Essence of Tragedy and Comedy--Earnestness and Sport--How far it is
possible to become acquainted with the Ancients without knowing Original
Languages--Winkelmann.
The importance of our subject is, I think, fully proved. Let us now enter
upon a brief consideration of the two kinds into which all dramatic poetry
is divided, the _tragic_ and _comic_, and examine the meaning and import
of each.
The three principal kinds of poetry in general are the epic, the lyric,
and the dramatic. All the other subordinate species are either derived
from these, or formed by combination from them. If we would consider these
three leading kinds in their purity, we must go back to the forms in which
they appeared among the Greeks. For the theory of poetical art is most
conveniently illustrated by the history of Grecian poetry; for the latter
is well entitled to the appellation of systematical, since it furnishes
for every independent idea derived from experience the most distinct and
precise manifestation.
It is singular that epic and lyric poetry admit not of any such precise
division into two opposite species, as the dramatic does. The ludicrous
epopee has, it is true, been styled a peculiar species, but it is only an
accidental variety, a mere parody of the epos, and consists in applying
its solemn staidness of development, which seems only suitable to great
objects, to trifling and insignificant events. In lyric poetry there are
only intervals and gradations between the song, the ode, and the elegy,
but no proper contrast.
The spirit of epic poetry, as we recognise it in its father, Homer, is
clear self-possession. The epos is the calm quiet representation of an
action in progress. The poet relates joyful as well as mournful events,
but he relates them with equanimity, and considers them as already past,
and at a certain remoteness from our minds.
The lyric poem is the musical expression of mental emotions by language.
The essence of musical feeling consists in this, that we endeavour with
complacency to dwell on, and even to perpetuate in our souls, a joyful or
painful emotion. The feeling must consequently be already so far mitigated
as not to impel us by the desire of its pleasure or the dread of its pain,
to tear ourselves from it, but such as to allow us, unconcerned at the
fluctuations of feeling which time produces, to dwell upon and be absorbed
in a single moment of existence.
The dramatic poet, as well as the epic, represents external events, but he
represents them as real and present. In common with the lyric poet he also
claims our mental participation, but not in the same calm composedness;
the feeling of joy and sorrow which the dramatist excites is more
immediate and vehement. He calls forth all the emotions which the sight of
similar deeds and fortunes of living men would elicit, and it is only by
the total sum of the impression which he produces that he ultimately
resolves these conflicting emotions into a harmonious tone of feeling. As
he stands in such close proximity to real life, and endeavours to endue
his own imaginary creations with vitality, the equanimity of the epic poet
would in him be indifference; he must decidedly take part with one or
other of the leading views of human life, and constrain his audience also
to participate in the same feeling.
To employ simpler and more intelligible language: the _tragic_ and
_comic_ bear the same relation to one another as _earnest_ and _sport_.
Every man, from his own experience, is acquainted with both these states
of mind; but to determine their essence and their source would demand deep
philosophical investigation. Both, indeed, bear the stamp of our common
nature; but earnestness belongs more to its moral, and mirth to its animal
part. The creatures destitute of reason are incapable either of earnest or
of sport. Animals seem indeed at times to labour as if they were earnestly
intent upon some aim, and as if they made the present moment subordinate
to the future; at other times they seem to sport, that is, they give
themselves up without object or purpose to the pleasure of existence: but
they do not possess consciousness, which alone can entitle these two
conditions to the names of earnest and sport. Man alone, of all the
animals with which we are acquainted, is capable of looking back towards
the past, and forward into futurity; and he has to purchase the enjoyment
of this noble privilege at a dear rate. Earnestness, in the most extensive
signification, is the direction of our mental powers to some aim. But as
soon as we begin to call ourselves to account for our actions, reason
compels us to fix this aim higher and higher, till we come at last to the
highest end of our existence: and here that longing for the infinite which
is inherent in our being, is baffled by the limits of our finite
existence. All that we do, all that we effect, is vain and perishable;
death stands everywhere in the back ground, and to it every well or ill-
spent moment brings us nearer and closer; and even when a man has been so
singularly fortunate as to reach the utmost term of life without any
grievous calamity, the inevitable doom still awaits him to leave or to be
left by all that is most dear to him on earth. There is no bond of love
without a separation, no enjoyment without the grief of losing it. When,
however, we contemplate the relations of our existence to the extreme
limit of possibilities: when we reflect on its entire dependence on a
chain of causes and effects, stretching beyond our ken: when we consider
how weak and helpless, and doomed to struggle against the enormous powers
of nature, and conflicting appetites, we are cast on the shores of an
unknown world, as it were, shipwrecked at our very birth; how we are
subject to all kinds of errors and deceptions, any one of which may
be our ruin; that in our passions we cherish an enemy in our bosoms; how
every moment demands from us, in the name of the most sacred duties, the
sacrifice of our dearest inclinations, and how at one blow we may be
robbed of all that we have acquired with much toil and difficulty; that
with every accession to our stores, the risk of loss is proportionately
increased, and we are only the more exposed to the malice of hostile
fortune: when we think upon all this, every heart which is not dead to
feeling must be overpowered by an inexpressible melancholy, for which
there is no other counter-poise than the consciousness of a vocation
transcending the limits of this earthly life. This is the tragic tone of
mind; and when the thought of the possible issues out of the mind as a
living reality, when this tone pervades and animates a visible
representation of the most striking instances of violent revolutions in a
man's fortunes, either prostrating his mental energies or calling forth
the most heroic endurance--then the result is _Tragic Poetry_. We thus see
how this kind of poetry has its foundation in our nature, while to a
certain extent we have also answered the question, why we are fond of
such mournful representations, and even find something consoling and
elevating in them? This tone of mind we have described is inseparable from
strong feeling; and although poetry cannot remove these internal
dissonances, she must at least endeavour to effect an ideal reconciliation
of them.
As earnestness, in the highest degree, is the essence of tragic
representation; so is sport of the comic. The disposition to mirth is a
forgetfulness of all gloomy considerations in the pleasant feeling of
present happiness. We are then inclined to view every thing in a sportive
light, and to allow nothing to disturb or ruffle our minds. The
imperfections and the irregularities of men are no longer an object of
dislike and compassion, but serve, by their strange inconsistencies, to
entertain the understanding and to amuse the fancy. The comic poet must
therefore carefully abstain from whatever is calculated to excite moral
indignation at the conduct, or sympathy with the situations of his
personages, because this would inevitably bring us back again into
earnestness. He must paint their irregularities as springing out of the
predominance of the animal part of their nature, and the incidents which
befal them as merely ludicrous distresses, which will be attended with no
fatal consequences. This is uniformly what takes place in what we call
Comedy, in which, however, there is still a mixture of seriousness, as I
shall show in the sequel. The oldest comedy of the Greeks was, however,
entirely sportive, and in that respect formed the most complete contrast
to their tragedy. Not only were the characters and situations of
individuals worked up into a comic picture of real life, but the whole
frame of society, the constitution, nature, and the gods, were all
fantastically painted in the most ridiculous and laughable colours.
When we have formed in this manner a pure idea of the tragic and comic, as
exhibited to us in Grecian examples, we shall then be enabled to analyze
the various corruptions of both, which the moderns have invented, to
discriminate their incongruous additions, and to separate their several
ingredients.
In the history of poetry and the fine arts among the Greeks, their
development was subject to an invariable law. Everything heterogeneous was
first excluded, and then all homogeneous elements were combined, and each
being perfected in itself, at last elevated into an independent and
harmonious unity. Hence with them each species is confined within its
natural boundaries, and the different styles distinctly marked. In
beginning, therefore, with the history of the Grecian art and poetry, we
are not merely observing the order of time, but also the order of ideas.
In the case of the majority of my hearers, I can hardly presume upon a
direct acquaintance with the Greeks, derived from the study of their
poetical works in the original language. Translations in prose, or even in
verse, in which they are but dressed up again in the modern taste, can
afford no true idea of the Grecian drama. True and faithful translations,
which endeavour in expression and versification to rise to the height of
the original, have as yet been attempted only in Germany. But although our
language is extremely flexible, and in many respects resembling the Greek,
it is after all a battle with unequal weapons; and stiffness and harshness
not unfrequently take the place of the easy sweetness of the Greek. But we
are even far from having yet done all that can perhaps be accomplished: I
know of no translation of a Greek tragedian deserving of unqualified
praise. But even supposing the translation as perfect as possible, and
deviating very slightly from the original, the reader who is unacquainted
with the other works of the Greeks, will be perpetually disturbed by the
foreign nature of the subject, by national peculiarities and numerous
allusions (which cannot be understood without some scholarship), and thus
unable to comprehend particular parts, he will be prevented from forming a
clear idea of the whole. So long as we have to struggle with difficulties
it is impossible to have any true enjoyment of a work of art. To feel the
ancients as we ought, we must have become in some degree one of
themselves, and breathed as it were the Grecian air.
What is the best means of becoming imbued with the spirit of the Greeks,
without a knowledge of their language? I answer without hesitation,--the
study of the antique; and if this is not always possible through the
originals, yet, by means of casts, it is to a certain extent within the
power of every man. These models of the human form require no
interpretation; their elevated character is imperishable, and will always
be recognized through all vicissitudes of time, and in every region under
heaven, wherever there exists a noble race of men akin to the Grecian (as
the European undoubtedly is), and wherever the unkindness of nature has
not degraded the human features too much below the pure standard, and, by
habituating them to their own deformity, rendered them insensible to
genuine corporeal beauty. Respecting the inimitable perfection of the
antique in its few remains of a first-rate character, there is but one
voice throughout the whole of civilized Europe; and if ever their merit
was called in question, it was in times when the modern arts of design had
sunk to the lowest depths of mannerism. Not only all intelligent artists,
but all men of any degree of taste, bow with enthusiastic adoration before
the masterly productions of ancient sculpture.
The best guide to conduct us to this sanctuary of the beautiful, with deep
and thoughtful contemplation, is the History of Art by our immortal
Winkelmann. In the description of particular works it no doubt leaves much
to be desired; nay, it even abounds in grave errors, but no man has so
deeply penetrated into the innermost spirit of Grecian art. Winkelmann
transformed himself completely into an ancient, and seemingly lived in his
own century, unmoved by its spirit and influences.
The immediate subject of his work is the plastic arts, but it contains
also many important hints concerning other branches of Grecian
civilisation, and is very useful as a preparation for the understanding of
their poetry, and especially their dramatic poetry. As the latter was
designed for visible representation before spectators, whose eye must have
been as difficult to please on the stage as elsewhere, we have no better
means of feeling the whole dignity of their tragic exhibitions, and of
giving it a sort of theatrical animation, than to keep these forms of gods
and heroes ever present to our fancy. The assertion may appear somewhat
strange at present, but I hope in the sequel to demonstrate its justice:
it is only before the groups of Niobe or Laocoön that we first enter into
the spirit of the tragedies of Sophocles.
We are yet in want of a work in which the entire poetic, artistic,
scientific, and social culture of the Greeks should be painted as one
grand and harmonious whole, as a true work of nature, prevaded by the most
wondrous symmetry and proportion of the parts, and traced through its
connected development in the same spirit which Winkelmann has executed in
the part which he attempted. An attempt has indeed been made in a popular
work, which is in everybody's hands, I mean the _Travels of the Younger
Anacharsis_. This book is valuable for its learning, and may be very
useful in diffusing a knowledge of antiquities; but, without censuring the
error of the dress in which it is exhibited, it betrays more good-will to
do justice to the Greeks, than ability to enter deeply into their spirit.
In this respect the work is in many points superficial, and even
disfigured with modern views. It is not the travels of a young Scythian,
but of an old Parisian.
The superior excellence of the Greeks in the fine arts, as I have already
said, is the most universally acknowledged. An enthusiasm for their
literature is in a great measure confined to the English and Germans,
among whom also the study of the Grecian language is the most zealously
prosecuted. It is singular that the French critics of all others, they who
so zealously acknowledge the remains of the theoretical writings of the
ancients on literature, Aristotle, Horace, Quinctilian, &c., as infallible
standards of taste, should yet distinguish themselves by the contemptuous
and irreverent manner in which they speak of their poetical compositions,
and especially of their dramatic literature. Look, for instance, into a
book very much read,--La Harpe's _Cours de Littérature_. It contains
many acute remarks on the French Theatre; but whoever should think to
learn the Greeks from it must be very ill advised: the author was as
deficient in a solid knowledge of their literature as in a sense for
appreciating it. Voltaire, also, often speaks most unwarrantably on this
subject: he elevates or lowers them at the suggestions of his caprice, or
according to the purpose of the moment to produce such or such an effect
on the mind of the public. I remember too to have read a cursory critique
of Metastasio's on the Greek tragedians, in which he treats them like so
many school-boys. Racine is much more modest, and cannot be in any manner
charged with this sort of presumption: even because he was the best
acquainted of all of them with the Greeks. It is easy to see into the
motives of these hostile critics. Their national and personal vanity has
much to do with the matter; conceiting themselves that they have far
surpassed the ancients, they venture to commit such observations to the
public, knowing that the works of the ancient poets have come down to us
in a dead language, accessible only to the learned, without the animating
accompaniment of recitation, music, ideal and truly plastic impersonation,
and scenic pomp; all which, in every respect worthy of the poetry, was on
the Athenian stage combined in such wonderful harmony, that if only it
could be represented to our eye and ear, it would at once strike dumb the
whole herd of these noisy and interested critics. The ancient statues
require no commentary; they speak for themselves, and everything like
competition on the part of a modern artist would be regarded as ridiculous
pretension. In respect of the theatre, they lay great stress on the
infancy of the art; and because these poets lived two thousand years
before us, they conclude that we must have made great progress since. In
this way poor Aeschylus especially is got rid of. But in sober truth, if
this was the infancy of dramatic art, it was the infancy of a Hercules,
who strangled serpents in his cradle.
I have already expressed my opinion on that blind partiality for the
ancients, which regards their excellence as a frigid faultlessness, and
which exhibits them as models, in such a way as to put a stop to
everything like improvement, and reduce us to abandon the exercise of art
as altogether fruitless. I, for my part, am disposed to believe that
poetry, as the fervid expression of our whole being, must assume new and
peculiar forms in different ages. Nevertheless, I cherish an enthusiastic
veneration for the Greeks, as a people endowed, by the peculiar favour of
Nature, with the most perfect genius for art; in the consciousness of
which, they gave to all the nations with which they were acquainted,
compared with themselves, the appellation of barbarians,--an appellation
in the use of which they were in some degree justified. I would not wish
to imitate certain travellers, who, on returning from a country which
their readers cannot easily visit, give such exaggerated accounts of it,
and relate so many marvels, as to hazard their own character for veracity.
I shall rather endeavour to characterize them as they appear to me after
sedulous and repeated study, without concealing their defects, and to
bring a living picture of the Grecian stage before the eyes of my hearers.
We shall treat first of the Tragedy of the Greeks, then of their
_Old_ Comedy, and lastly of the _New_ Comedy which arose out of it.
The same theatrical accompaniments were common to all the three kinds. We
must, therefore, give a short preliminary view of the theatre, its
architecture and decorations, that we may have a distinct idea of their
representation.
The histrionic art of the ancients had also many peculiarities: the use of
masks, for example, although these were quite different in tragedy and
comedy; in the former, _ideal_, and in the latter, at least in the Old
Comedy, somewhat caricatured.
In tragedy, we shall first consider what constituted its most distinctive
peculiarity among the ancients: the ideality of the representation, the
prevailing idea of destiny, and the chorus; and we shall lastly treat of
their mythology, as the materials of tragic poetry. We shall then proceed
to characterize, in the three tragedians of whom alone entire works still
remain, the different styles--that is, the necessary epochs in the history
of the tragic art.