed for them by
those of high culture is but a small part of their success; they
penetrate into counting-houses, they descend into shops, answering
a universal and imperious necessity, and affording it an aliment
which entertains without completely satisfying it.
Can we seriously believe that, in this general forward movement,
the theatre will remain stationary? Can it be that the public will
bring to the drama other ideas, other tastes, other dispositions than
those which it carries into all other places and all other things?
The play must, in these times, address itself to the public; it must
interest and excite them; no longer is it designed to relieve the
monotony of a couple of hours for a select number of languid,
lounging, fashionable gentlemen, or to supply materials for
conversation to four or five recognized cliques and their dozens of
humbler imitators who may frequent the coffee-houses. And this
change must inevitably influence, sooner or later, the general tone
of all dramatic writings. Those immortal beauties— beauties for all
times and all places—with which our theatre abounds, have not,
thank Heaven! lost their power over our minds; but where,
33. henceforth, will an audience be found to relish the precious
metaphysical gallantry, the comic or tragic balderdash, the
philosophical and sentimental declamation which so often disfigure
it?
Can we really think, for instance, that if the great Corneille were to
return to earth, the Romans which he might exhibit would not be
somewhat sensible of the increased efficiency of our colleges? Can
we believe that the illustrious Racine, if he should revisit us, would
still make Achilles talk like a French chevalier, and put madrigals
into the mouth of Pyrrhus, Mithridates, or Nero? Can we believe
that Voltaire, the brilliant and pathetic Voltaire, if he should once
again take his place among us, would make Zaire profess
indifference to all matters of religion, and declaim to the savages of
America on toleration —that he would represent Mohammed
employing the inflated periods of a Tartuffe, and depict Gengis-
Khan under the guise of a faded libertine and a philosopher
disappointed with human greatness? No! Emphatically No! Every
thing in its place and time! Voltaire himself was the first to ridicule
the heroes who preceded him—tender, mild, and discreet; he
was the first to hold up to scorn the ridiculous fashion of describing
"Caton galant et Brutus dameret."
He has attempted tragedies in which there are no love scenes; he
has proposed to restore to us, once for all, the Greeks of Greece
and the Romans of Rome; and the reason why he did not
completely succeed was only that he was not sufficiently
acquainted with them. Chenier, in his turn, has thought good to
remodel Voltaire's "Œdipe." Still, Voltaire was the first who
attempted to appeal to national sentiments and popular
recollections, and many others since his time have followed in his
track. We might trace back to a time considerably anterior to the
beginning of this century, a confused sense of the necessity for a
reform in the theatre, a dim consciousness how much there was in
the existing state of the theatre that was formal, narrow, and
34. contemptible. Grimm's correspondence indicates this in every page.
More than seventy years ago, Collé lampooned the French tragedy
in a satiric poem full of wit, in which great good sense is contained
beneath an inexhaustible vein of drollery. And if this want was felt
thus strongly at this period, what must be the case now, when
authors, as we have just said, have to do no longer with a
fictitious, but with a real public? when that same public has, for
more than forty years, taken its part in all the great realities of
public as well as private life.
Indeed, we ourselves, who are now occupying the scene, have
taken part in terrible events; we have witnessed the fall and rise of
empires: and how can we be persuaded that such revolutions are
accomplished by some six or seven persons, whose two or three
uninteresting confidants bustle and declaim in a space of fifty
square feet? We have known, and that personally, great men—
conquerors, statesmen, conspirators—men of flesh and blood:
powerful by their arms, by their genius, and by their eloquence;
and, in order to be interested, we must be pointed to men equally
real, to men who resemble them in all respects.
Still, if our actually existing poets were men of the stamp of Racine
and Voltaire—if, like those great men, they knew how to animate a
deplorably withered frame by lavishing upon it all the treasures of
sentiment and of poetry—if, imitating the noble birds of the days of
chivalry, they could, like them, although carried on the hand,
release themselves from time to time from the straitness of their
position, and soar into the clouds with a brilliant and rapid flight,
they might win some success. But it is not so; and this is exactly
the one inconvenience of a style which flourished a hundred years
ago, with which we, the public of to-day, are obliged to remain
contented and happy.
Tragedies have been almost all fashioned after one model—all cast
so very nearly in the same mode, that any one rather experienced
in theatrical progression might boldly foretell the scheme of each
35. scene as it arrived. In the first act there is the narrative of the
dream or the storm; the second contains the declaration, the third
the recognition, and so on. The Alexandrines march on in stately
order, and seem, most of them, to belong to the stock of theatrical
properties, as much as the decorations and costumes. The
personages have their parts and movements appropriated and
determined like the pieces in a game of chess; so much so, that we
might call them, for the sake of convenience, by some generic
name; for example, the king, the tyrant, the queen, the conspirator,
the confidant—almost, as Goëthe has entitled the interlocutors in
one of his dramas, the father, the mother, the sister, and so on.
What, for instance, does it matter whether the queen, who has
killed her husband, be called Semiramis, Clytemnestra, Joan of
Naples, or Mary Stuart; whether the royal legislator is called Minos
or Peter the Great; whether the usurper is called Artaban,
Polyphontes, or Cromwell—when their words and actions, their
thoughts and feelings, are always the same, or very nearly so?
when they are only so many variations on one necessary plot?
It is said that a young poet, whose name we have forgotten,
having borrowed the subject of his tragedy from the history of
Spain, and finding himself on this account brought into collision
with the censor of the press, took it into his head to transport the
scene, by two strokes of his pen, from Barcelona to Babylon, and
to carry the events back from the sixteenth century to a period
somewhere near the time of the deluge; a plan which succeeded to
his heart's content, besides that, as Babylone rhymes to the same
words as Barcelone, and is composed of exactly the same number
of syllables, there was but little necessity for changing the most
vigorous and lofty speeches. We do not guarantee the truth of the
story, but we do not think it at all improbable.
Doubtless, this insupportable monotony—the evils and puerilities of
so much conventional apparatus—the disgust, the weariness, the
satiety which it all excites in such a public as ours—the
despondency at seeing nothing true produced for the stage—these
36. causes have constantly led the way to all kinds of innovation. Our
public is not to be captivated either by system or by caprice; it is
no despiser of really excellent productions; it has no disposition to
blaspheme the demi-gods of past times; but, like the little girl, it
says, "My good friend, I have seen the sun so often!" Like the
grand Condé, it says, "I am quite ready to forgive the Abbé
D'Aubignac for not having observed the rules, but I can not forgive
the rules which have made him produce such an execrable piece."
In the midst of this perplexity, not knowing what saint to invoke,
who can deliver them from this
"Race d'Agamemnon qui ne finit jamais,"
these everlasting bores who, if they are hissed down today in the
toga, will reappear to-morrow hooded with a turban; in this
perplexity, certain talented critics make their appearance, writers of
the rarest ability and of the greatest sagacity, who, with a good-
natured smile, address the public in some such terms as these:
"Can you not see what all this weariness under which you groan is
owing to? and whence arises this monotony which sickens you? In
a given time and space only a certain number of things are
possible; and the more circumscribed the space, the more limited
the time, the fewer events can be brought before you. Names may
be changed, costumes may be changed, but no further change is
possible. And much more must this be the case if you multiply
arbitrary prescriptions and prohibitions; if you demand, for instance,
that the individual who weeps shall do nothing but weep, and that
the laugher shall do nothing but laugh; if you forbid him who has
once spoken in verse from speaking afterward in prose, or vice
versâ, or if you forbid him who has once spoken in a verse of
twelve syllables from ever making use of a verse of rather smaller
dimensions; and if you determine it to be beneath the dignity of
tragedy to employ any colloquial forms of expression. Bind a man
hand and foot—as you please; put a mask on his countenance—
37. very good; condemn him to recite litanies to the Virgin in a style of
passive imperturbability—be it so; but do not then demand of him
variety in his movements, flexibility in his physiognomy, or diversity
in his language."
And the public must confess that this is very plausible reasoning.
Accordingly, when young poets, encouraged by favorable
circumstances, advance timidly before the people, and humbly beg
them to hold them, for a time, free from consecrated rules and
cruelly rigorous fetters, promising, in return for this indulgence, to
move them, to interest them, to show them living and real events—
the public answers them, "Make the attempt, we will listen
attentively."
This is the secret of that which is transpiring at the present day.
Are not we then, in France, in danger of being betrayed into some
rash procedures? For forty years, established usages have been
attacked which appeared more solid than our theatrical system;
things which seemed more sacred even than Aristotle's precepts
have been looked at with bold defiance.
If, at this crisis, a great dramatic poet should arise among us—if
this great dramatic poet would take part with the innovators, all
difficulties would very soon be overcome. But, unfortunately, we
have no such dramatist; as far as talent is concerned, the authors
of the new school have not hitherto had a very decided advantage
over their brethren of the old school. Their works certainly possess
more interest, more movement, more variety; but these merits
belong to the school to which they have attached themselves, and
this is the reason why their works have drawn crowds, while the
productions of their more old-fashioned brethren are abandoned.
But their works are indicative rather of reminiscence than of
invention; more of an honest disposition to create than of a
creative genius. The execution betrays absence of power and
groping after effect, rather than native vigor and genuine
38. originality. The blame rests with the individuals; and this is the
reason why the public is as yet undecided which of the two
opposed systems it shall finally adopt, and shows itself much more
disposed to thank them for their efforts than to award them the
palm of triumph.
How long, then, is this feeble flight of dramatic talent, this sterility
of true genius, with which, to our great regret, the new school—
that school which has hardly existed more than four or five years—
has been stricken: how long is this to last? The answer to such a
question must remain unknown to man, and must be, left to
Providence; our fervent wish, both for the credit of art and the
honor of our country, is that it may not be delayed very long.
Meanwhile, is it graceful, and, above all, is it just, for the partisans
of the old system in literature to exult over this fact, as they too
often do? Are they reasonable in asking us, with an air of raillery,
what master-pieces the new theatrical system can boast of? Have
they any right to say to the critics who have expounded and
displayed it, "You know not whereof you are speaking; and, as a
proof of this, nothing that has been done under your auspices at all
corresponds to your magnificent promises?"
We might even agree with them; for if, by way of reprisal, we
should afterward ask, concerning Aristotle's Poetics, what
tragedies of worth it succeeded in inspiring in Greece; concerning
Horace's Ars Poetica, what illustrious monuments of its
truthfulness remain from the theatre of the Latins; concerning La
Harpe's Cours de Littérature, what master-pieces we may thank
it for? the answer would not be very much to their advantage.
Nature alone creates great poets; by her sole agency the world has
been gifted, at long intervals, with a Sophocles, a Shakspeare, a
Racine, a Molière; and after each such effort, the repose is long
and protracted. No human endeavors can be so successful as to
supply the lack of that which nature alone can give; and any theory
for the creation of great men—any pompous
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