exception of the _dénouement_, he has rejected and invented
none. Now facts are precisely what Voltaire has not borrowed from
Shakspeare. The entire contexture of the drama, the places,
incidents, and springs of action, are all new--all of his own
creation. That which struck Voltaire, and which he desired to
reproduce, was the passion, the jealousy--its blindness and
violence; the conflict of love and duty, and its tragic results.
The whole power of his imagination was brought to bear upon the
development of this position. The fable, a free invention, was
constructed with this sole end in view. Lusignan, Nerestan, the
ransom of the prisoners--all the circumstances are intended to
place Zaire between her love and the faith of her father, to
explain the error of Orosmane, and thus to lead to the
progressive manifestation of the feelings which the poet desired
to delineate.
{225}
He has not impressed upon his personages an individual and
complete character, independent of the circumstances in which
they appear. They exist only by and for passion. Beyond their
love and their misfortune, Orosmane and Zaire have nothing to
distinguish them, to give them a physiognomy peculiarly their
own, and to make them every where recognizable. They are not real
individuals, in whom are revealed, in connection with one of the
incidents of their life, the particular characteristics of their
nature and the impress of their whole existence. They are in some
sort general, and consequently, somewhat vague beings, in whom
love, jealousy, and misfortune are momentarily personified, and
who interest less on their own account, and by reason of their
own character, than because they then become for a time the
representatives of this portion of the feelings and possible
destinies of human nature.
From this manner of conceiving the subject, Voltaire has derived
admirable beauties. Grave defects and omissions have also
resulted from it. The gravest of all is that romantic tint which,
as it were, subjects the whole man to love, and thus limits the
field of poetry, at the same time that it derogates from truth. I
will quote only one example of the effects of this system; but it
will suffice to indicate all.
The Senate of Venice has just assured Othello of the tranquil
possession of Desdemona; he is happy, but he must depart; he must
embark for Cyprus, and devote his attention to the expedition
confided to his care; so he says,
"Come, Desdemona, I have but an hour
Of love, of worldly matter and direction,
To spend with thee: we must obey the time."
{226}
These lines struck Voltaire, and he has imitated them; but, in
imitating them, what does he put into the mouth of Orosmane, when
equally happy and confident? Just the contrary of what Othello
says:
"Je vais donner une heure aux soins de mon empire,
Et le reste du jour sera a Zaire."
Thus Orosmane, the proud sultan, who, a moment before, was
speaking of war and conquest, expressing his alarm for the fate
of the Mussulmans, and blaming the sloth of his neighbors, now
appears as neither sultan nor warrior; he forgets all else, and
becomes only a lover. Assuredly, Othello is not less passionate
than Orosmane, and his passion will be neither less credulous nor
less violent; but he does not abdicate, in an instant, all the
interests, and all the thoughts, of his past and future life.
Love possesses his heart without invading his whole existence.
The passion of Orosmane is that of a young man who has never done
any thing, and never had any thing to do, and who is as yet
ignorant of the necessities and labors of the real world. That of
Othello takes root in a more complete, more experienced, and more
serious character. I believe it to be less factitious, and in
greater conformity to moral probabilities, as well as to positive
truth. But, however this may be, the difference between the two
systems is fully revealed in this feature alone. In one the
passion and the position are all; from them the poet derives all
his means. In the other he obtains his resources from individual
characters and the whole of human nature; passion and a position
are, for him, only an opportunity for bringing them on the stage
with greater energy and interest.
{227}
The action which constitutes the subject of "Othello" must be
referred to the year 1570, the period of the principal attack of
the Turks on the island of Cyprus, then under the rule of the
Venetians. As for the date of the composition of the tragedy
itself, Mr. Malone fixes it in the year 1611. Some critics doubt
whether Shakspeare was acquainted with the original novel of
Giraldi Cinthio, and suppose that he only had access to a French
imitation of it, published at Paris in 1584, by Gabriel Chappuys.
But the exactness with which Shakspeare has conformed to the
Italian narrative, even in the slightest details, leads me to
believe that he made use of some more literal English
translation.
{228}
Shakspeare's Othello,
And
Dramatic Art In France In 1830
By The Duke De Broglie. [Footnote 28]
[Footnote 28: Reprinted from the "Revue Franca se."
January. 1830]
It was not in vain that some far-seeing, conservative, and
especially wise spirits addressed themselves to the authorities
in the year of grace 1829; and not without good reason did they
call to their aid Cæsar and his legions--that is to say, his
excellency the Minister of the Interior and the honorable
gentlemen of the Chamber of Deputies, adjuring them to save the
sanctuary of the Muses from ruin, and to repulse the onward
advance of the barbarians. The danger was only too real; and this
time, as in times gone by, as Cæsar paid no regard to it, their
pathetic complaints, their _gemitus Britannorum_, having
been dissolved into empty vapor, behold now the evil has become
irremediable! The barbarians who knocked at the doors, emboldened
by impunity, have forced their way through the first inclosure;
they have made a breach in the body of the place; or rather, they
have constrained the citadel itself to capitulate. The Théâtre
Français has surrendered through want of timely succor, because
the opportunity for infusing into it new vitality was neglected.
Attila-Shakspeare has taken possession of it with arms and
baggage, his banners are streaming, and the clang of a thousand
trumpet-calls sound in wild confusion.
{229}
Alas! poor poets of the old school, what will become of you?
Naught remains but that feeble souls should surrender at
discretion, and sacrifice themselves on the altars of the false
gods, and that true believers should cover their faces with their
mantles.
Banter apart, the revolution which has for some time been going
on in the taste of the public is a curious phenomenon, and one
singularly worthy of attention. Never has a remarkable change
been introduced in a more startling mode and with greater
rapidity.
Scarcely twenty years have elapsed since M. Nepomucène Lemercier
launched, on the stage of the Odeon, the vessel which conveyed
Christopher Columbus and his genius from Spain to America. We
know what was the actual reception which this attempt in the
romantic style met with. However, the name of the author
commanded respect, and his rare talent gave him at least a right
to indulgence. In other respects he proved himself quite as hardy
and prudent as his hero; he had, before hazarding his adventure,
neglected nothing in order to disarm the prejudices of the pit.
He only offered this foundling child as a caprice of his
imagination--an unimportant freak; in decorating it, he had not
scrupled to profane the consecrated regulations of tragedy, of
comedy, yea, even of melodrama. His friends protested in favor of
his profound regard for the triple unity; for the most sacred
Aristotelian trinity; for the canonical precepts which had been
consecrated in the poetic codes of Horace and Boileau, and
illustrated in the learned glosses of Le Batteux and La Harpe,
and in the "Rhetoric for Young Ladies." Useless precautions! In
spite of the originality and unquestionable beauties which he
displayed, his unfortunate "Columbus" was outrageously and
repeatedly hissed.
{230}
Those who ventured to do him justice paid dearly for such
audacity; they narrowly escaped being torn to pieces by the rest
of the spectators, to such an excessive height was the popular
indignation roused; there were, if we remember rightly, two who
were almost knocked down on the spot--martyrs to a cause which
had hardly sprung into life--the John Huss and Jerome of Prague,
of a doctrine which was yet to have its Luther and its
Melancthon.
At the present day, we behold at our theatres, with the greatest
composure, the representation of pieces in which a duration of
some twenty, thirty, or forty years, as the case may be, is
condensed into an hour between eight and nine o'clock in the
evening; pieces in which, literally speaking, the principal
personage,
"Enfant au premier acte, est barbon au dernier;"
pieces which are not, in other respects, very much entitled to
the indulgence which is thus shown to them. While seated serenely
upon our benches, we follow, without the smallest compunction,
King Louis XI. from Plessis-les-Tours to Péronne, only regretting
that this trifling cruise is not for us entirely a
pleasure-voyage.
Seven or eight years ago two or three English comedians, who
happened to be in Paris, formed the scheme of giving us at the
Theatre of the Porte Saint-Martin--the Theatre of the "Femme à
deux Maris" and of the "Pied de Mouton"--a specimen of their
skill. Forthwith a great stir arose. The capture of Calais and of
Dunkirk by the troops of his Britannic majesty would not
certainly have excited a more patriotic wrath. As the guardians
of pure doctrines, and the depositaries of wholesome traditions
in all matters of taste, the boulevard public took this matter in
hand with a quite inconceivable violence, and had it not been for
the intervention of the police, Heaven only knows whether the
unfortunate gentlemen of the histrionic art from the other side
of the Channel would not have been stoned.
{231}
Who could then have foreseen that, three years later, the lions
of Covent Garden and Drury Lane would continually cross and
recross the Channel to minister to our gratification? that the
most brilliant company of Paris would assiduously throng the most
fashionable of our theatres in order to applaud them to the echo,
and to lavish upon their system of declamation eulogies which
(may we venture to say so?) were perhaps rather exaggerated?
Every one will recollect the murmurs which, on the occasion of
the first representation of the "Cid d'Andalousie," interrupted
that charming scene in which the hero of the piece, sitting
tranquilly at the feet of his beloved--without purpose for the
future, undisturbed by present cares, completely possessed with
the idea of his approaching happiness, profoundly forgetful of
the world, of men, and of all things--occupies her with the fond
recital of the progress of their mutual love, and recalls to her,
in verses full of delicacy and grace, the first stealthy
indications of their unspoken attachment.
On this occasion, neither the talents of Talma nor those of
Mademoiselle Mars could obtain any tolerance from the rigorous
severity of the pit. The pit found that a beautiful scene was an
appendage, that it interfered with the rapidity of the action; in
one word, that it openly violated the rule, _Semper ad eventum
festina;_ it was, therefore, inexorable.
{232}
Enter into the Thèâtre Français on the following day there you
will see Desdemona devoted to death by the stern Othello, yet
half escaping from his sinister designs and terribly distorted
misconceptions, on the point of crossing the threshold of that
fatal chamber which was to become her sepulchre; you will see
her, we say, pausing to detach, piece by piece, in the presence
of the public, the ornaments with which she is decked, and to
converse carelessly with her maid; you will see her interrupt
your confidence in the reality of the distress which is harrowing
her, by informing herself of the news brought from Venice by her
young relative, the messenger of the Senate; then, all at once,
recalling to her memory the days of her childhood, you will hear
her murmur, in an under-tone, an old ballad no way indicating her
position, except by the inexplicable sadness which is impressed
upon her. You will see her at length terminate this conversation
by gravely discussing the virtue and the frailty of women; by
reproving with a modest and indulgent dignity the fickleness of
Emilia, and humbly praying God to watch over her, and to keep her
ever pure and discreet. And you will see the public justly
delighted with this scene, and manifesting far more chagrin than
impatience at its close.
It is right, nevertheless, to remark one thing; namely, that this
remarkable revolution has been accomplished in respect to the
taste of the public rather, or at least more decidedly, than with
respect to its doctrines.
If a dramatic work be presented to the public, constructed
according to the new ideas, it is received with a degree of
eagerness--the public is pleased with it--it alone suffices to
put them into good humor. The cup-and-ball and penny-trumpet
playthings of the favorites of Henry III., more than any kind of
merit that belongs to the piece, have sustained the position of
M. Dumas's drama. [Footnote 29]
[Footnote 29: "Henri III. et sa Cour."]
{233}
The delight of seeing Richard of England--deformed, crippled, and
facetious--has redeemed whatever might be deemed repulsive in the
subject of "Jane Shore." "Olga" owes its success to the singular
circumstance of its having been played by comic actors; and
"Marino Faliero" owes some little of its repute to the idea which
it suggests of a false alliance between tragedy and melodrama.
But to tolerate, to connive, even to look with some satisfaction,
is not entirely to approve. Should any one attempt to build too
hastily on this foundation, if he were to rush to the conclusion
that this same public has distinctly taken part in the
controversy which has divided the literary world for fifteen or
twenty years, he would very soon find himself considerably
mistaken; in fact, there is often a very great difference between
a man's actions and his principles, and many men who would gladly
be libertines would not dare openly to declare themselves
free-thinkers. Our public smiles at the attempts of the
innovators, but can not escape feeling a few qualms of
conscience; it is gratified at them, but it is not quite sure
whether it has any good right and reason for its gratification.
Success and applause you may obtain from them, and that even at a
very cheap rate; provided, however, that this shall not be
understood as furnishing any authoritative precedent. If, on the
other hand, matters take a more serious turn; if you ask the
public to commit itself by a definite profession of faith, and to
give its sanction, by any reflective and irrevocable act, to any
dogmas of dramatic reform, you will be surprised at finding this
same public infinitely circumspect.
We need not go far in search of the proof of this; the
manifestations which were made at the first representation of the
"Moor of Venice" were such as to leave no doubts on this point.
{234}
On this occasion, in fact, the attempt was made without disguise.
In its reception, there was no possibility of giving a tacit
recognition of the change, while refusing, under shallow
pretexts, to avow it. It was no longer a question as to the
amount of encouragement that might be bestowed on a young author;
there could be no pretense of complacently shutting the eyes to
this or that license, in consideration of the address and caution
shown in the style of its presentation; and no motive for
indulgence could be suggested either by the small importance of
the work itself, or by the more or less fluctuating condition of
the theatre. No! Now a real verdict had to be pronounced; either
a dramatic system entirely opposed to our own must be
inaugurated, before gods and men, or its establishment must be
defeated; either William Shakspeare must be received, or rejected
as a rival of the masters of our stage.
This event had been for a long time in preparation; and the
result was awaited with some impatience. While announcing it with
the most varying expectations, the majority of our public
journals agreed in declaring that this would be a memorable
day--a day on which the dispute between the classical and
romantic schools would be fought out upon an open arena--a day
which must decide either for the triumph or for the failure of
the new doctrines in literature.
Alas for the feebleness of human foresight! This so decisive day
has passed, and, on the whole, we remain in very nearly the same
position as before. The work of the great British tragedian was
saluted with a thunder of applause; this intelligence was
communicated by these same journals, but they also informed us
that the thunder of applause proceeded almost exclusively from a
small group of passionate admirers, who had come with the set
purpose of going into ecstasies at every point, comma, or
interjection, and of bestowing with profuse liberality the
epithets of idiot, imbecile, and dolt upon every one who might
seem to hesitate.
{235}
On the other hand, sufficiently audible hisses broke out in
different places; but it appeared that these hisses proceeded not
less exclusively from another small group, quite as insignificant
as the other, of embittered detractors, resolved to consider
every thing detestable, and to repay with equal liberality the
vituperative epithets hurled at them by their adversaries.
Between these two factions, the body of the audience in the pit
appears to have preserved a reasonable neutrality. They were
evidently on their guard, fearing lest their consecrated maxims
should be violated, and they be led into some hasty
demonstrations of feeling; and yet they were sensible, profoundly
sensible, of the great beauties of the piece. Accordingly, during
the whole course of the representation, they appeared constantly
curious, astonished, moved, indulgent, submitting with good grace
to the boldest departures from received rules; they willingly,
though without warmth or violence, joined in the attempt to
silence the detractors; and they good-naturedly allowed free
scope to the enthusiasts, while taking great care not to enlist
themselves on their side, or to mingle in their transports. Thus,
then, their hearts were gained, but their minds remained still
undecided; the difficulty with our reformers is not in obtaining
a hearing; it is in procuring an open recognition even from those
who give them their best possible wishes. They are in the same
position as that which the negroes of Saint Domingo occupied
during twenty years; the public refuses, or at least hesitates,
to recognize them. But with patience they will ultimately attain
their end; when once, in a revolution, power has been decidedly
gained, right is never long withheld; they have triumphed over
unreasonable habits and prejudices, and over involuntary
opposition; this was the most intricate part of their work;
theories, especially those which are a little superannuated, have
not so lingering an existence.
{236}
Such, then, being the state of things--the progress of the spirit
of innovation becoming every day increasingly manifest--it
remains that we should inquire into the cause of this, and ask
whether the change is for the better or for the worse--whether
the spirit of innovation is, this time, a spirit of light or a
spirit of darkness!
A spirit of darkness, it is exclaimed, from one quarter--a
veritable child of perdition!
Consult, for instance, many of our men of taste; enter, if
admission is allowed to you, into one of their assemblies; and
there, at first, you will hear much noise about the confusion of
species, the neglect of rules, the forgetfulness of sound
doctrines, and the contempt for true models; afterward, however
little you may feel at ease in this select committee, you will
speedily learn the parties to whom all this disorder is
attributed. The author of "L'Allemagne," the writer of the "Génie
du Christianisme," the translator of "Wallenstein," the two
Schlegels, besides many others, are the guilty individuals; their
heads have been turned, and so they have turned the heads of
their fellows. M. De Stendhal takes his share in these anathemas;
the "Globe" has its allotment. Not even M. Ladvocat, the
publisher of the "Thèâtre Etranger," has escaped from them. More
than one sage poet, whether in the tragic or comic line, will
inform you of this with all the seriousness in the world.
{237}
If no one had ever taken it into his head to translate by the
yard the monstrous productions of the countries situated beyond
the Rhine, the Channel, or the Pyrenees; if he had not afterward
taken pains to publish them on fine paper and in elegant type,
all with a huge parade of advertisements and placards, we should
not have been brought into our present condition.
Well said this, undoubtedly, and still better reasoned!
The innocence of this unsuspecting public has been wantonly
abused. The Parisian folk, like the Pnyxian people in the
"Knights" of Aristophanes, are poor fools who allow themselves to
be misled and duped by evil counsels.
If we diligently make all possible inquiries, we shall also find,
on the left bank of the Seine, a number of saloons, in which are
gathered every evening a company of worthy souls, who lament,
with the truest sincerity, over the corruption of our manners.
Hearing them, we might suspect that fire from heaven must fall
upon us sooner or later; our wretched country is in a worse pass
than even Sodom and Gomorrah; the French Revolution has fatally
corrupted the very core of our hearts; and whom have we to thank
for this accursed revolution? The Encyclopedists, M. Turgot and
his reforms, the publication of M. Necker's Compte-Rendu,
the--who knows what? perhaps the substitution of waistcoats for
vests, and the introduction of cabs!
The two arguments are equally forcible. To throw fire and flames
at the corruption of manners, and to raise loud cries about the
decay of taste, to attribute it either to this or that event, to
accuse these or those writers--one is, in truth, worth about as
much as the other; the justice, good sense, and discernment are
equal in either case.
{238}
May we not, in fact, say that the general sentiments of the
masses, their habitual dispositions, and the ideas which rule
them, are things which attach themselves to nothing, and which
totter when they are but touched with the finger's end? May we
not say that these are at the mercy of any fortuitous
circumstances--things to be disposed of at pleasure by any half
dozen volumes?
The influence of great men is, indeed, vast; we can not forget
it--we would thank Heaven that it is so. And this influence is
especially striking at epochs in which any important change is
accomplished in government, laws, manners, or national taste;
nothing, assuredly, is more natural than this--nothing can be
more just and salutary. But whence do great men derive this
unquestionable ascendency?
They belong to their time--in this fact is the mystery explained;
they respond to its instincts, they anticipate its tendencies;
the appeal which is addressed to all indiscriminately, they are
the first to hear. That which to others is as yet only an
indistinct longing, has disclosed its secret to them. Superior as
they are, they march at the head, unfolding their wings to every
breeze that rises, clearing the path, removing obstacles, and
revealing to the astonished masses the luminous truths and the
eternal laws which occasion their confused desires and their
latest fancies. Herein, and herein only, resides all their power:
this is the condition of their success.
The philosophers of the last century, then, were not the
efficient causes of the great and glorious movement of 1789: such
honor is not theirs. The general causes which, during a long
course of years, prepared for 1789, these same causes in their
early infancy gave birth to the philosophers of the last century.
{239}