The great Corneille having finished his studies, devoted himself to the
bar; but this was not the stage on which his abilities were to be
displayed. He followed the occupation of a lawyer for some time, without
taste and without success. A trifling circumstance discovered to the
world and to himself a different genius. A young man who was in love
with a girl of the same town, having solicited him to be his companion
in one of those secret visits which he paid to the lady, it happened
that the stranger pleased infinitely more than his introducer. The
pleasure arising from this adventure excited in Corneille a talent which
had hitherto been unknown to him, and he attempted, as if it were by
inspiration, dramatic poetry. On this little subject he wrote his comedy
of Mélite, in 1625. At that moment the French drama was at a low ebb:
the most favourable ideas were formed of our juvenile poet, and comedy,
it was expected, would now reach its perfection. After the tumult of
approbation had ceased, the critics thought that Mélite was too simple
and barren of incident. Roused by this criticism, our poet wrote his
Clitandre, and in that piece has scattered incidents and adventures with
such a licentious profusion, that the critics say he wrote it rather to
expose the public taste than to accommodate himself to it. In this piece
the persons combat on the theatre; there are murders and assassinations;
heroines fight; officers appear in search of murderers, and women are
disguised as men. There is matter sufficient for a romance of ten
volumes; "And yet," says a French critic, "nothing can be more cold and
tiresome." He afterwards indulged his natural genius in various other
performances; but began to display more forcibly his tragic powers in
Medea. A comedy which he afterwards wrote was a very indifferent
composition. He regained his full lustre in the famous Cid, a tragedy,
of which he preserved in his closet translations in all the European
languages, except the Sclavonian and the Turkish. He pursued his
poetical career with uncommon splendour in the Horaces, Cinna, and at
length in Polyeucte; which productions, the French critics say, can
never be surpassed.
At length the tragedy of "Pertharite" appeared, and proved unsuccessful.
This so much disgusted our veteran bard, that, like Ben Jonson, he could
not conceal his chagrin in the preface. There the poet tells us that he
renounces the theatre for ever! and indeed this _eternity_ lasted for
_several years_!
Disgusted by the fate of his unfortunate tragedy, he directed his
poetical pursuits to a different species of composition. He now finished
his translation in verse, of the "Imitation of Jesus Christ," by Thomas
à Kempis. This work, perhaps from the singularity of its dramatic author
becoming a religious writer, was attended with astonishing success. Yet
Fontenelle did not find in this translation the prevailing charm of the
original, which consists in that simplicity and _naïveté_ which are lost
in the pomp of versification so natural to Corneille. "This book," he
continues, "the finest that ever proceeded from the hand of man (since
the gospel does not come from man) would not go so direct to the heart,
and would not seize on it with such force, if it had not a natural and
tender air, to which even that negligence which prevails in the style
greatly contributes." Voltaire appears to confirm the opinion of our
critic, in respect to the translation: "It is reported that Corneille's
translation of the Imitation of Jesus Christ has been printed thirty-two
times; it is as difficult to believe this as it is to _read the book
once_!"
Corneille seems not to have been ignorant of the truth of this
criticism. In his dedication to the Pope, he says, "The translation
which I have chosen, by the simplicity of its style, precludes all the
rich ornaments of poetry, and far from increasing my reputation, must be
considered rather as a sacrifice made to the glory of the Sovereign
Author of all, which I may have acquired by my poetical productions."
This is an excellent elucidation of the truth of that precept of Johnson
which respects religious poetry; but of which the author of "Calvary"
seemed not to have been sensible. The merit of religious compositions
appears, like this "Imitation of Jesus Christ," to consist in a
simplicity inimical to the higher poetical embellishments; these are too
human!
When Racine, the son, published a long poem on "Grace," taken in its
holy sense, a most unhappy subject at least for poetry; it was said that
he had written on _Grace_ without _grace_.
During the space of six years Corneille rigorously kept his promise of
not writing for the theatre. At length, overpowered by the persuasions
of his friends, and probably by his own inclinations, he once more
directed his studies to the drama. He recommenced in 1659, and finished
in 1675. During this time he wrote ten new pieces, and published a
variety of little religious poems, which, although they do not attract
the attention of posterity, were then read with delight, and probably
preferred to the finest tragedies by the good catholics of the day.
In 1675 he terminated his career. In the last year of his life his mind
became so enfeebled as to be incapable of thinking, and he died in
extreme poverty. It is true that his uncommon genius had been amply
rewarded; but amongst his talents that of preserving the favours of
fortune he had not acquired.
Fontenelle, his nephew, presents a minute and interesting description of
this great man. Vigneul Marville says, that when he saw Corneille he had
the appearance of a country tradesman, and he could not conceive how a
man of so rustic an appearance could put into the mouths of his Romans
such heroic sentiments. Corneille was sufficiently large and full in his
person; his air simple and vulgar; always negligent; and very little
solicitous of pleasing by his exterior. His face had something
agreeable, his nose large, his mouth not unhandsome, his eyes full of
fire, his physiognomy lively, with strong features, well adapted to be
transmitted to posterity on a medal or bust. His pronunciation was not
very distinct: and he read his verses with force, but without grace.
He was acquainted with polite literature, with history, and politics;
but he generally knew them best as they related to the stage. For other
knowledge he had neither leisure, curiosity, nor much esteem. He spoke
little, even on subjects which he perfectly understood. He did not
embellish what he said, and to discover the great Corneille it became
necessary to read him.
He was of a melancholy disposition, had something blunt in his manner,
and sometimes he appeared rude; but in fact he was no disagreeable
companion, and made a good father and husband. He was tender, and his
soul was very susceptible of friendship. His constitution was very
favourable to love, but never to debauchery, and rarely to violent
attachment. His soul was fierce and independent: it could never be
managed, for it would never bend. This, indeed, rendered him very
capable of portraying Roman virtue, but incapable of improving his
fortune. Nothing equalled his incapacity for business but his aversion:
the slightest troubles of this kind occasioned him alarm and terror. He
was never satiated with praise, although he was continually receiving
it; but if he was sensible to fame, he was far removed from vanity.
What Fontenelle observes of Corneille's love of fame is strongly proved
by our great poet himself, in an epistle to a friend, in which we find
the following remarkable description of himself; an instance that what
the world calls vanity, at least interests in a great genius.
Nous nous aimons un peu, c'est notre foible à tous;
Le prix que nous valons que le sçait mieux que nous?
Et puis la mode en est, et la cour l'autorise,
Nous parlons de nous-mêmes avec toute franchise,
La fausse humilité ne met plus en credit.
Je sçais ce que je vaux, et crois ce qu'on m'en dit,
Pour me faire admirer je ne fais point de ligue;
J'ai peu de voix pour moi, mais je les ai sans brigue;
Et mon ambition, pour faire plus de bruit
Ne les va point quêter de réduit en réduit.
Mon travail sans appui monte sur le theâtre,
Chacun en liberté l'y blame ou idolâtre;
Là, sans que mes amis prêchent leurs sentimens,
J'arrache quelquefois leurs applaudissemens;
Là, content da succès que le mérite donne,
Par d'illustres avis je n'éblouis personne;
Je satisfais ensemble et peuple et courtisans;
Et mes vers en tous lieux sent mes seuls partisans;
Par leur seule beauté ma plume est estimée;
Je ne dois qu'à moi seul toute ma renommée;
Et pense toutefois n'avoir point de rival,
A qui je fasse tort, en le traitant d'égal.