THE SQUABBLE BETWEEN THE TRAGIC POET AND THE COMIC AUTHOR.
Leandro Perez, at this point of the narrative, could not help again
interrupting the Devil: "Signor Asmodeus," said he, "I really cannot
control my curiosity to know the meaning of something which attracts my
attention, in spite of the pleasure I receive in listening to you. I
see, in a room near us, two men fighting in their shirts, and several
others in their dressing-gowns who are hastening to part them: tell me,
I pray you, what it is all about." The Demon, ever ready to please the
Student, without further pressing replied as follows:
"The persons whom you behold in their shirts, or so much of them as is
left in the struggle, are two French authors; and the mediators in the
strife are two Germans, a Fleming, and an Italian. They all lodge in
that same house, which is a sort of lodging-house devoted exclusively
to foreigners. One of these authors writes tragedies, and the other
comedies. The former, disgusted for some reason or other with his own
country, has come to Spain; and the latter also, discontented with his
prospects in Paris, has performed the same journey, in the hope of
finding in Madrid a better fortune.
"The tragic poet is vain and presumptuous, having obtained, despite the
opinions of those whose breath should be fame, a tolerable reputation
in his own country. To keep his Pegasus in wind, he rides it daily; and
not being able to sleep this night, he commenced a piece, the subject
of which is taken from the Iliad. He has finished one scene; and as his
smallest fault is that, so common to his brethren, of cramming into
other people's throats the trash which he has ejected, he rose from his
table, where he was writing in his shirt, took a candle, and, as he
was, went to rouse the comic author, who, making a better use of his
time, was sleeping profoundly.
"The latter, awakened by the noise made at his door, went to open it
to the other, who, with the air of one possessed, entered the room
exclaiming: 'Down on your knees, my friend; down, and worship a genius
whom Melpomene inspires. I have given birth to poetry--: but, what do I
say?--I have done it! Apollo himself dictated the verses to me. Were I
at Paris, I should go from house to house to read the precious lines; I
only wait for day that I may charm with them our talented ambassador,
and every other Frenchman who has the luck to be within Madrid; but,
before I shew them to a soul, I come to recite them to you.'
[Illustration: the tragic poet at the comic author's door]
"'I am much obliged by the preference,' replied the comic author,
yawning with all his might; 'it is rather unlucky though, that you
did not choose a better time. I went to bed extremely late,--can
hardly keep my eyes unclosed,--and I will not answer for hearing all
the verses you have to read to me, without tumbling to sleep again.'
'Oh! I will answer for that myself,' interrupted the tragic poet.
'Were you dead, the scene that I have just composed would recall you
to life again. In my writings, there are none of your namby-pamby
sentiments,--none of your common-place expressions, sustained alone
by rhyme: masculine thoughts, and easy versification, move the heart
and strike upon the mind. I am none of those wretched poetasters, whose
pitiable creations glide upon the stage like shadows, and like them
depart;--which go to Utica to amuse the Africans. My compositions,
worthy to be consecrated with my statue in the library of Apollo
Palatinus, draw crowds after thirty representations. But come,' added
this modest poet, 'you shall hear the verses of which I wish to offer
you the first incense.
[Illustration: Phoenix assists Achilles's captives]
"'This is my tragedy, THE DEATH OF PATROCLUS. Scene the first, Brisëis
and the other captives of Achilles appear. They tear their hair and
beat their breasts, to express the grief with which they are filled
by the death of Patroclus. Unable even to support themselves, utterly
prostrated by despair, they fall upon the stage. This, you will say,
is a little daring; but that is exactly what I aim at. Let the small
fry who swim in the waters of Helicon keep within the narrow bounds
of imitation, without daring to o'erleap them; it is well, there is
prudence in their timidity: but for me, I love invention; and I hold
that, to move and overcome your spectators, you must present to their
minds images which they could never have expected.
"'The captives, then, are lying on the earth. Phoenix, governor of
Achilles, is with them. He assists them to rise, one after another;
and, having placed them on their feet, he commences the argument of the
drama in these lines:--
Hector shall fall; and Troy itself be spread
In ruins, to avenge Patroclus dead.
Proud Agamemnon, Camelus the grave,
Nestor the wise, and Eumelus the brave,
Leontes, skilled to hurl the spear along,
Smooth-tongued Ulysses, Diomed the strong,
Arm with Achilles. Lo! that hero drives
Tow'rds Ilium's gates--appalling Ilium's wives--
His steeds immortal, urged across the plain
So swift, the eye toils after them with pain.
But still he cries: Dear Xanthus, Balius, fly!
And when around ten thousand corses lie,
When pallid Trojans scamper off like fillies,
Regain your camp, but not without Achilles.
Xanthus replies, bowing his head: You may
Be sure, Achilles, we'll your will obey;
But, while our pace with your impatience strives,
Know that to you the fatal hour arrives--
The ox-eyed Juno thus the steed enlightening,--
And now the car moves with a speed quite frightening.
The Greeks, beholding, utter cries of joy,
So loud, they shake the very walls of Troy.
Achilles, armed by Vulcan for the war,
Appears more brilliant than the morning star;
Or like the sun, when, in its bright career,
It bursts on earth, dispelling night and fear;
Or brilliant as the fires on mountains lighted,
To guide poor swains, bewilder'd or benighted.[8]
[8]
Priam va perdre Hector et sa superbe ville;
Les Grecs veulent venger le compagnon d'Achille,
Le fier Agamemnon, le divin Camélus,
Nestor, pareil aux dieux, le vaillant Eumélus,
Léonte, de la pique adroit à l'exercice,
Le nerveux Diomède, et l'éloquent Ulysse.
Achille s'y prépare, et déjà ce héros
Pousse vers Ilium ses immortels chevaux;
Pour arriver plus tôt où sa fureur l'entraîne,
Quoique l'oeil qui les voit ne les suive qu'à peine,
Il leur dit: Chers Xanthus, Balius, avancez;
Et lorsque vous serez du carnage lassés,
Quand les Troyens fuyant rentreront dans leur ville,
Regagnez notre camp, mais non pas sans Achille.
Xanthus baisse la tête, et répond par ces mots:
Achille, vous serez content de vos chevaux,
Ils vont aller au gré de votre impatience;
Mais de votre trépas l'instant fatal s'avance.
Junon aux yeux de boeuf ainsi le fait parler,
Et d'Achille aussitôt le char semble voler.
Les Grecs, en le voynt, de mille cris de joie
Soudain font retentir le rivage de Troie.
Ce prince, revêtu des armes de Vulcain,
Paraît plus éclatant que l'astre du matin,
Ou tel que le soleil, commençant sa carrière,
S'élève pour donner au monde la lumière;
Ou brillant comme un feu que les villageois font
Pendant l'obscure nuit sur le sommet du mont.
"'I stop,' continued the tragic poet, 'to let you breathe a moment; for
if I were to recite to you the whole of my scene at once, the beauty
of my versification, and the great number of brilliant passages and
sublime ideas that it contains, would smother you to a certainty. But
remark the aptness of this comparison,--
Or brilliant as the fires on mountains lighted,
To guide poor swains bewilder'd or benighted.
"'It is not all the world who could appreciate that; but you, who have
mind, and a clearness of perception,--you must be enchanted with it.'
'I am so, doubtless,' replied the comic author, smiling contemptuously;
'nothing can be more beautiful; and I am persuaded you will not fail to
describe, in your tragedy, the care taken by Thetis to drive away the
Trojan flies which approach the body of Patroclus.' 'You may spare your
jests as to that,' replied the tragic poet;--'an author who has talent
may venture everything. The very incident you mention is perhaps the
one most capable of being rendered into heroic verse; and I shall not
lose the opportunity, you may depend upon it.
"'All my works,' he continued complacently, 'bear the impress of
genius; so that when I read them it would delight you to witness the
applause they elicit: I am compelled to stop after every verse, to
receive its laudatory tribute. I remember that one day, at Paris, I was
reading a tragedy in the house of a wealthy patron of literature, in
which all the wits of the capital generally assemble about dinner-time,
and in which I may say, without vanity, that I do not pass for a
Pradon. The dowager countess of Vieille-Brune was there, a lady of
exquisite taste--I am her favourite poet. Well, at the first scene,
the hot tears ran down her cheeks; during the reading of my second
act, she was obliged to change her handkerchief; her sobs were beyond
her control in the third; at the end of the fourth she was nearly in
hysterics; and I expected, at the catastrophe, that she would have
absolutely died with the hero of my piece.'
"At these words, although the comic author endeavoured strenuously
to preserve his gravity, a burst of laughter escaped him. 'Ah!' he
exclaimed, 'how well do I recognize her ladyship by your description!
The good countess is one who cannot endure comedy: so strong is her
aversion for the merry muse, that she hurries from her box after the
dagger or the bowl has done its work, that she may not lose an atom of
her mimic grief. Tragedy is her pet passion; and be it good or bad, so
long as it presents unhappy love, so surely may you bid her tears to
flow. Honestly, did I pretend to the heroics, I should wish for other
admirers than the countess.'
"'Oh! as to that, I have others too,' replied the tragic poet. 'I am
the approved of thousands, male and female, of the highest rank----'
'I should also mistrust the suffrages of the quality,' interrupted the
comic author; 'I should have no great confidence in their judgment:
I will tell you why. Auditors of this description are, for the most
part, too much occupied with themselves to pay great attention to the
reading of a poem; or are caught for the moment by high-sounding verse,
or the feeble delicacy of some sickly sentiment. Either is sufficient
to induce their praise of an author's labours, whatever else of better
they may lack. On the contrary, let but a line rustle their gentle ears
too harshly, and it is enough that they exclaim against the piece,
however good.'
"'Well!' resumed the lachrymose inditer, 'since you would have me
suspicious of this tribunal, I rely on the applauses of the pit.' 'Bah!
talk not to me of your pit,' replied the other; 'its judgment is guided
by caprice. Stupidly won by the novelty of a first representation, it
will be for months enraptured by a wretched piece. It is true that in
the end it discovers its folly; and, then, it never forgives an author
for having received from it an undeserved renown, or cheated it into
mercy.'
"'That is a misfortune for which I have nothing to fear,' said the
tragic poet; 'my pieces are reprinted as often as they are played.
This, now, never occurs with comedies; printing exhibits their
feebleness. Comedies being but trifles,--the lighter productions of
mind....' 'Softly! my tragic friend; softly!' interrupted the other:
'you are getting somewhat warm. Speak, I beg of you, of comedy with
less irreverence to me. Do you think, now, a comic piece less difficult
to write than tragedy? Undeceive yourself! It is far less easy to make
good men laugh, than it is to make them weep. Learn that a subject
drawn from ordinary life requires talent of as high an order as do the
stilted heroes of antiquity.'
"'I'faith,' cried the tragic poet with an air of raillery, 'I am
delighted to hear you so express yourself.' 'Well! monsieur Calidas,
to avoid disputation, I agree henceforth to as greatly admire your
productions as I have heretofore despised them.' 'I care little for
your contempt, monsieur Giblet,' hastily replied the comic author;
'and in return for your insolence, I will plainly tell you my opinion
of the rubbish you have just been inflicting on me: your verse is a
mixture of bombast and absurdity, and the ideas, although borrowed from
Homer, have, in passing through your brain, become tinctured with its
vulgarity. Achilles talks to his horses, and his horses reply to him;
what nonsense! It is a pity they were not asses, for then you could
have put into their mouths with propriety your splendid comparison of
the village bonfire on the top of a mountain. It is doing no honour
to the ancients to pillage them after this fashion: their works are
undoubtedly filled with beauties; but it requires greater taste than
you possess to make of them a fitting use, or to enable you to borrow
from them to advantage.'
"'Since you have not sufficient elevation of soul,' retorted Giblet,
'to appreciate the merits of my poetry, and to punish you for having
dared to criticise my scene, I will not read to you the remainder.'
'What, I wonder, have I done, that I should have been punished by
being compelled to listen to the beginning?' replied Calidas. 'It well
becomes you indeed to despise my comedies! Learn that the very worst
that I could write will be clever compared with anything that you can
compose, and that it is much easier to inflate the cheeks with hollow
sentiments and sounding words, than it is to enlighten the mind by
pointed wit or a delicate irony.'
"'Thank Heaven!' exclaimed the tragic poet, with an awful expression
of disdain, 'if in its rigour it denies me your esteem, I may easily
console myself for my misfortune. The court, however, thinks more
favourably of my tragedies; and the pension with which in its grace
it has been pleased----' 'Pshaw! think not to dazzle me with your
pensions,' interrupted Calidas; 'I know too well how they may be
obtained to esteem your works the more for that. And to prove to you
your folly, in thinking more highly of yourself than of comic authors,
and that it is easier to compose serious dramas than comic pieces, I am
resolved if I return to France, and do not succeed in my own line, that
I will descend to making tragedies.'
"'For a scribbler of farces,' said the tragic poet, 'you are not over
modest.' 'For a versifier who only owes his reputation to borrowed
plumes,' replied the comic author, 'you would fain have one think
rather too highly of you.' 'You are an insolent scoundrel,' exclaimed
the sombre genius. 'If I were not in your room, little monsieur
Calidas, the catastrophe of this adventure should teach you to respect
the buskin.' 'Let not that consideration restrain you, I entreat, lanky
monsieur Giblet,' replied Calidas; 'if you wish to receive a thrashing,
I would as soon give it you in my own room as elsewhere.'
[Illustration: Calidas and Giblet come to blows]
"Immediately, they seized each other by the throat and hair; and kicks
and cuffs were exchanged with generous ardour. An Italian, who lay in
a neighbouring chamber, having listened to the overture of this drama,
and hearing the noise of the incidental combat, judged that it was
quite time for the spectators to assemble when the play had begun. He
rose, therefore, and out of compassion for the French authors, although
Italian, he filled the house with his cries. On this the Fleming and
the two Germans hastened with himself in their dressing-gowns to the
theatre of strife, and the piece is, as you see, just terminating by
the separation of the combatants."
"This squabble is amusing enough," said Don Cleophas. "But, it would
appear from what you tell me that tragic writers in France imagine
themselves to be much more important personages than those who devote
themselves to comedy." "Certainly!" replied Asmodeus. "The former think
themselves as much exalted over the latter, as are the stately heroes
of tragedies above the intriguing servants of comic pieces." "Indeed!
and on what do they found this opinion of themselves?" inquired the
Student. "Is it then really so much more difficult to write the one
than the other?" "The question you put to me," replied the Devil, "is
one which has been a hundred times debated, and is so to this day. For
myself, this is my decision, with all deference to those who differ
from me in opinion. I say that it is not more easy to compose a comic
than a tragic piece; for if it were so, we must conclude that a tragic
poet would be more capable of writing a comedy, than the best comic
author; the which is not borne out by experience. According to me,
then, each of these two descriptions of poem requires a genius of a
different character, but of an equal capability.
"It is time, however, to end this digression. I will therefore resume
the thread of the history, which you so unceremoniously interrupted."