The Marquis de Dangeau wrote, in his journal for the 1st of October,
1684: “Aujourd'hui est mort le bonhomme Corneille.” The illustrious
dramatist was an old man, for he had been born in 1606. He was a good
old fellow in his way, being always an honest and upright man, though
the appellation “le bonhomme” was less frequently given to him than to
La Fontaine.
Had it been as much the fashion fifty years ago as now to honor great
men by anniversaries, in the year 1836 a more gracious homage might
have been paid to the author of _Le Cid_. At Christmastime in that year
this play burst upon Paris. As a bombshell carries with it destruction,
the _Cid_ gave sudden and unexpected delight to all who saw it. It
is the first of French tragedies that has left a mark; no earlier
tragedy is now generally remembered. Corneille woke up to find himself
famous. It appears that, though he was by no means a novice, he was as
much astonished as anyone at the great success of his play. The Court
liked it, and the town liked it. It was at once translated into many
languages. In France people learnt passages of it by heart, and for
a while there was a popular saying, “Cela est beau comme le _Cid_.”
If the good folk in Paris had only bethought themselves in 1836 of
celebrating the bi-centenary of the appearance of the _Cid_ the event
would have sounded happier than of now celebrating the author's death.
But fashion rules much in this world. It has not yet become fashionable
to recollect the date of a great man's great work—fifty years ago it
had not become fashionable to have centenaries at all; so that now,
all other excuses failing, we must seize upon the bi-centenary of
Corneille's death as a date upon which to honor him. Let us hope that
on the 6th of June, 1906, the ter-centenary of his birth, a more joyful
note may be sung.
We have said that Pierre Corneille was a good old fellow in his way,
but it was his misfortune that his way was not more like that of other
men. He was very poor during the last ten or twelve years of his
life. He walked out one day with a friend, and went into a shop to
have his shoe mended. During the operation he sat down upon a plank,
his friend sitting beside him. After the cobbler had finished his job
Corneille took from his purse three bits of money to pay for his shoe,
and when the two gentlemen got home Corneille's friend offered him
his purse, but he declined all assistance. Corneille was of a proud
and independent nature. He is reported to have said of himself, “Je
suis saoûl de gloire, mais affamé d'argent.” He has been accused of
avarice—unjustly, we think—because he tried to get as much money as he
could for his plays. If a man wants money he will try to obtain that
which he thinks should belong to him. And if he wants it badly, his
high notions of dignity—if it be only mock dignity—will go to the wall.
No fine gentleman nowadays would think it beneath him to take £100
from a publisher or from a theatrical manager after it had been fairly
earned. Some ask for their £100 before it has been earned. Two hundred
years ago a poet was supposed to be paid with honor and glory, but,
unfortunately for himself, Corneille wanted more solid acknowledgment.
And two hundred years ago the rights of authorship were not so well
understood as now. In France, as in England, very few men could have
lived by their pen alone. It is true that the dramatists were among the
most fortunate, but many years had elapsed since Corneille's plays had
been popular at the theatre. In 1670 Molière, as theatrical manager,
had given him 2,000 francs for a piece. This was considered a large
sum, and it may be doubted if Molière's company ever got back their
money. The play was _Tite et Bérénice_, and it was played alternately
with _Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme_. We may judge which of the two plays
we should like to see best. Corneille had to make the most of his
2,000 francs, for his pension, supposed to be paid to him every year
from the Civil List, was always delayed. The year was made to have
fifteen months! Sometimes the pension was not paid at all. So that poor
Corneille was hard pressed for money in the latter years of his life,
from 1672 to 1684, while his years of greatest triumph had been from
1636 to 1642. And he had small resources except what had come to him
from writing. His two sons went into the army, and he had to provide
for them at a time when his payments from the theatre were diminishing.
There is no evidence which should make us think he was avaricious or
greedy for money.
In his manner Corneille was apt to be awkward and ungainly. A
contemporary says that when he first saw him he took him for a
tradesman at Rouen. Rouen was his birthplace, and there he lived until
his avocations compelled him, against his will, to live in Paris.
Like La Fontaine, he made a poor figure in society. He did not talk
well. He was not good company, and his friends were bound to confess
that he was rather a bore. Those who knew him well enough would hint
to him his defects, at which he would smile, and say, “I am none the
less Pierre Corneille.” But his physiognomy, when observed, was far
from commonplace. His nephew, Fontenelle, says of him: “His face was
pleasant enough; a large nose, a good mouth, his expression lively, and
his features strongly marked and fit to be transmitted to posterity in
a medal or in a bust.” Corneille begins a letter to Pellisson with the
following verses, describing himself:
En matière d'amour je suis fort inégal,
Je l'écris assez bien, je le fais assez mal;
J'ai la plume féconde et la bouche stérile,
Bon galant au théâtre et fort mauvais en ville;
Et l'on peut rarement m'écouter sans ennui
Que quand je me produis par la bouche d'autrui.
This is a charming little bit of autobiography. And in the same letter,
after the verses, the old poet says, “My poetry left me at the same
time as my teeth.”
All this he writes, laughing in his sleeve. But often enough he was
melancholy and depressed. Again we quote from Fontenelle: “Corneille
was of a melancholy temperament. He required stronger emotions to make
him hopeful and happy than to make him mournful or despondent. His
manner was brusque, and sometimes rude in appearance, but at bottom
he was very easy to live with, and he was affectionate and full of
friendliness.” When he heard of large sums of money being given to
other men for their plays, for pieces that the world liked perhaps
better than his own, he got unhappy, for he felt that his glory was
departing from him. Need we go back two hundred years to find instances
of men who have become unhappy from similar causes? There are many such
in London and in Paris at this moment. Early in his career, before the
days of the _Cid_, he was proud of his calling. He gloried in being
one of the dramatic authors of his time. He says:—
Le théâtre est un fief dont les rentes sont bonnes.