The poet is a satirist when he takes as subject the distance at which
things are from nature, and the contrast between reality and the ideal:
as regards the impression received by the soul, these two subjects blend
into the same. In the execution, he may place earnestness and passion,
or jests and levity, according as he takes pleasure in the domain of the
will or in that of the understanding. In the former case it is avenging
and pathetic satire; in the second case it is sportive, humorous, and
mirthful satire.
Properly speaking, the object of poetry is not compatible either with
the tone of punishment or that of amusement. The former is too grave for
play, which should be the main feature of poetry; the latter is too
trifling for seriousness, which should form the basis of all poetic
play. Our mind is necessarily interested in moral contradictions, and
these deprive the mind of its liberty. Nevertheless, all personal
interest, and reference to a personal necessity, should be banished from
poetic feeling. But mental contradictions do not touch the heart,
nevertheless the poet deals with the highest interests of the
heart—nature and the ideal. Accordingly it is a hard matter for him not
to violate the poetic form in pathetic satire, because this form
consists in the liberty of movement; and in sportive satire he is very
apt to miss the true spirit of poetry, which ought to be the infinite.
The problem can only be solved in one way: by the pathetic satire
assuming the character of the sublime, and the playful satire acquiring
poetic substance by enveloping the theme in beauty.
In satire, the real as imperfection is opposed to the ideal, considered
as the highest reality. In other respects it is by no means essential
that the ideal should be expressly represented, provided the poet knows
how to awaken it in our souls, but he must in all cases awaken it,
otherwise he will exert absolutely no poetic action. Thus reality is
here a necessary object of aversion; but it is also necessary, for the
whole question centres here, that this aversion should come necessarily
from the ideal, which is opposed to reality. To make this clear—this
aversion might proceed from a purely sensuous source, and repose only on
a _want_ of which the satisfaction finds obstacles in the real. How
often, in fact, we think we feel against society a _moral_ discontent,
while we are simply soured by the obstacles that it opposes to our
inclination. It is this entirely material interest that the vulgar
satirist brings into play; and as by this road he never fails to call
forth in us movements connected with the affections, he fancies that he
holds our heart in his hand, and thinks he has graduated in the
pathetic. But all pathos derived from this source is unworthy of poetry,
which ought only to move us through the medium of ideas, and reach our
heart only by passing through the reason. Moreover, this impure and
material pathos will never have its effect on minds, except by
over-exciting the affective faculties and by occupying our hearts with
painful feelings: in this it differs entirely from the truly poetic
pathos, which raises in us the feeling of moral independence, and which
is recognized by the freedom of our mind persisting in it even while it
is in the state of affection. And, in fact, when the emotion emanates
from the ideal opposed to the real, the sublime beauty of the ideal
corrects all impression of restraint; and the grandeur of the idea with
which we are imbued raises us above all the limits of experience. Thus
in the representation of some revolting reality, the essential thing is
that the necessary be the foundation on which the poet or the narrator
places the real: that he know how to dispose our mind for ideas.
Provided the point from which we see and judge be elevated, it matters
little if the object be low and far beneath us. When the historian
Tacitus depicts the profound decadence of the Romans of the first
century, it is a great soul which from a loftier position lets his looks
drop down on a low object; and the disposition in which he places us is
truly poetic, because it is the height where he is himself placed, and
where he has succeeded in raising us, which alone renders so perceptible
the baseness of the object.
Accordingly the satire of pathos must always issue from a mind deeply
imbued with the ideal. It is nothing but an impulsion towards harmony
that can give rise to that deep feeling of moral opposition and that
ardent indignation against moral obliquity which amounted to the fulness
of enthusiasm in Juvenal, Swift, Rousseau, Haller, and others. These
same poets would have succeeded equally well in forms of poetry relating
to all that is tender and touching in feeling, and it was only the
accidents of life in their early days that diverted their minds into
other walks. Nay, some amongst them actually tried their hand
successfully in these other branches of poetry. The poets whose names
have been just mentioned lived either at a period of degeneracy, and had
scenes of painful moral obliquity presented to their view, or personal
troubles had combined to fill their souls with bitter feelings. The
strictly austere spirit in which Rousseau, Haller, and others paint
reality is a natural result, moreover, of the philosophical mind, when
with rigid adherence to laws of thought it separates the mere phenomenon
from the substance of things. Yet these outer and contingent influences,
which always put restraint on the mind, should never be allowed to do
more than decide the direction taken by enthusiasm, nor should they ever
give the material for it. The substance ought always to remain
unchanged, emancipated from all external motion or stimulus, and it
ought to issue from an ardent impulsion towards the ideal, which forms
the only true motive that can be put forth for satirical poetry, and
indeed for all sentimental poetry.
While the satire of pathos is only adapted to elevated minds, playful
satire can only be adequately represented by a heart imbued with
_beauty_. The former is preserved from triviality by the serious nature
of the theme; but the latter, whose proper sphere is confined to the
treatment of subjects of morally unimportant nature, would infallibly
adopt the form of frivolity, and be deprived of all poetic dignity, were
it not that the substance is ennobled by the form, and did not the
personal dignity of the poet compensate for the insignificance of the
subject. Now, it is only given to mind imbued with beauty to impress its
character, its entire image, on each of its manifestations,
independently of the object of its manifestations. A sublime soul can
only make itself known as such by single victories over the rebellion of
the senses, only in certain moments of exaltation, and by efforts of
short duration. In a mind imbued with _beauty_, on the contrary, the
ideal acts in the same manner as nature, and therefore continuously;
accordingly it can manifest itself in it in a state of repose. The deep
sea never appears more sublime than when it is agitated; the true beauty
of a clear stream is in its peaceful course.
The question has often been raised as to the comparative preference to
be awarded to tragedy or comedy. If the question is confined merely to
their respective themes, it is certain that tragedy has the advantage.
But if our inquiry be directed to ascertain which has the more important
personality, it is probable that a decision may be given in favor of
comedy. In tragedy the theme in itself does great things; in comedy the
object does nothing and the poet all. Now, as in the judgments of taste
no account must be kept of the matter treated of, it follows naturally
that the æsthetic value of these two kinds will be in an inverse ratio
to the proper importance of their themes.
The tragic poet is supported by the theme, while the comic poet, on the
contrary, has to keep up the æsthetic character of his theme by his own
individual influence. The former may soar, which is not a very difficult
matter, but the latter has to remain one and the same in tone; he has to
be in the elevated region of art, where he must be at home, but where
the tragic poet has to be projected and elevated by a bound. And this is
precisely what distinguishes a soul of beauty from a sublime soul. A
soul of beauty bears in itself by anticipation all great ideas; they
flow without constraint and without difficulty from its very nature—an
infinite nature, at least in potency, at whatever point of its career
you seize it. A sublime soul can rise to all kinds of greatness, but by
an effort; it can tear itself from all bondage, to all that limits and
constrains it, but only by strength of will. Consequently the sublime
soul is only free by broken efforts; the other with ease and always.
The noble task of comedy is to produce and keep up in us this freedom of
mind, just as the end of tragedy is to re-establish in us this freedom
of mind by æsthetic ways, when it has been violently suspended by
passion. Consequently it is necessary that in tragedy the poet, as if he
made an experiment, should _artificially_ suspend our freedom of mind,
since tragedy shows its poetic virtue by re-establishing it; in comedy,
on the other hand, care must be taken that things never reach this
suspension of freedom.
It is for this reason that the tragic poet invariably treats his theme
in a practical manner, and the comic poet in a theoretic manner, even
when the former, as happened with Lessing in his “Nathan,” should have
the curious fancy to select a theoretical, and the latter should have
that of choosing a practical subject. A piece is constituted a tragedy
or a comedy not by the sphere from which the theme is taken, but by the
tribunal before which it is judged. A tragic poet ought never to indulge
in tranquil reasoning, and ought always to gain the interest of the
heart; but the comic poet ought to shun the pathetic and bring into play
the understanding. The former displays his art by creating continual
excitement, the latter by perpetually subduing his passion; and it is
natural that the art in both cases should acquire magnitude and strength
in proportion as the theme of one poet is abstract and that of the other
pathetic in character. Accordingly, if tragedy sets out from a more
exalted place, it must be allowed, on the other hand, that comedy aims
at a more important end; and if this end could be actually attained it
would make all tragedy not only unnecessary, but impossible. The aim
that comedy has in view is the same as that of the highest destiny of
man, and this consists in liberating himself from the influence of
violent passions, and taking a calm and lucid survey of all that
surrounds him, and also of his own being, and of seeing everywhere
occurrence rather than fate or hazard, and ultimately rather smiling at
the absurdities than shedding tears and feeling anger at sight of the
wickedness of man.
It frequently happens in human life that facility of imagination,
agreeable talents, a good-natured mirthfulness are taken for ornaments
of the mind. The same fact is discerned in the case of poetical
displays.
Now, public taste scarcely if ever soars above the sphere of the
agreeable, and authors gifted with this sort of elegance of mind and
style do not find it a difficult matter to usurp a glory which is or
ought to be the reward of so much real labor. Nevertheless, an
infallible text exists to enable us to discriminate a natural facility
of manner from ideal gentleness, and qualities that consist in nothing
more than natural virtue from genuine moral worth of character. This
test is presented by trials such as those presented by difficulty and
events offering great opportunities. Placed in positions of this kind,
the genius whose essence is elegance is sure infallibly to fall into
platitudes, and that virtue which only results from natural causes drops
down to a material sphere. But a mind imbued with true and spiritual
beauty is in cases of the kind we have supposed sure to be elevated to
the highest sphere of character and of feeling. So long as Lucian merely
furnishes absurdity, as in his “Wishes,” in the “Lapithas,” in “Jupiter
Tragœdus,” etc., he is only a humorist, and gratifies us by his sportive
humor; but he changes character in many passages in his “Nigrinus,” his
“Timon,” and his “Alexander,” when his satire directs its shafts against
moral depravity. Thus he begins in his “Nigrinus” his picture of the
degraded corruption of Rome at that time in this way: “Wretch, why didst
thou quit Greece, the sunlight, and that free and happy life? Why didst
thou come here into this turmoil of splendid slavery, of service and
festivals, of sycophants, flatterers, poisoners, orphan-robbers, and
false friends?” It is on such occasions that the poet ought to show the
lofty earnestness of soul which has to form the basis of all plays, if a
poetical character is to be obtained by them. A serious intention may
even be detected under the malicious jests with which Lucian and
Aristophanes pursue Socrates. Their purpose is to avenge truth against
sophistry, and to do combat for an ideal which is not always prominently
put forward. There can be no doubt that Lucian has justified this
character in his Diogenes and Demonax. Again, among modern writers, how
grave and beautiful is the character depicted on all occasions by
Cervantes in his Don Quixote! How splendid must have been the ideal that
filled the mind of a poet who created a Tom Jones and a Sophonisba! How
deeply and strongly our hearts are moved by the jests of Yorick when he
pleases! I detect this seriousness also in our own Wieland: even the
wanton sportiveness of his humor is elevated and impeded by the goodness
of his heart; it has an influence even on his rhythm; nor does he ever
lack elastic power, when it is his wish, to raise us up to the most
elevated planes of beauty and of thought.
The same judgment cannot be pronounced on the satire of Voltaire. No
doubt, also, in his case, it is the truth and simplicity of nature which
here and there makes us experience poetic emotions, whether he really
encounters nature and depicts it in a simple character, as many times in
his “Ingénu;” or whether he seeks it and avenges it as in his “Candide”
and elsewhere. But when neither one nor the other takes place, he can
doubtless amuse us with his fine wit, but he assuredly never touches us
as a poet. There is always rather too little of the serious under his
raillery, and this is what makes his vocation as poet justly suspicious.
You always meet his intelligence only; never his feelings. No ideal can
be detected under this light gauze envelope; scarcely can anything
absolutely fixed be found under this perpetual movement. His prodigious
diversity of externals and forms, far from proving anything in favor of
the inner fulness of his inspiration, rather testifies to the contrary;
for he has exhausted all forms without finding a single one on which he
has succeeded in impressing his heart. We are almost driven to fear that
in the case of his rich talent the poverty of heart alone determined his
choice of satire. And how could we otherwise explain the fact that he
could pursue so long a road without ever issuing from its narrow rut?
Whatever may be the variety of matter and of external forms, we see the
inner form return everywhere with its sterile and eternal uniformity,
and in spite of his so productive career, he never accomplished in
himself the circle of humanity, that circle which we see joyfully
traversed throughout by the satirists previously named.