_Wit._
When a nation is beginning to emerge from barbarism, it strives to show
what we call wit. Thus, in the first attempts made in the time of
Francis I., we find in Marot such puns, plays on words, as would now be
intolerable.
_Remorentin la parte rememore:_
_Cognac s'en cogne en sa poitrine blême,_
_Anjou faict jou, Angoulême est de même._
These fine ideas are not such as at once present themselves to express
the grief of nations. Many instances of this depraved taste might be
adduced; but we shall content ourselves with this, which is the most
striking of all.
In the second era of the human mind in France--in the time of Balzac,
Mairet, Rotrou, Corneille--applause was given to every thought that
surprised by new images, which were called "wit." These lines of the
tragedy of "Pyramus" were very well received:
_Ah! voici le poignard qui du sang de son maître_
_Sest souillé lâchement; il en rougit, le traître!_
Behold the dagger which has basely drunk
Its master's blood! See how the traitor blushes!
There was thought to be great art in giving feeling to this dagger, in
making it red with shame at being stained with the blood of Pyramus, as
much as with the blood itself. No one exclaimed against Corneille, when,
in his tragedy of "Andromeda," Phineus says to the sun:
_Tu luis, soleil, et ta lumière_
_Semble se plaire à m'affliger._
_Ah! mon amour te va bien obliger_
_À quitter soudain ta carrière._
_Viens, soleil, viens voir la beauté,_
_Dont le divin éclat me dompte,_
_Et tu fuiras de honte_
_D'avoir moins de clarté._
O sun, thou shinest, and thy light
Seems to take pleasure in my woe;
But soon my love shall shame thee quite,
And be thy glory's overthrow.
Come, come, O sun, and view the face
Whose heavenly splendor I adore;
Then wilt thou flee apace,
And show thy own no more.
The sun flying because he is not so bright as Andromeda's face, is not
at all inferior to the blushing dagger. If such foolish sallies as these
found favor with a public whose taste it has been so difficult to form,
we cannot be surprised that strokes of wit, in which some glimmering of
beauty is discernible, should have had these charms.
Not only was this translation from the Spanish admired:
_Ce sang qui, tout versé, fume encor de courroux,_
_De se voir répandu pour d'autres que pour vous._
--CID, act ii, sc. 9.
This blood, still foaming with indignant rage,
That it was shed for others, not for you;--
not only was there thought to be a very spirited refinement in the line
of Hypsipyle to Medea, in the "Golden Fleece": "I have attractions only;
you have charms;" but it was not perceived--and few connoisseurs
perceive it yet--that in the imposing part of Cornelia, the author
almost continually puts wit where grief alone was required. This woman,
whose husband has just been assassinated, begins her studied speech to
Cæsar with a "for":
_César, car le destin que dans tes fers je brave_
_M'a fait ta prisonnière, et non pas ton esclave;_
_Et tu ne prétends pas qu'il m'abatte le cœur._
_Jusqu'à te rendre hommage et te nommer seigneur._
--MORT DE POMPÉE, act iii, sc. 4.
Cæsar,
For the hard fate that binds me in thy chains,
Makes me thy prisoner, but not thy slave;
Nor wouldst thou have it so subdue my heart
That I should call thee lord and do thee homage.
Thus she breaks off, at the very first word, in order to say that
which is at once far-fetched and false. Never was the wife of one Roman
citizen the slave of another Roman citizen: never was any Roman called
lord; and this word "lord" is, with us, nothing more than a term of
honor and ceremony, used on the stage.
_Fille de Scipion, et, pour dire encor plus,_
_Romaine, mon courage est encore au-dessus._--ID.
Daughter of Scipio, and, yet more, of Rome,
Still does my courage rise above my fate.
[Illustration: Pierre Corneille.]
Besides the defect so common to all Corneille's heroes, of thus
announcing themselves--of saying, I am great, I am courageous, admire
me--here is the very reprehensible affectation of talking of her birth,
when the head of Pompey has just been presented to Cæsar. Real
affliction expresses itself otherwise. Grief does not seek after a "yet
more." And what is worse, while she is striving to say "yet more," she
says much less. To be a daughter of Rome is indubitably less than to be
daughter of Scipio and wife of Pompey. The infamous Septimius, who
assassinated Pompey, was Roman as well as she. Thousands of Romans were
very ordinary men: but to be daughter and wife to the greatest of
Romans, was a real superiority. In this speech, then, there is false and
misplaced wit, as well as false and misplaced greatness.
She then says, after Lucan, that she ought to blush that she is alive:
_Je dois rougir, partout, après un tel malheur,_
_De n'avoir pu mourir d'un excès de douleur._--ID.
However, after such a great calamity,
I ought to blush I am not dead of grief.
Lucan, after the brilliant Augustan age, went in search of wit, because
decay was commencing; and the writers of the age of Louis XIV. at first
sought to display wit, because good taste was not then completely found,
as it afterwards was.
_César, de ta victoire écoute moins le bruit;_
_Elle n'est que l'effet du malheur qui me suit._--ID.
Cæsar, rejoice not in thy victory;
For my misfortune was its only cause.
What a poor artifice! what a false as well as impudent notion! Cæsar
conquered at Pharsalia only because Pompey married Cornelia! What labor
to say that which is neither true, nor likely, nor fit, nor interesting!
_Deux fois du monde entier j'ai causé la disgrâce._--ID.
Twice have I caused the living world's disgrace.
This is the "_bis nocui mundo_" of Lucan. This
line presents us with a very great idea; it cannot
fail to surprise; it is wanting in nothing but truth.
But it must be observed, that if this line had but
the smallest ray of verisimilitude--had it really its
birth in the pangs of grief, it would then have all
the truth, all the beauty, of theatrical fitness:
_Heureuse en mes malheurs, si ce triste hyménée_
_Pour le bonheur du monde à Rome m'eût donnée_
_Et si j'eusse avec moi porté dans ta maison._
_D'un astre envenimé l'invincible poison!_
_Car enfin n'attends pas que j'abaisse ma haine:_
_Je te l'ai déjà dit, César, je suis Romaine;_
_Et, quoique ta captive, un cœur tel que le mien,_
_De peur de s'oublier, ne te demande rien._--ID.
Yet happy in my woes, had these sad nuptials
Given me to Cæsar for the good of Rome;
Had I but carried with me to thy house
The mortal venom of a noxious star!
For think not, after all, my hate is less:
Already have I told thee I am a Roman;
And, though thy captive, such a heart as mine,
Lest it forget itself, will sue for nothing.
This is Lucan again. She wishes, in the "Pharsalia," that she had
married Cæsar.
_Atque utinam in thalamis invisi Cæsaris essem_
_Infelix conjux, et nulli læta marito!_
--_Lib._, viii, v. 88, 89.
Ah! wherefore was I not much rather led
A fatal bride to Cæsar's hated bed, etc.
--ROWE.
This sentiment is not in nature; it is at once gigantic and puerile: but
at least it is not to Cæsar that Cornelia talks thus in Lucan.
Corneille, on the contrary, makes Cornelia speak to Cæsar himself: he
makes her say that she wishes to be his wife, in order that she may
carry into his house "the mortal poison of a noxious star"; for, adds
she, my hatred cannot be abated, and I have told thee already that I am
a Roman, and I sue for nothing. Here is odd reasoning: I would fain have
married thee, to cause thy death; and I sue for nothing. Be it also
observed, that this widow heaps reproaches on Cæsar, just after Cæsar
weeps for the death of Pompey and promises to avenge it.
It is certain, that if the author had not striven to make Cornelia
witty, he would not have been guilty of the faults which, after being so
long applauded, are now perceived. The actresses can scarcely longer
palliate them, by a studied loftiness of demeanor and an imposing
elevation of voice.
The better to feel how much mere wit is below natural sentiment, let us
compare Cornelia with herself, where, in the same tirade, she says
things quite opposite:
_Je dois toutefois rendre grâce aux dieux_
_De ce qu'en arrivant je trouve en ces lieux,_
_Que César y commande, et non pas Ptolemée._
_Hélas! et sous quel astre, ó ciel, m'as-tu formée,_
_Si je leur dois des vœux, de ce qu'ils ont permis,_
_Que je recontre ici mes plus grands ennemis,_
_Et tombe entre leurs mains, plutôt qu'aux mains d'un prince_
_Qui doit à mon époux son trône et sa province._--ID.
Yet have I cause to thank the gracious gods,
That Cæsar here commands--not Ptolemy.
Alas! beneath what planet was I formed,
If I owe thanks for being thus permitted
Here to encounter my worst enemies
And fall into their hands, rather than those
Of him who to my husband owes his throne?
Let us overlook the slight defects of style, and consider how mournful
and becoming is this speech; it goes to the heart: all the rest dazzles
for a moment, and then disgusts. The following natural lines charm all
readers:
_O vous! à ma douleur objet terrible et tendre,_
_Éternel entretien de haine et de pitié,_
_Restes de grand Pompée, écoutez sa moitié, etc._
O dreadful, tender object of my grief,
Eternal source of pity and of hate,
Ye relics of great Pompey, hear me now--
Hear his yet living half.
It is by such comparisons that our taste is formed, and that we learn to
admire nothing but truth in its proper place. In the same tragedy,
Cleopatra thus expresses herself to her confidante, Charmion:
_Apprends qu'une princesse aimant sa renommée,_
_Quand elle dit qu'elle aime, est sure d'être aimée;_
_Et que les plus beaux feux dont son cœur soit épris_
_N'oseraient l'exposer aux hontes d'un mépris._
--Act ii, sc. 1.
Know, that a princess jealous of her fame,
When she owns love, is sure of a return;
And that the noblest flame her heart can feel,
Dares not expose her to rejection's shame.
Charmion might answer: Madam, I know not what the noble flame of a
princess is, which dares not expose her to shame; and as for princesses
who never say they are in love, but when they are sure of being loved--I
always enact the part of confidante at the play: and at least twenty
princesses have confessed their noble flames to me, without being at all
sure of the matter, and especially the infanta in "The Cid."
Nay, we may go further: Cæsar--Cæsar himself--addresses Cleopatra, only
to show off double-refined wit:
_Mais, ô Dieux! ce moment que je vous ai quittée_
_D'un trouble bien plus grand a mon âme agitée;_
_Et ces soins importans qui m'arrachaient de vous,_
_Contre ma grandeur même allumaient mon courroux;_
_Je lui voulais du mal de m'être si contraire;_
_Mais je lui pardonnais, au simple souvenir_
_Du bonheur qu'à ma flamme elle fait obtenir._
_C'est elle, dont je tiens cette haute espérance,_
_Qui flatte mes désirs d'une illustre apparence...._
_C'était, pour acquérir un droit si précieux;_
_Que combattait partout mon bras ambitieux;_
_Et dans Pharsale même il a tiré l'épée_
_Plus pour le conserver que pour vaincre Pompée._
--Act iv, sc. 3.
But, O the moment that I quitted you,
A greater trouble came upon my soul;
And those important cares that snatched me from you
Against my very greatness moved my ire;
I hated it for thwarting my desires....
But I have pardoned it--remembering how
At last it crowns my passion with success:
To it I owe the lofty hope which now
Flatters my view with an illustrious prospect.
'Twas but to gain this dearest privilege,
That my ambitious arm was raised in battle;
Nor did it at Pharsalia draw the sword,
So much to conquer Pompey, as to keep
This glorious hope.
Here, then, we have Cæsar hating his greatness for having taken him away
a little while from Cleopatra; but forgiving his greatness when he
remembers that this greatness has procured him the success of his
passion. He has the lofty hope of an illustrious probability; and it was
only to acquire the dear privilege of this illustrious probability, that
his ambitious arm fought the battle of Pharsalia.
It is said that this sort of wit, which it must be confessed is no other
than nonsense, was then the wit of the age. It is an intolerable abuse,
which Molière proscribed in his "_Précieuses Ridicules_."
It was of these defects, too frequent in Corneille, that La Bruyère
said: "I thought, in my early youth, that these passages were clear and
intelligible, to the actors, to the pit, and to the boxes; that their
authors themselves understood them, and that I was wrong in not
understanding them: I am undeceived."