All this is very shocking; but it is not tragedy,--and it is not
poetry. Yet it is what we are told has heaved the earth from under
Racine!
After such a sentence as this, it must be, I know, _rococo_ to name
him; but yet I would say, in his own words,
D'adorateurs zélés à peine un petit nombre
Ose des premiers temps nous retracer quelque ombre;
Le reste....
Se fait initier à ces honteux mystères,
Et blasphème le nom qu'ont invoqué leurs pères.
As I profess myself of the _petit nombre_, you must let me recall to
your memory some of the fragments of that noble edifice which Racine
raised over him, and which, as they say, has now perished under the
mighty power of Victor Hugo. It will not be lost time to do this; for
look where you will among the splendid material of this uprooted
temple, and you will find no morsel that is not precious; nothing that
is not designed, chiseled, and finished by the hand of a master.
Racine has not produced dramas from ordinary life; it was not his
object to do so, nor is it the end he has attained. It is the tragedy
of heroes and demi-gods that he has given us, and not of cut-purses,
buffoons, and street-walkers.
If the language of Racine be poetry, that of M. Hugo is not; and
wherever the one is admired, the other must of necessity be valueless.
It would be endless to attempt giving citations to prove the grace,
the dignity, the majestic flow of Racine's verse; but let your eye run
over "Iphigénie," for instance,--there also the loss of a daughter
forms the tragic interest,--and compare such verses as those I have
quoted above with any that you can find in Racine.
Hear the royal mother, for example, describe the scene that awaits
her:
Un prêtre environné d'une foule cruelle
Portera sur ma fille une main criminelle,
Déchirera son sein, et d'un oeil curieux
Dans son coeur palpitant consultera les dieux;
--Et moi--qui l'amenai triomphante, adorée,
Je m'en retournerai, seule, et désespérée.