n • STUDT • in ^ 
 
 -^ COtnEILLE. 
 
CORNELL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 BOUGHT WITH THE INCOME 
 OF THE SAGE ENDQ-\yMENT 
 FUND GIVEN IN "tS^l" BX''" 
 
 HENRY WILLIAMS SAGE 
 
Cornell University Library 
 PQ 1772.L82 
 
 Study in Corneille. 
 
 3 1924 027 259 146 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of tliis book is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924027259146 
 
A STUDY IN CORNEILLE 
 
 LEE DAVIS LODGE, A. M., 
 
 Professor of the French Language and Literature in The Columbian 
 University, Washington, D. O. 
 
 BALTIMORE: 
 
 JOHN MURPHY & CO. 
 
 iSgi. 
 
A. ^'Sioi 
 
 UNIVERSITY! 
 LIBRARY 
 
 CtoPYKIGHT, 1891, BY JOHN MUEPHY & CO. 
 
JLo riD^ Mife. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 VTTHE purpose of this little book is, as Mr. Vellum 
 ^ would say, twofold : The writer has endeavored 
 to prepare a work from which American readers un- 
 acquaiuted with the French language may obtain 
 something like a fair conception of the life, genius and 
 character of " Le grand Corneille." 
 
 " Something like a fair conception " — -the words are 
 used advisedly, for the writer, who has for years lived 
 in close companionship with the works of the subject 
 of his sketch, knows full well how feeble, unsatisfactory 
 and inadequate is this attempt to exhibit the grandeur 
 and the sublimity of the noblest dramatist of France. 
 
 Translating a poem, like subjecting a flower to the 
 chemist's art, may preserve the perfume, but it must 
 needs annihilate the form. It is thought, however, 
 that to know Corneille in English may be better than 
 not to know him at all. 
 
 The second aim had in view has been to furnish to 
 advanced students of French a trustworthy sketch of 
 
 5 
 
6 PKEPACE. 
 
 the evolution of the drama, the advent of Corneille, the 
 historic function he performed and the character of his 
 genius. 
 
 The passages here translated have been rendered very 
 literally in order to keep, as nearly as might be, the exact 
 thought of the poet. 
 
 This work makes no pretence whatever at being a 
 complete account of Corneille ; it is simply a tribute to 
 his transcendant genius, and a modest effort to win for 
 him the homage that is his due. 
 
 In conclusion the writer wishes to express his grateful 
 thanks to Mr. Edward Farquhar, the learned Assistant 
 Librarian of the United States Patent Office, who has 
 aided him much by critically reading all of the proof, 
 and to his colleague, counsellor and friend. Prof. J. 
 Howard Gore, B. S., Ph. D., who has generously 
 encouraged him in his labors, wisely advisedhim in 
 his perplexities and continually rendered him sympa- 
 thetic assistance of value too great to be measured in 
 words. 
 
 Lee Davis Lodge. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 C'hapter I. The Development op the Fkench 
 
 Drama 9 
 
 II. The Formative Period in C!obneii,lb's 
 
 Career 43 
 
 III. The Full Bloom op Genius: Le Cid,' 75 
 
 IV. A Character Study: Horace 119 
 
 V. A Tragedy op the Golden Age op 
 
 Eome: Cinna 172 
 
 VI. The Great Dramatist at the Merid- 
 ian OP His Glory: Polyeucte... 225 
 VII. Final Estimate op Corneille: Fall 
 OP Classicism and Eisb op Koman- 
 ticism: Latest Developments 281 
 
 1 The names of the characters in each play are retained throughout in 
 their French forms. 
 
A STUDY IN CORNEILLE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 The Development of the Feench Drama. 
 
 FT is winter. Every flower has dropped its iris- 
 tinted petals, the silvery music of the rills is 
 hushed, over earth's frost-bound bosom is spread a 
 spotless shroud, the trees of the forest stand like 
 giant spectres manacled in ice, leaden clouds canopy 
 the scene, all is dun and desolate and drear. 
 
 But nature, we know, is dead in appearance only. 
 Soon the sun with lover's kiss shall bring once more 
 the blushes to her cheek. Spring, crowned with 
 violets, shall deck the fields in flower-embroidered 
 robes of velvet green. The brook shall resume its 
 merry warble as it wanders on its way. The birds 
 shall make the leafy groves vocal with songs of 
 praise. Above shall bend the skies of blue and 
 2 9 
 
10 A STUDY IN CORNEILLE. 
 
 gold, and with revolving months shall come the 
 al^undant harvest of luscious fruit and yellow grain. 
 / The Middle Ages were the winter of France. 
 Deathful frosts of barbarism had long since nipped 
 the efflorescence of classic genius. Deep lay the 
 snows over all the land. But beneath their drifts 
 were the germs of modern French philosophy, art 
 and civilization. 
 
 Among other swelling seeds to be found in that 
 cheerless period of preparation were the humble be- 
 ginnings of the Drama. Upon these, even in the 
 hasty sketch which is here attempted, we must be- 
 stow some passing glances. He who would under- 
 stand any phenomenon, mental or material, must 
 study it in the history of its evolution, in its genesis 
 and growth. What, then, was the origin of the 
 French Drama? It was the child of the church. 
 The very power that had remorselessly crushed 
 under her heel the pagan theatre — and rightly, too, 
 for it had become the deadly foe both of religion and 
 of morality — that same power was to bring forth 
 the new drama, aye, and nourish it at her bosom. 
 
 Some scholars have indeed maintained, and not 
 without a degree of probability, that the principles 
 
THE FRENCH DEAMA. 11 
 
 of Latin comedy were never utterly forgotten in 
 Christendom. The art of Terence, it is contended, 
 was not dead in the Middle Ages ; it was only in a 
 state of hibernation. In support of their position 
 the advocates of this theory put in evidence such 
 dramatic compositions as the six " comedies " writ- 
 ten in Latin during the tenth century by Hrosvitha, 
 the famous nun of Gandersheim. These plays, 
 though ostensibly imitations of Terence and evin- 
 cing considerable skill in the dramatic art, bear in 
 form no marked resemblance to their model. They 
 are written in prose pervaded by a certain rhythm, 
 and interspersed with rhyme ; their themes are 
 taken from the legends of the saints; and it seems 
 to have been the design of the_ authoress to shed a 
 halo of glory about the sublimation of Christian 
 character. Her dramas, composed, it is thought, 
 for educational purposes, were read aloud or I'ecited 
 by the sisters of the convent. It is quite possible, 
 indeed it is probable, that there were in France, 
 also, such isolated examples of the survival, if we 
 may call it so, of the ancient drama. But though 
 it is doubtless true that here and there a learned 
 priest or nun thus kept the flickering lamp of classi- 
 
12 A STUDY IN COENBU.LE. 
 
 cism burning in a lonely cell, the light was but feeble 
 and fell not far beyond the precincts of the secluded 
 cloister. 
 
 Another factor in the development of the early 
 French drama was found in the strolling players, 
 mimics and buffoons who, setting at naught the ban 
 of the church and responding to the importunate 
 demands of the populace for scenic representation, 
 conserved in their peripatetic profession some of the 
 traditions of the pagan stage. 
 
 Probably, also, the pilgrims who went into the 
 Holy Land to do battle there for the cross against 
 the crescent brought back with them to their native 
 land some knowledge of dramatic composition and 
 theatrical apparatus, acquired during their sojourn 
 in the East. Besieged by admiring throngs eager 
 to hear the thrilling adventures which had befallen 
 them, these war-worn veterans, rich in honors but 
 poor in purse, turned to account what they had 
 learned of theatrical art, and acted before the spell- 
 bound people, little dramas in which were repre- 
 sented, first, perhaps, the high exploits of the cru- 
 saders, and afterwards the stories of Holy Writ. 
 Of course all the elements riientioned, the literary, 
 
THE FRENCH DRAMA. 13 
 
 the professional, and the pilgrim contribnted to the 
 growth of the drama. But the germ was furnished 
 by the worship of the church. 
 
 So it was in Greece. The Hellenic theatre sprang 
 from the worship of Dionysus, the special god of 
 husbandmen, who was adored as the source of light, 
 the ruler of the seasons and the divinity under 
 whose benign dispensation the grape grew ruddy 
 and the grain golden. All art, in fact, plants its 
 roots deep down in the religious sentiment of man. 
 At the high behest of religion, architecture arose to 
 build the temples of the gods, sculpture to embody 
 in marble man's highest conceptions of their divine 
 forms, painting to illustrate their lives in pictured 
 scene, music and poetry to waft to heaven on 
 co-active wings the profoundest emotions of the 
 soul. 
 
 We need not be surprised, then, to find the new 
 drama implicit in the Eoman Catholic liturgy which 
 contained an epic element in the reading of the 
 Scriptures by the priest and a lyric element in the 
 answers and the anthems of the people. From these 
 primordial forms by evolution and expansion came 
 the mediaeval mysteries. 
 2* 
 
14 A STUDY IN COENBILLE. 
 
 On special occasions, in order to make the service 
 more impressive and imposing, the Gospel story 
 was illustrated by spectacular exhibitions and inter- 
 spersed with song. Thus originated the liturgical 
 mysteries. They were developed, beyond question, 
 as early as the tenth century. In France, during 
 the twelfth century certainly, if not, indeed, in the 
 eleventh, short texts were composed in Latin for 
 these religious dramas. Another degree of devel- 
 opment was reached when, during the same period, 
 they began to be written in the vernacular. Here 
 we find the tap-root of mediaeval tragedy. So, 
 also, the early comedy lies germinant in those 
 burlesque dramas in which, at certain seasons of 
 merry-making, the church allowed her children to 
 indulge. 
 
 In her eflfbrt to excite the admiration and attract 
 the affection of the rude, unlettered and simple- 
 hearted people of the times, she had deigned to don 
 both buskin and sock. Her worship she had in 
 truth transformed into a gorgeous spectacle. The 
 great Gothic cathedrals, with their clustered pil- 
 lars, lofty spires, brilliantly colored windows, and 
 exquisitely • carved vaults, became so many mag- 
 
THB PEENOH DRAMA. 15 
 
 nificent theatres.' The church understood full 
 well that 
 
 " Action is eloquence, and the eyes of tlie ignorant 
 More leaxned than their ears." 
 
 With what eager expectation did the people await 
 the recurrence of each great religious festival, when, 
 escaping for a time from under the dark wings of 
 the demon of care and laying aside their shields all 
 battered in the battle of life, they might feast their 
 eyes on sacred scenes, drink in long draughts of 
 music with ravished ear, and so satisfy at once the 
 cravings of the senses and the longings of the soul. 
 Imagine the emotions of the naive spectators as they 
 saw represented before them the affecting stories of 
 the Holy Book. At Christmastide the Babe of 
 Bethlehem was shown lying in the manger in the 
 midst of the oxen and receiving the adoration of the 
 shepherds and the wise men of the East. A little 
 later the church with the strewing of palms com- 
 mit is by no means intended here to criticize adversely the 
 action of the church in permitting religious dramas. On the 
 whole, her policy seems vindicated by the elevating effect upon 
 the (degraded) people of the times. 
 
16 A STUDY IN COENEILLE. 
 
 memorated his triumphal entry into Jerusalem. On 
 Good Friday a veritable sepulchre stood ready to 
 receive the crucified Lord of glory. At Easter, three 
 men in snowy robes, wearing hoods on their heads, 
 and holding in their hands silver flasks of conse- 
 crated oil, acted the r6le of the three women who 
 came to the tomb at sunrise with sweet spices to 
 anoint the Saviour ; and a fourth man, also dressed 
 in white, personated the angel who spake the glad 
 words " He is risen." Thus it was that within 
 the pale of the church the drama had been estab- 
 lished. 
 
 The most ancient examples extant of the religious 
 pieces are the dramatic liturgy of Daniel, dating 
 from the twelfth century and containing some pas- 
 sages in French ; the mystery of Adam, belonging to 
 the same century and written entirely in the vernac- 
 ular ; and the mystery of the Ten Virgins, a play 
 which is of uncertain though, without doubt, very 
 early date, and is composed part in Latin and part 
 in French. 
 
 In the course of time the biblical narrative was 
 embellished with touches of theatrical art and inlaid 
 with the ornaments of invention. The legends of 
 
THE FRENCH DRAMA. 17 
 
 the saints, also, formed a rich mine of dramatic ore 
 which was worked up betimes into miracle-plays. 
 Of these the Thi^ophile of Euteboeuf, a trouv&re 
 who flourished in the thirteenth century, is an early 
 sample. At length the drama was differentiated 
 into independence. This epoch may be said to have 
 arrived when, in the thirteenth century, Jean Bodel, 
 of Arras, a trouvtre who lived a joyous life of gayety 
 aud song until leprosy laid its loathsome touch upon 
 him, published his "Jeu de Saint Nicolas," a 
 miracle-play, written in French alone, and based 
 upon two earlier pieces on the same subject, both of 
 which had been represented in the churches for a 
 great many years. One of these pieces, a dialogue 
 composed in Latin rhyme with refrains in the Lan- 
 gue d'O'il, had been produced during the eleventh 
 century by Hilarius, a disciple of Abelard ; the other 
 piece, of later date, was the work of a monk of S. 
 Benoit-sur-Loire and was written in Latin. To 
 Bodel belongs the honor of giving form and fashion 
 to the serious drama. His play, though it had been 
 evolved from the offices of the church and though 
 the weight of its moral was cast on the side of 
 Christianity, is so far from being hampered by the 
 
18 A STUDY IN COENEILLB. 
 
 trammels of the church's tutelage that the best scenes 
 in the piece derive their color and tone from tavern 
 life. As the character of this drama was probably 
 too secular to permit its being acted in the church, 
 the representation took place most likely either in 
 the public square of Arras, or in the spacious hall 
 of some rich citizen's dwelling. Thus did the theatre 
 attain its majority. Henceforth the church will 
 regard its offspring with but a fickle fondness, now 
 smiling at filial duty, now frowning on sturdy inde- 
 pendence. 
 
 What Bodel did for the serious drama, another 
 native of Arras living in the thirteenth century, 
 Adam de la Halle, well known, also, in the history 
 of French letters as Adam le Bossu and Le Bossu 
 d' Arras, did for comedy. No reason can now be 
 discovered why he should have been given this nick- 
 name. He himself denies any such deformity in these 
 explicit words : " On m'apele bochu, m^je ne le sui 
 mie." After spending his early years at the abbey 
 of Vaucelles, sur I'Escant near Cambray, Adam 
 returned to the paternal roof. Soon he fell in love 
 with a young woman whom he married only to 
 abandon at the first onset of the cares of housekeep- 
 
THE FRENCH DRAMA. 19 
 
 ing. Not content with thus deserting his wife, he 
 afterward made her the butt of jests upon the stage. 
 His first poems were sweet with sentiment ; his later 
 ones acrid witli satire. The most important of his 
 works are the " Jbu de la Feuillie," a farce in 
 which he portrays with piquant pen his domestic 
 infelicities, and the " Jbu de Robin et Marion," a 
 dramatized pastorelle. In the former piece we have 
 the first fruits of comedy; the latter is the first 
 comic opera, 
 
 Jean Bodel and Adam de la Halle, the two men 
 who had thus led the drama forth from the sanctuary 
 and far afield, were the foster-fathers of the French 
 theatre. Until long after these writers had gone to 
 their graves, however, the mysteries, which, properly 
 speaking, were adaptations of the scriptural narra- 
 tive, and the miracle-plays which embodied the 
 wondrous stories of the saints, continued to be the 
 staples of the stage. All the sections of the Old 
 and the New Testaments containing a dramatic ele- 
 ment were recast into mysteries, and put upon the 
 boards. "With rapt attention the people, whose 
 minds were untainted by the nil admirari sentiment 
 of civilized shallowness or by unthinking or surface- 
 
20 A STUDY IN COENEILLE. 
 
 thinking infidelity, and whose hearts throbbed and 
 thrilled with the great problems of duty and of 
 destiny, gazed with the liveliest emotions of pity and 
 terror upon spectacles in which were represented life 
 and death, resurrection and judgment, heaven and 
 hell. The most interesting of these mysteries, 
 whether we regard its historical importance, the 
 sublimity of the subject, the magnificence of the 
 scenic decorations, or the literary skill displayed, 
 is " The Mystery op the Passion." This drama 
 which depicted the whole life of our Lord and 
 required several days for its representation, embraced 
 eighty-seven characters, including the three persons 
 of the Trinity, six angels, six devils, twelve apostles, 
 Herod and his court and Pilate and his soldiers. 
 The stage must have been a queer sight. It con- 
 sisted of scaffolding rising tier upon tier, sometimes 
 to the height of nine stories. The highest story 
 which represented Paradise had a gilt balustrade and 
 contained the " Chaire PAE:fiE " of the Deity. The 
 lowest story exhibited the hideous horrors of hell. 
 In the intermediate stories were shown the various 
 rooms, temples or places in which the events had 
 occurred. This mystery, with others, was acted by 
 
THE FRENCH DRAMA. 21 
 
 a society made up of citizens of Paris, locksmiths, 
 master-masons and the lilie, who under the name of 
 Confraternity of the Passion and Resurrection of our 
 Lord, were authorized on December 4, 1402, by 
 letters patent from Chai'les VI to represent their 
 dramas at any suitable place in Paris or its suburbs. 
 Extreme realism distinguished the acting. Whenever 
 a character was to be belabored in the play with 
 fists, or lash, or club, real blows were rained upon 
 him with a vigorous earnestness designed to excite 
 the mirth of the spectators. Fighting and killing 
 were often represented with a fidelity which lacked 
 but little of the grim reality. The gay and the 
 grave, the ribald and the reverent, here jostled each 
 other, and comical devils drew shouts of laughter 
 from assemblies who were soon to weep over the 
 Saviour's tragic death. 
 
 The mysteries, which were sometimes forty or even 
 fifty thousand lines in length, often required several 
 days for their representation, and were, therefore, 
 divided not into acts but into journies, or days, a term 
 afterward employed for acts by the Spanish drama- 
 tists. Toward these plays the attitude of the church 
 was very friendly, priests as well as people thronging 
 3 
 
22 A STUDY IN COENEILLE. 
 
 to see them. So similar to the mysteries in general 
 character were the miracle-plays that they need no 
 separate description here. 
 
 Another variety of drama of later origin is found 
 in the Moralities, a class of plays which mark the 
 advance of the public mind from childlike faith to 
 active reason, and in which the characters repre- 
 sented are the Virtues and the Vices personified. 
 Though they sprang from the mysteries, the morali- 
 ties undoubtedly owed their peculiar form to that 
 universal craze for allegory among the French which 
 found its ideal and its idol in the " Roman de la 
 Rose," and which was for the two centuries follow- 
 ing the composition of that famous poem the pre- 
 eminent and predominant factor in poetic style. 
 
 I select one of these dramas as a specimen. Ban- 
 quet invites to his lavish board Eat- All, Thiest, 
 I-Deink-To- You and Sans-Watee, all merry com- 
 panions. The ladies Daintiness, Gluttony and 
 Lust complete the party. A rich feast is served, 
 the guests partake freely of the good cheer^ and all 
 is revelry. But suddenly bursting in upon the scene 
 Colic, Gout, Jaundice, Quinsy and Deopsy seize 
 in their clutches the hilarious guests, some of whom 
 
THE FEENCH DRAMA. 23 
 
 are overcome, while others seek aid from Sobriety. 
 The latter requests Curb to assist him. Banquet 
 is tried before Judge Experience, convicted and 
 condemned to be hung. Diet executes the sentence. 
 
 Two thousand lines may be considered the aver- 
 age length of a morality, though some of them very 
 greatly exceeded that limit. They were acted by a 
 guild consisting of members of the legal profession 
 called the Clerks of the Basoche or Palace 
 OF Justice whom Philip the Fair had established 
 about 1303 as a regular corporation, and upon whom 
 he had bestowed certain privileges, among others that 
 of giving theatrical representations. From such alle- 
 gorical pieces as the moralities the transition to the 
 Farce was easy. The popularity of the serious 
 drama was on the wane. Amusement instead of 
 devotion or instruction in the faith was becoming 
 more and more the object of those who frequented 
 the theatre. The people craved plays filled with 
 fun and folly. 
 
 Then there came to enrich with treasures of wit 
 the still scant thesaurus of comedy, this autoch- 
 thonic species of drama, the farce, which was instinct 
 with the Esprit Gaulois, and whose embryon had 
 
24 A STUDY IN COENEILIiE. 
 
 been carried inchoate within the fecund fabliau. In 
 these jocular plays, which were about five hundred 
 lines long, many phases of life were min-ored. Con- 
 nubial infelicities, the failings of women, the faults 
 and foibles of the clergy, the shifts of social para- 
 sites, the pretensions of pedantry, and the like, were 
 all marks for the arrows of the dramatist's mis- 
 chievous, not to say malicious, wit. 
 
 The AvocAT Pathblin, a farce supposed to 
 belong to the middle or to the earlier part of the 
 fifteenth century, published in 1490, and containing 
 the famous quotation, "Revenons a nos moutons," 
 holds the highest rank, not only among pieces of 
 this genre, but also among the dramas of the medi- 
 aeval French stage. 
 
 Last in the line of development, and partaking of 
 the nature both of the morality and of the farce, 
 arose the Sotie, a kind of political comedy in which 
 abuses of all sorts in church and state, in public life 
 and private life, were attacked with the scorpion lash 
 of satire. The soties, containing usually, like the 
 farces, about five hundred lines, were composed and 
 played by a company of well born young Parisians, 
 styled the Enfants Sans Souci, whose leader was 
 
THE FEENCH DRAMA. 25 
 
 called Le JPeince des Sots, and wore a hood 
 adorned with ass's ears. Some of the advertise- 
 ments in which these jolly actors solicited public 
 patronage were droll enough. The following may 
 be taken as a sample : 
 
 " Sotz lunatiques, sotz estourdis, sotz sages, 
 Sotz de villes, de chasteaux, de villages, 
 Sotz rassotfe, sotz nyais, sotz subtilz, 
 Sotz amoureux, sotz privfe, sotz sauvages, 
 Sotz vieux, nouveaux, et sotz de toutes ages, 
 Sotz barbares, estrangers et gentilz, 
 Sotz raisonnables, sotz pervers, sotz restifz, 
 Vostre prince, sans nuUes intervalles, 
 Le mardi gras, jouera ses jeux aux Halles." 
 
 The unbridled license of the Enpants Sans 
 Souci, who spared no man whether he wore coronet 
 or cowl, nay who had even dared to turn upon both 
 prince and pope, at length caused Francis I to put 
 his royal veto upon soties and farces. Well might 
 the king fear plays so menacing to the public peace. 
 In 1548 the Parliament of Paris influenced by the 
 inrushing tide of the Reformation also interdicted 
 the mysteries on the ground that they were indecent 
 and profane. 
 3* 
 
26 A STUDY IN CORNEILLE. 
 
 Thus did both the secular and the sacred drama 
 of that period receive an " immedicabile vulnus," for, 
 though the Confeaternity op the Passion, who 
 subsequently came to be called Comedians op the 
 Hotel db Bourgogne, were permitted for long 
 after 1548 to act farces instead of the mysteries in 
 Paris, and though the latter plays still lingered on 
 in the provinces, yet the glory of the mediaeval the- 
 atre then was gone, and the days of its dominance 
 were numbered. 
 
 In this brief account of the early French drama 
 I have not attempted to draw the complete curve of 
 its evolution. My task has been much lighter. I 
 have only tried to locate the cardinal points through 
 which the curve passed. More than one critic has 
 regretted that a dramg^ so truly national in its nature 
 should have perished thus in the freshness of its 
 prime, instead of attaining, like the Spanish and the 
 English drama, to a full and splendid development. 
 Such laments are idle now, however. It is possi- 
 ble, indeed, that, had this media3val drama con- 
 tinued, some poet Titan, some French Shakspere 
 with many-sided soul would have arisen in the ful- 
 ness of time to transmute by the wonderful alchemy 
 
THE PKEHrCH DEAMA, 27 
 
 of his genius all that was base into finest gold. But 
 we must leave such speculation to the apostles of 
 the phantom philosophy of the might have been. 
 Ours the duty now to herald the advent of another 
 and a very different school of dramatic literature. 
 
 The resplendent orb of literary genius which once 
 had shed such radiant glory over Greece had, indeed, 
 sunk below the sapphire waves of the classic sea. 
 But preceded by a van-guard of lesser lights, and 
 shining with a lustre borrowed from that generous 
 orb, another luminary arose above the horizon of 
 France to pour a silver sheen o'er all her lovely 
 hills and dales. 
 
 The times were propitious for the resurrection of 
 classic form and the revival of classic spirit. The 
 one hundred years from 1450 to 1550 constitute one 
 of the most momentous epochs in the history of 
 man. Civilization in seven-leagued boots was step- 
 ping then from peak to peak of progress. The 
 dauntless Columbus conquered the sea, and, while 
 about the anchored ships the Oceanides were weep- 
 ing for their father's broken sceptre, unfurled the 
 banner of Castile in a new world, fairer far than 
 the Atlantis of tradition. Feudalism, whose breast- 
 
28 A STUDY IN COENEILLE. 
 
 plate had been shattered by powder and ball, was 
 tottering to its death. Consolidated, centralized 
 monarchies, girt and guarded by standing armies in 
 serried files, were being firmly established. The 
 genius of the classic lands had risen from the tomb 
 of time, and stood pointing out the path of glory to 
 modern scholars. Printing gave wings to the im- 
 mortal words of the ancient masters. Copernicus, 
 looking through the roof of his humble farmhouse 
 and seeing the planets in choral dance go tripping 
 round their central sun, demolished the hoary Ptole- 
 maic theory of the heavens. Last in the list we may 
 mention the great religious revolution led by Luther, 
 which stirred men's souls to their depths and finally 
 filled all Europe with the din and dust of battle. 
 Thus while the channel of thought was being won- 
 derfully broadened and deepened, its volume and 
 velocity were being correspondingly increased. It 
 is with the revival of learning, however, that we are 
 particularly concerned here. This had begun, in- 
 deed, long before the period of which we have just 
 spoken. 
 
 In the early part of the fifteenth century Italian 
 scholars had devoted themselves with passionate 
 
THE FRENCH DRAMA. 29 
 
 love to the study of Greek and Roman letters. 
 The famous books ou which the dust of ages long 
 had lain spoke once more in mellow tones their 
 manifold messages to mankind. The greatest en- 
 thusiasm for classical culture took possession of all. 
 On the fall of Constantinople, therefore, in 1453, 
 Italy welcomed with open arms the Greek scholars 
 who had been compelled to flee to her from that city 
 bringing with them the Greek language, learning 
 and literature, gems more precious far than all the 
 storied riches of the East. With what lively joy, 
 with what tender affection were those heirlooms of 
 the ages received by Italian scholars. 
 
 The deeper they drank at the limpid fountain of 
 antiquity, the greater grew their reverence and ad- 
 miration. The effects of the new culture upon polite 
 society were marvellous. Soon the whole lump was 
 fermented by the classic leaven. Oft times this love 
 for the glorious past ran into excess. Thus it hap- 
 pened in Italy, as afterward in other countries, that 
 the Renaissance, instead of simply performing its 
 proper function of enlightening the intellect, puri- 
 fying the taste and quickening the imagination, not 
 seldom led to servile imitation which stunted growth 
 
30 A STUDY IN COENEILLE. 
 
 and repressed originality. Thus, also, in the later 
 history of the movement Humanism was destined 
 to degenerate into Paganism. These, however, were 
 but abuses of the legacy left by antiquity. 
 
 From Italy the potent influence of the revival of 
 learning, borne first in the chariot of war, passed 
 northward into France. Here were seen the same 
 results. The classical humanities percolated through 
 all the strata of literary life. The grey-haired scholar, 
 going back to the school-room, and not then " creep- 
 ing like snail, unwillingly," pored over the glowing 
 pages of the Greek and Roman authors. Royalty 
 stretched above arts and letters its protecting aegis. 
 The fashions and usages of society were tinged with 
 a classical hue. The antique costumes of Athens 
 and Rome became cb la mode in Paris. On all sides 
 the past was idolized. The climax of affected clas- 
 sicism was reached when pedants, patterning after 
 Plutarch's heroes, even died declaiming in ambitious 
 rhetoric. 
 
 To us all these transports seem very extravagant. 
 But let us try to put ourselves in the places of the 
 men of that time. Coming forth once more into 
 the light after long centuries of weary wandering 
 
THE PEENCH DRAMA. 31 
 
 in that midnight forest, the Middle Ages, the human 
 race suddenly beheld in raptured vision all the great- 
 ness and the glory of antiquity. 
 
 " L'Europe moderne," says M. Michelet in that 
 vivid style of his, " L'Europe moderne revoyait sa 
 m6re, I'antiquitS, et se jetait dans ses bras. L'Orient 
 va se rapprocher tout a I'heure, tout h I'heure 1' Am^ri- 
 que. Spectacle digne de I'ceil de Dieu ! La famille 
 humaine r^unie, h, travers les lieux et les temps, se 
 regardant, se retrouvant, pleurant de s'6tre m6connue. 
 Combien cette grande mere, la noble, la sereine, l'h6- 
 roique antiquite, parut sup6rieure a tout ce qu'on con- 
 naissait, quand on revit, apres tant de siecles, sa face 
 v6n6rable et charmante ! ' O mere ! que vous etes 
 jeuue!' disait le monde avec des larmes, 'de quels 
 attraits imposants nous vous revoyons par6e ! Vous 
 emportfttes au tombeau la ceinture 6ternellement ra- 
 jeunissante de la mSre d'amour. — Et moi, pour un 
 millier d'ann§es, me voici tout courb^ et cUjk sous 
 les rides.' " 
 
 As they are admitted into the Voltaic circuit of 
 classic civilization — a circuit whose poles are Athens 
 and Rome — an electric thrill runs through the souls 
 of all scholars in this age of transition. Ancient 
 
32 A STUDY IN CORNEILLE. 
 
 inspiration weds modern aspiration. In the still- 
 ness of the study these eager disciples of the past 
 hear from afar the melodious accents of the poet and 
 the rhythmic roll of the orator's periods, sounding 
 and resounding down the corridors of time. The 
 prophets of the new culture are ravished with delight. 
 They are carried back on the wings of imagination 
 to that beautiful land whither in the roseate dawn 
 of European civilization while the dew was on the 
 lilies and the lark was in the skies poetry came from 
 heaven to live on earth with men — to the birth-place 
 of philosophy and domicile of art — to the purple 
 hills and flower-starred vales of Greece, 
 
 " Where each old poetic mountain, 
 Inspiration breathed around ; 
 Every shade and hallowed fountain 
 Murmured deep a solemn sound." 
 
 Each scholar inhales the air of Helicon, sails on 
 the foam-fringed billows of the Aegean, and visits 
 with a pilgrim's devotion every famous spot. It is 
 his priceless privilege to converse and commune with 
 some of the mightiest masters that ever swayed and 
 sculptured the minds of men. The martial strains 
 
THE FRENCH DRAMA. 33 
 
 of Homer fire his soul ; the sublime creations of 
 Aeschylus fill him with awe ; the matchless genius 
 of Sophocles compels the homage of his heart; he 
 weeps with Euripides and laughs with Aristophanes; 
 he listens now to the artless prattle of Herodotus 
 and now to the profound disquisitions and forceful 
 phrase of Thucydides ; he hears from the bema the 
 burning words of " the famous orators," 
 
 " whose resistless eloquence 
 Wielded at will that fierce democratie, 
 Shook the arsenal and fulmined over Greece 
 To Macedon and Artaxerxes' throne ; " 
 
 with sympathetic sigh he joins the little circle that 
 in the cell of Socrates are holding their last colloquy 
 with the great philosopher while the lengthening 
 shadows fall about thera, and the sun slowly sinks 
 to his couch of crimson cloud ; in the groves of the 
 old Academy he walks and talks with the divine 
 Plato ; he hoards as gems in memory's casket the 
 wisdom-weighted words of the Stagirite. 
 
 Then as he turns away from "the city of the 
 violet crown," with his heart full of sadness for her 
 fallen glory, Rome, " the land of scholars and the 
 4 
 
34 A STUDY IN COENEILLE. 
 
 nurse of arms," she who caught from the dying lips 
 of Greece the divine afflatus of genius, also claims 
 from him an honorable meed for a long array of 
 warriors and statesmen, orators and poets, philoso- 
 phers and historians. And well may the imperial 
 mistress of the world challenge his admiration, for 
 Cicero's impassioned bursts of eloquence are hers 
 and the liquid lines of Vergil — hers the sententious 
 verse of Horace, the fertile fancy of Ovid and the 
 brilliant colors of Livy — hers the " ingenium facile 
 et enpiosum " of Seneca, the scorching scorn of 
 Juvenal and the moral dignity of Tacitus. Right 
 royal fellowship is this that is offered here. 
 
 What wonder that, being thus put into closest 
 relations with the intellectual life of both Greece 
 and Rome, being thus nourished, as it were, upon 
 the powerful elixir of ancient culture, the French 
 scholars of the sixteenth century should feel as if 
 they had indeed experienced a renaissance, a re-birth, 
 a re-creation? What wonder that when the majestic 
 rhythm of the two classic cantos in the poem of 
 man's earthly life was ringing in their ears, and 
 when the superb beauty of the classic languages and 
 the unrivalled splendor of the classic literatures 
 
THE FRENCH DEAMA. 35 
 
 were ever before their eyes, the enthusiastic students 
 of the past should try to trick out in borrowed orna- 
 ments the comparatively homely speech of France, 
 and to supersede the native varieties in French 
 letters by exotics from Greece and Eome ? 
 
 In this era of imitation, which was ushered in by 
 Pierre Eonsard [1524-1585], arose the classical 
 drama — a drama born to immortality, though des- 
 tined, as will be seen, to display during its early 
 history far more of the traits of Seneca, Plautus 
 and Terence than of that noble Greek art whose 
 glorious productions those writers were well content 
 to copy. 
 
 fitienne Jodelle, one of the sailing-stars in Ron- 
 sard's Pl^iade, was the pioneer playwright of the 
 new school. In 1552 he gave to the public his 
 Cli^opatee Captive, a meagre tragedy, modelled 
 after the style of Seneca, furnished with a chorus, 
 and written in iambic decasyllabics and Alexandrines. 
 This play, however barren in incident and dull in 
 interest it may seem to our eyes, was yet the prophecy 
 and pledge of the great Corneille, The other pieces 
 of Jodelle were La Rencontre and Eugjine, 
 comedies, and Didon, a tragedy. Eugtoe, a licen- 
 
36 A STUDY IN COENEILLB. 
 
 tious attack upon the vices of the rich clergy, is 
 esteemed his best effort. 
 
 The next noticeable name after Jodelle is Jacques 
 Grevin, a Calvinistic physician. His tragedy, La 
 MoET DB Cj&sae, contains according to La Harpe 
 " grand and^ beautiful ideas and the real tone of 
 tragedy." Gr6vin composed two comedies, also, 
 Les Eshabis and La TE:6soEii]RB, which, like the 
 most of those written in the sixteenth century, were 
 disfigured by gross licentiousness. 
 
 But the two authors who brought the classical 
 tragedy to its highest elevation before Corneille 
 were Robert Garnier [1545-1601] and Antoine de 
 Montchrestien [d. 1621]. Garnier wrote eight 
 tragedies. The best of these is the biblical play. 
 Lbs JurvES. Euripides and Seneca were the 
 masters from whom Garnier learned his craft. 
 Seneca especially be closely imitated. His work is 
 marred by the faults which were then found in 
 almost all the dramas of the kind introduced by 
 Jodelle, lack of action, paucity of characters and 
 interminable speeches. Messengers by opportune 
 recitals carry forward the story, the chorus is 
 retained and in Beadamante, a tragic comedy 
 
THE FRENCH DRAMA. 37 
 
 whose plot is taken from Ariosto, Garnier for the 
 first time in the history of the French drama brings 
 upon the stage that ill-starred, insipid personage, the 
 confidant. Yet this author's style is not without 
 dignity, nor his vei'sification without harmony, and 
 his plays are often adorned with nob^e sentiments. 
 He paints the passions, also, with something closely 
 akin to power. Upon the whole Eonsard's tribute 
 is not greatly exaggerated : 
 
 "Par toi, Garnier, la scSne des Franpois, 
 Se change en or qui n'^toit que de bois.'' 
 
 Antoine de Montchrestien wrote six tragedies, the 
 best of which is L'I&cossaise. His chief merits are 
 his effective rhetoric, his improvement over his pre- 
 decessors in the delineation of character, the beauty 
 of his choric odes, and the superior elegance of his 
 versification. 
 
 A high rank must also be awarded in the literary 
 history of this epoch to Pierre Larivey [1540-1610- 
 1620], an Italian by birth who settled in France. 
 Larivey [L'arriv6] is simply a translation of his 
 real name Giunto. He wrote twelve comedies in 
 prose. These were all copied from Italian proto- 
 4* 
 
38 A STUDY IN COENEILLB. 
 
 types which in turn were themselves often imitations 
 of Plautus and Terence. Yet Larivey was no mere 
 echo. He was a man of real talent. Copy his plays 
 he might, but he always threw into their composition 
 something original, something " de lui et d lui." 
 
 In dramatic skill Garnier himself is, perhaps, in- 
 ferior to him. Certain it is that his plays, which are 
 especially distinguished for the vivacity of their dia- 
 logue, constitute a stage in the evolution of French 
 comedy. 
 
 Alexandre Hardy [1560-1631], a master of scenic 
 effect and a man of extraordinary fertility, was far 
 less classical, but far more natural, and therefore far 
 more national, than his predecessors. While adopt- 
 ing the general scheme of the classical tragedy and 
 usually observing the unity of action, he repudiates 
 the restrictions as to place and time. " Hardy was 
 irregular enough," says Guizot, "to have been a 
 Shakspere, if he had possessed a Shakspere's genius." 
 But no such genius had fallen to Hardy's lot. 
 Nevertheless his plays, in which action, character 
 and life abound, sometimes exhibit considerable 
 power. He was a great plagiarist. The authors 
 of Spain especially he despoiled without scruple. 
 
THE PEBNCH DRAMA. 39 
 
 Different authorities variously state the number of his 
 plays at from five to seven hundred, of which forty- 
 one are extant. Perhaps the inferior quality of his 
 work is partly due to the fact that his wings were 
 pinioned by poverty. Sometimes in his hard strug- 
 gle to get bread for himself and his troop of actors, 
 he had to compose as many as two thousand lines in 
 twenty-four hours. And yet, despite his native de- 
 fects and all the disadvantages of his environment, 
 his was the great honor of giving some useful hints 
 to the budding genius of Corneille. 
 
 Of the numerous other dramatic writers who im- 
 mediately preceded that immortal master on the 
 stage, we shall mention only three, Th^ophile de 
 Viaud, Jean Mairet and Jean Eotrou. Viaud 
 [1590-1626] is noticeable for his tragedy "Py- 
 EAME ET Thisbe," which, though deformed by such 
 wretched conceits as were common to the estilo cujio 
 of Spain and to the ridiculous imitation of that style 
 then fashionable in France, sometimes displays an 
 elegance far above anything in Hardy. 
 
 Jean Mairet [1604-1686] made his d^but as a 
 dramatic author when he was about sixteen years 
 old. His only piece of real value, however, is 
 
40 A STUDY IN COKNBILLE. 
 
 " SoPHONiSBE," a tragedy planned in obedience 
 to the precepts of Aristotle, and the date of 
 whose appearance is variously given as 1629 and 
 1633. 
 
 Eotrou [1609-1660], who produced his first play, 
 a tragi-comedy, entitled " L'Hypocondeiaqxje ou 
 LE MoRT Amoueeux," in 162.8 , one year before the 
 appearance of Corneille's " Melite," was a man 
 worthy to associate even with such a prince among 
 poets. Rotrou's next piece was "La Bagub de 
 L'OuBLi," a comedy which also came out in 1628. 
 Subsequently to the performance of " Melite," he 
 wrote many other dramas. But the two plays upon 
 which his fame rests, " Le V^eitable Saint 
 Geneste " [1646] and " Yenceslas " [1647] were 
 not composed until his friend Corneille had given to 
 France his early masterpieces, each of which was to 
 be KTrj/jLU et? aei. We may, therefore, dismiss 
 Rotrou for the present, reserving for a future work 
 an account of his character and genius. 
 
 Here we must close our very imperfect sketch of 
 the theatre from Jodelle to Corneille. As yet 
 dramatic art is only a potential and the drama itself 
 a mere admixture, consisting of rude imitation of 
 
THE PEBNCH DRAMA. 41 
 
 classic form and a large infusion of Spanish grandi- 
 osity, grandiloquence and stage-tricks, together with 
 a liberal amount of Italian affectation. Good taste 
 in the period just before Corneille was a thing utterly 
 unknown among both the playwrights and the public. 
 However slovenly might be a dramatist's style, how- 
 ever much rodomontade there might be in his decla- 
 mation or euphuism in his dialogue, if he kept up 
 the interest of the spectators by a lavish use of 
 romance, if he scattered with free hand such fas- 
 cinating charms as abductions and infidelities, prisons 
 and police, disguises and discoveries, poisons and 
 duels through his pieces, he was pretty certain to 
 obtain the applause of his audience. He was not 
 forced to lie upon the Procrustean bed of ancient 
 drama, but might give full play to all the extrava- 
 gance of his imagination. 
 
 The despotism of the three unities had not then 
 been generally established. Their authority, while 
 upheld by some, was disregarded by many others. 
 Nowhere was there a clarified concept of order, 
 proportion and fitness. The stage was occupied by 
 plays full of movement, indeed, but monstrous in 
 construction, bombastic in style, devoid of real 
 
42 A STUDY IN COKNEILLE. 
 
 passion, often indecent, abounding in whimsical 
 conceits, but smacking little of Attic salt. 
 
 " Quel d^sordre ! " exclaims Racine, looking back- 
 ward upon the theatre of that time, " quelle irregu- 
 larity ! nul golit, nuUe connaissance des v6ritables 
 beaut6s du theatre ; les auteurs aussi ignoraats que 
 les spectateurs ; la plupart des sujets extravagants 
 et d6nu6s de vraisemblance ; point de moeurs, point 
 de caractferes; la diction encore plus vicieuse que 
 Taction et dont les pointes et de mis^rables jeux de 
 mots faisaient le principal ornament ; en un mot, 
 toutes les rfegles de I'art, celles m6me de l'honn6tet6 
 et de la biensSance partout viol6es." 
 
 All was thus confusion. In its chaotic condition 
 the drama may without much inaccuracy be described 
 in the words of Ovid, as 
 
 " rudia indigestaque moles, 
 Nee quicquam, nisi pondus iners, congestaque eodem 
 Non bene junctaium discordia semina rerum.'' 
 
 Then came " ille opifex " with law and light and 
 life ; then came Pierre Coeneille to fashion with 
 creative touch the true classical drama of France. 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 The Foemative Period in Coeneille's 
 Caeeee. 
 
 \ I /HE seventeenth century in France was one of 
 those ganglionic epochs which originate the 
 nervous force in the organism of history. 
 
 Six otlier eras in six other countries may be men- 
 tioned as similarly vital and vivific in the chronicles 
 of European culture. These eras are, first, the golden 
 age of Greek art, literature and philosophy, a period 
 extending from the battle of Salamis through the 
 resplendent administration of Pericles down to the 
 death of Aristotle ; second, the epoch made glorious 
 in Roman annals not less by the literary genius of 
 Cicero and Sallust, of Vergil and Horace, of Livy 
 and Ovid, than by the mighty achievements of Csesar 
 and Augustus; third, modei'n Italy's proudest period, 
 the age of Lorenzo de Medici and of the great artists, 
 Leonardo da Vinci, Raphael and Michelangelo; 
 
 43 
 
44 A STUDY IN CORNEILLB. 
 
 fourth, that famous era in Spanish literature, when 
 Cervantes, Lope de Yega and Calderon adorned 
 their native land with their brilliant productions ; 
 fifth, the age of Elizabeth and James which was 
 transfigured by the dazzling effulgence of Spenser, 
 Hooker, Shakspere and Bacon ; sixth and last, the 
 formative and determinative period in the literary 
 history of Germany when her gifted sons Klopstock, 
 Lessing, Kant, Goethe and Schiller caused her name 
 to be sounded by the trumpet-tones of fame every- 
 where throughout the world of letters. 
 
 France, in the early years of the seventeenth cen- 
 tury, was enjoying an unwonted degree of peace, 
 order and prosperity. Upon the throne sat Henry 
 IV, the white-plumed hero of Ivry. His was a 
 reign of wisdom. By the edict of Nantes (April 
 13, 1598) which secured to the Huguenots religious 
 liberty and civil justice, he put a stop to intestine 
 strife ; by the treaty of Vervins with Spain (May 2, 
 1598) he concluded on terms honorable to himself 
 the war with that country; by an enlightened domes- 
 tic administration, conducted under his authoi'ity by 
 his sagacious minister Sully, who brought the prov- 
 inces naore directly and completely under the king's 
 
THE FORMATIVE PERIOD. 45 
 
 control, made extensive internal improvements and 
 thoroughly reorganized the system of finances, he 
 greatly advanced the material welfare of his people. 
 
 Thus the ship of state was fairly launched upon a 
 strong and steady tide to wealth and glory. But on 
 May 14, 1610, Henry was stabbed to death by the 
 dagger of a fanatic, Frangois Ravaillac. The tears 
 of all France fell thick and fast upon the good king's 
 grave. 
 
 Marie de Medici, widow of Henry and mother of 
 Louis XIII, who was only nine years old when his 
 father died, now became regent. By nature at once 
 passionate and weak, she was easily manipulated as 
 a tool by her Italian favorites. Her regency was 
 characterized by deplorable disorders, reckless ex- 
 penditure of public money, and, in short, by all the 
 abuses of absolutism, without any of those redeem- 
 ing traits of benevolence and beneficence which have 
 sometimes made absolutism in some sort bearable. 
 
 Her prime minister, Concino de Concini, Mar6- 
 chal et Marquis d'Ancre, was heartily hated by the 
 people as an insolent upstart. Over the young king, 
 whom his presumptuous manner naturally nettled, 
 he exercised a species of guardianship which became 
 5 
 
46 A STUDY IN COENEILLE. 
 
 well-nigh a custody. From this odious restraint 
 Louis was freed April 24, 1617, when with his 
 approval MarSchal d'Ancre was assassinated in the 
 Louvre. 
 
 The king, thus by murder made master of the 
 situation, now took the reins of government into 
 his own hands. He committed to his favorite, 
 Albert de Luynes, the affairs of state. Marie de 
 Medici retired to Blois. A period of confusion 
 ensued. After some resistance, not worthy to be 
 dignified by the name of war, the qneen-mother sub- 
 mitted to her son, and a treaty was made between 
 them, August 10, 1620. 
 
 The career of de Luynes was cut short by death 
 from a mahgnant fever on December 17, 1621. Not 
 a few strove to clamber up into the place and power 
 that had once been his. 
 
 But a man was now about to step forward into 
 prominence who, thrusting France into the fires 
 of his genius, was then with mighty strokes to 
 shape the glowing mass anew upon his ringing 
 anvil. This man was Cardinal Richelieu. He 
 was made a member of the king's council in 1624. 
 August prelate, profound statesman, astute politician, 
 
THE FORMATIVE PERIOD. 47 
 
 crafty intriguer, Maecenas of letters — all these titles 
 belong to Richelieu. Keeping his eye ever steadily 
 fixed upon his great aims and little scrupulous as 
 to the means which he employed to attain them, 
 he made himself all-powerful at home, and France 
 a queen among nations. 
 
 Louis XIII was quite a secondary figure. His 
 only claim, indeed, to the praise of history is that 
 he was wise enough, although inwardly disliking 
 Richelieu, still to accept him as a guide in the 
 perplexities of politics. 
 
 The policy of Richelieu may be summed up under 
 two heads : first, he strove by humbling the high 
 nobility and by destroying the political power of 
 the Huguenots to make the authority of the royal 
 government absolutely supreme in the land ; second, 
 he strained every nerve to humiliate the house 
 of Austria, and so exalt France in the eyes of 
 Europe. While the great Cardinal was thus laying 
 the granite foundations of his country's future glory, 
 Pierre Corneille arose to fulfil his grand mission 
 in literature. 
 
 The illustrious dramatist was born at Rouen, 
 June 6, 1606. His father, who was also named 
 
48 A STUDY IN COKNBILLE. 
 
 Pierre Corneille, was royal advocate at the marble 
 table of Normandy and master of waters and forests 
 in the viscounty of Rouen. He was a faithful and 
 fearless official, as is abundantly proved by the very 
 laudatory Idtres de noblesse granted him by Louis 
 XIII in January, 1637, a distinction rendered 
 doubly significant from the fact that in January, 
 1634, the king had announced in an edict "that 
 for the future he would not grant any letters to 
 confer nobility, except for great and important 
 considerations." 
 
 The poet's mother, Marthe, was a Le Pesant de 
 Boisguilbert, a distinguished name in that locality. 
 Her father was a MaUre des Gomptes. Corneille 
 came thus of honorable lineage on both sides. As 
 his was a family of lawyers, he was designed for 
 the bar, and was educated for that profession at the 
 Jesuits' College in Rouen, where he won a prize in 
 1618 or 1619. 
 
 But the forum was not to be the scene of his 
 glory. While he was at college in Rouen, he fell 
 in love, so he tells us, with a little girl who after- 
 ward became Mme. de Pont, wife of a MaUre des 
 Oomptes of that place. This early affisction flowered 
 
THE FORMATIVE PERIOD. 49 
 
 into poetry. So love first led the poet Corneille 
 within the sacred precincts of Parnassus. 
 But, though he himself says : 
 
 " Charm^ de deux beaux yeux, mon vers charma la cour 
 Et ce que j'ai de mieux, je le dois 3, 1' amour," 
 
 it is altogether improbable that he owed his fame in 
 any proper sense to the inspiration of the tender 
 passion of his youth. In another place he states 
 with probably much greater accuracy the part that 
 love had played in making him a poet : 
 
 " Soleils, flambeaux, attraits, appas, 
 Pleurs, ddsespoir, tourments, trdpas, 
 Tout ce petit meuble de boucbe 
 Dont un amoureux s'escarmouolie 
 Je savais bien m'en escrimer ; 
 Par 13, je m'appris ^ rimer." 
 
 I thereby learned to rhyme. That is about the truth 
 of the matter. 
 
 Fontenelle, the nephew of Corneille, has, indeed, 
 
 assigned to love a more important influence upon 
 
 the development of his genius. After mentioning 
 
 that the young Corneille first appeared at the 
 
 5* 
 
50 A STUDY IN COKNBILLE. 
 
 bar " sans go<it et sans succ^," Fontenelle con- 
 tinues thus : 
 
 " But a small occasion disclosed in him a genius 
 altogether different; and it was love that gave rise 
 to the incident. A young man among his friends, 
 in love with a young lady of the same city, took him 
 to her house. The newcomer rendered himself more 
 agreeable than the introducer. The pleasure of this 
 occurrence awakened in M. Corneille a talent of 
 which he was unconscious ; and upon this light sub- 
 ject he composed the comedy of M61ite, which ap- 
 peared in 1625. In it was discovered an original 
 character, it was surmised that comedy was going to 
 be perfected, and upon the confidence felt in the new 
 author who was coming into notice there was formed 
 a new troop of comedians." 
 
 It is really too bad to spoil this pleasant little 
 anecdote, but the evidence seems to be against it. 
 The comedy of M61ite, whose date the best authori- 
 ties fix not as 1625 but as 1629, starts out, it is true, 
 with such an incident. There is no ground, however, 
 for supposing this to be a bit of autobiography. 
 Corneille, as we have seen, had already, while still 
 a collegian, been pierced by one of Cupid's golden 
 
THE FORMATIVE PERIOD. 51 
 
 arrows. Nor was the attachment a fleeting one, for 
 in 1635 or 1636 the poet, writing about his little 
 sweetheart of early days, declares : 
 
 " Je ne vois rien d'aimable aprSs 1' avoir aim(5e ; 
 Aussi n'aimai-je plus, et nul objet vainqueur 
 N'a poss^d^ depuis ma veine ni mon coeur.'' 
 
 From this emphatic statement it appears that 
 Corneille's first love had been up to this date his only 
 love. Now these two attachments, the love of Cor- 
 neille, the student, for a little girl — a love which was 
 not for many years followed by another — and the 
 love, mentioned by Fontenelle, of Corneille, the full- 
 fledged lawyer, for a young lady in society, are surely 
 incompatible. We must, therefore, I think, give up, 
 however reluctantly, this well-known story about the 
 origin of M^lite. 
 
 To that comedy we now turn. The reader who 
 expects to find here some earnest of Corneille's after 
 greatness will be grievously disappointed. While it is 
 decidedly superior to the pieces then in vogue, Melite 
 is still, when judged absolutely by any just standard, 
 a very poor play, illuminated by no coruscations of 
 genius, and marred by many blemishes of taste. 
 
52 A STUDY IN COENEIIiLE. 
 
 In beginning his examination of the firstling of 
 his brain, Corneille says : 
 
 " This piece was my first essay, and it makes no 
 attempt at conforming to the rules, for I did not 
 then know that there were any. I had no guide 
 but a little common sense, together with the exam- 
 ples of the late M. Hardy, whose vein was fertile 
 rather than polished, and of a few moderns who 
 were beginning to appear, and who were not more 
 regular than he. Its success was surprising : it es- 
 tablished a new troop of comedians at Paris, in spite 
 of the merit of that which was in the sole posses- 
 sion of the stage there ; it equalled everything most 
 beautiful that had been done up to that time, and 
 made me known at court. This common sense which 
 was all my rule, had made me hit upon the unity of 
 action to set four lovers at variance by a single in- 
 trigue, and had given me enough aversion for that 
 horrible irregularity which put Paris, Rome and 
 Constantinople upon the same stage, to cause me to 
 reduce mine to a single city." 
 
 As yet, however, the poet saw through a glass 
 darkly. The plot of M6lite is simple enough. The 
 play, which extends over more than a month, opens 
 
THE FORMATIVE PERIOD. 63 
 
 with a conversation between firaste and his friend 
 Tircis. Eraste who cherishes a fervent love for 
 M6lite laments her coldness to him. Tircis at first 
 discredits his friend's statement. When £raste in- 
 sists that it is too true, Tircis declares it a matter of 
 no great importance, anyhow, since his friend surely 
 can have no intention of marrying M6lite. But that, 
 firaste protests, is just what he does intend to do, and 
 he breaks into high-flown praises of her charms : 
 
 " The day that she was bom," he exclaims, " Venus, although 
 immortal, 
 Thought she would die of shame at seeing her so beautiful, 
 The Graces in emulation of one another descended from the 
 
 heavens, 
 In order to give themselves the honor of accompanying her eyes ; 
 Love, who could not enter into her heart, 
 Wished obstinately to dwell upon her face." 
 
 To this affected speech, Tircis replies that such 
 sentiment soon evaporates after marriage. More- 
 over he thinks that 
 
 " Marriage of itself is such a heavy burden. 
 That one should dread it as much as the grave," 
 
 firaste, believing that Tircis will change his opin- 
 ion when he sees M4lite, offers to introduce him to 
 
54 A STUDY IN COKNBILLE. 
 
 her in order to test the matter. The invitation is 
 accepted, and the two friends repair to the residence 
 of M6lite, where her beauty achieves an easy victory 
 over the indifference of Tircis. 
 
 In the course of the conversation which takes 
 place between the trio, some further examples of the 
 unnatural style of the times occur. When Tircis, 
 speaking to M6lite, refers to the love which she 
 kindles in men's hearts, she answers : 
 
 " I do not receive love and I do not give any to anybody, 
 How could I give wliat I never had? " 
 
 Soon after she says to the plaintive £raste : 
 
 " to put an end to your woes and your passion 
 Borrow all at once the coldness of my soul." 
 
 firaste replies : 
 
 " When I see you coldness loses all its power ; 
 And you only preserve it because you do not see yourself." 
 
 "Ah! what!" cries M^hte, "have all the mirrors false glasses?" 
 
 All this is truly harrowing. However, we must 
 proceed. After the interview with Mllite, although 
 he solemnly assures his friend to the contrary, 
 
THE FORMATIVE PERIOD. 55 
 
 Tircis secretly forms a firm resolution to win her 
 love at all hazards. 
 
 Then comes a scene between Cloris, the sister of 
 Tircis, and her lover Philandre, from which I extract 
 the following saccharine conceits. Philandre has 
 just asked Cloris whether she thinks herself much 
 more lovable than he is : 
 
 Cloris. 
 
 Without doubt ; and what couldst thou have that might be com- 
 parable to me ? 
 
 Philandre. 
 
 Look into my eyes, and recognize that in me 
 One can see something as perfect as thou art. 
 
 Cloris. 
 That is without difficulty, seeing myself there reflected. 
 
 PhUandre. 
 
 Turn from that vain picture by which thy sight is charmed. 
 Thou seest there only my heart, which has no longer a single 
 
 feature 
 Save those that it has received from thy charming portrait, 
 And which, just as soon as thou didst appear. 
 In order to see thee better, took its place at the window. 
 
56 A STUDY IN COENEILLE. 
 
 Now for the intrigue which sets four lovers at 
 variance. ]&raste, convinced of the treachery of 
 Tircis, and thirsting for revenge, sends to Philandre 
 some fictitious love-letters purporting to come from 
 Mdlite, and containing flattering avowals of an irre- 
 pressible affection. The absurd vanity and credulity 
 displayed by Philandre at this turn of affairs consti- 
 tute a glaring defect in the play. Though he has 
 never spoken to M6lite and does not know her hand- 
 writing, he accepts the letters as genuine and basely 
 deserts his fianc6e. 
 
 He does not visit M61ite, however, because he has 
 been requested in this bogus correspondence not to 
 do so until she shall have succeeded in clearing the 
 coast of his rivals. At length, so a letter says, 
 Tircis alone remains to be dismissed. When he, 
 joyful in the assurance of M6lite's affection, confides 
 his good fortune to Philandre, that poor dupe shows 
 him the fraudulent letters. Here occurs another 
 unpardonable defect. Tircis, in spite of the explicit 
 declarations which he has received from M61ite's 
 own mouth, and in spite of the fact that he, like 
 Philandre, is entirely unacquainted with her chi- 
 rography, yields immediately a foolish credence to 
 
to 
 
 THE FORMATIVE PERIOD. 57 
 
 the letters without seeking any explanation, and 
 becomes almost frenzied with rage and grief. 
 
 In the first heat of his wrath, Tircis challenges 
 Philandre to mortal combat. Philandre, however, 
 who does not seem to be over brave, will not fight, 
 or at least not until he shall have obtained M6lite's 
 permission. Afterwards, indeed, he changes his 
 mind, and goes hunting for his opponent, but fails 
 to find him. 
 
 Tircis shows to Cloris the letters which he has 
 gotten from Philandre, and which sufficiently explain 
 the state of affairs. She, gay-hearted girl that she 
 is, takes her lover's perfidy very philosophically, 
 and, repairing to the home of M^iite, confronts 
 her with the letters. M6iite, of course, repudiates 
 them as spurious. Cloris, however, will credit no 
 denial. 
 
 While the two girls are holding their colloquy, 
 Lisis, a friend of Tircis, in order to put M6lite's 
 fidelity to the proof, comes up and announces to 
 Cloris that her brother ^is dead. M6lite, hearing 
 this and being reproached by Lisis with having 
 broken her lover's heart and caused his death by 
 her faithlessness, falls in a swoon. 
 6 
 
58 A STUDY IN COENjilH/E. 
 
 Her neighbor, Cliton, whom firaste had employed 
 to deliver the fictitious letters, coming upon the scene 
 at this juncture, is stricken with remorse as he hears 
 and sees the serious results of the stratagem, and 
 mistaking this fainting spell for death, hastens to 
 tell firaste that his " accursed deception " has killed 
 both Tircis and Melite. 
 
 At this dreadful news !firaste goes mad. He 
 imagines that he is sinking down to Tartarus and 
 that he must seek the shades of the two lovers 
 murdered by his artifice and pour out his blood at 
 their feet. Thinking now that he has arrived at the 
 banks of the Styx, he addresses Cliton for Charon, 
 and demands passage in his boat. In vain does 
 Cliton strive to call back to reason the demented 
 lover, firaste crying out : 
 
 " What I thou wishest to escape to the other side without me ? 
 Then I must pass over, in spite of thee, on thy neck" — 
 
 springs upou the astonished man's shoulders, and 
 rains down upon his head a storm of blows. 
 
 Soon afterwards Eraste, from whom Cliton has 
 escaped, meets Philandre. Mistaking him for Minos, 
 the madman makes a clean breast of his guilty ruse. 
 
THE FORMATIVE PERIOD. 59 
 
 Thus, by a skillful device whose ingenuity does 
 much to atone for this silly pagan madness of 
 Eraste, and which Corneille, even after he had 
 written his great masterpieces, still regarded with 
 pardonable pride, Philandre is undeceived and a 
 denoiiment provided. 
 
 After Philandre leaves him, firaste declares war 
 against all hell. He even threatens, if Pluto op- 
 poses him in his designs, to carry off Proserpine 
 from between the very arms of her lord. 
 
 In the next scene, which is the last of the 
 fourth act, Lisis, explaining the purpose of his 
 little deceit, tells Cloris that her brother is quite 
 safe. 
 
 Here the principal action of the piece really ends, 
 for the way is evidently cleared for a complete 
 understanding between Tircis and M61ite. 
 
 The only remaining question — that as to the 
 authorship of the spurious letters — may be supposed 
 to be solved by Philandre who, to clear his own 
 skirts as far as possible, would very naturally tell 
 Cloris what he had found out from the ravings of 
 firaste, while she, just as naturally, would tell the 
 others interested. 
 
60 A STUDY IN COENEILLB. 
 
 So, as Corneille admits, " All the fifth act may 
 pass as useless." In that act, indeed, firaste, cured 
 of his madness by the announcement made to him 
 by M6lite's nurse that the two lovers whom he 
 believes dead are still living, becomes fully recon- 
 ciled to them, and offers his heart and hand, evi- 
 dently not in vain, to the fair Cloris who has just 
 spurned from her the luckless Philandre in spite of 
 his earnest entreatieg and professed repentance. But 
 all this constitutes only, to quote Corneille's words, 
 " une action 6pisodique," and is, therefore, super- 
 fluous now that the main action has closed. 
 
 Several other defects have already been noticed in 
 the course of our brief synopsis of the play. Only 
 one more needs be mentioned here. That pertains 
 to firaste's conception of his plot to make a breach 
 between M6lite and Tircis. How could firaste know, 
 first, that Philandre would credit the letters, second, 
 that he would show them to Tircis, and third, that 
 Tircis would without investigation also allow him- 
 self to be deceived ? Yet, if all three of these con- 
 ditions had not been fulfilled, firaste's trick would 
 have been futile. To choose thus as the mainspring 
 of the action an intrigue against whose execution lay 
 
THE FORMATIVE PERIOD. 61 
 
 the strongest antecedent probability, was an error 
 which Corneille himself has plainly pointed out. 
 
 M&lite, though very successful, did not escape 
 adverse criticism. The craft condemned it as vio- 
 lating the unity of time, as wanting in incident, and 
 as written in a vein too simple and familiar. 
 
 Corneille's answer to those who thus found fault 
 with his coup d'essai was the production, in 1632, 
 of his tragedy Clitandre, a veritable monstrosity, 
 but rigorously restricted to twenty-four hours in its 
 action, surcharged with startling efiFects, and more 
 stilted in style. Thirty years later, in his " exarnen 
 de Clitandre," the poet declared that, animated " by 
 a sort of bravado," he had in writing this drama 
 deliberately striven to compose a play which, though 
 quite regular, should be utterly worthless. 
 
 It is entirely possible that by that time the great 
 genius who had produced Le Cid and Bodogune, be- 
 ing unable to put himself back into the mental post- 
 ure which was his in 1632, had, indeed, in the course 
 of so many years come to look upon " Clitandre," 
 not at all as a serious effort of a young man anxious 
 to please his public and prove his ability to conform 
 to all their canons of criticism, however erroneous 
 6* 
 
62 A STUDY IN COKNEILLE. 
 
 he might feel them to be, but as merely a good- 
 humored thrust at his Boeotiau critics and a self-sac- 
 rificing attempt to teach them a lesson in taste. 
 
 While, however, such may have been Corneille's 
 honest opinion in 1662 as to the origin and purpose 
 of Clitandre, we can not but believe that when he 
 wrote the play in 1632 his chief object, and natu- 
 rally, too, was to increase his popularity, though he 
 very probably designed, also, incidentally to instruct 
 the public by making it clearly apparent to them 
 through a liberal exhibition of talent that the de- 
 fects which his tragedy contained could not be 
 charged to any lack of power on his part, but that 
 they were the necessary results of the vicious style 
 which he had for the nonce condescended to employ 
 iu order that he might demonstrate the fact that 
 even when thus clogged and clamping he could still 
 outstrip his contemporaries. 
 
 But whatever view inay be adopted as to the 
 point which we have just been considering, there 
 can be no difference of opinion with regard to the 
 merits or rather demerits of " Clitandre." It is, 
 taken altogether, simply execrable. Among the 
 sensational incidents in which the piece abounds is 
 
THE FORMATIVE PERIOD. 63 
 
 an attempt at rape occurring on the stage and foiled 
 by the courage of the girl who thrusts her hairpin 
 into the eye of her villainous assailant. Thus did 
 Corneille reach the nadir of his degradation. 
 
 Fortunately his abasement was but temporary. 
 Clitandre was his only effort in this lamentable 
 style of drama. Thenceforth he refused ever again 
 to wear the yoke of a vitiated public taste, and 
 resolutely persisted in obeying the dictates of 
 his own increasing experience and ripening judg- 
 ment. 
 
 His next four pieces La Veuve (1633), La Galerie 
 du Palais (1634), La Suivante (1 634), and La Place 
 Roy ale (1635) were comedies. 
 
 While they were all poor plays belonging to the 
 same species as MUite, they were marked by some 
 considerable improvements which gave proof of the 
 dramatist's growing power. More skill was shown 
 in the construction of his plot, the characters were 
 better differentiated, the style was a little more 
 natural, and everything like indecency was rigor- 
 ously excluded. 
 
 But there was naught as yet to tell the playwrights 
 contemporary with Corneille how great a rival had 
 
Q 
 
 A STUDY IN COKJSTEILLB. 
 
 stepped upon the stage to dispute with them the 
 prize of fame. 
 
 fllis first six plays were, however, far from being 
 profitless to him. Beside affording him needed 
 mental gymnastics by way of training for his great 
 career, these early dramas, which now seem to us 
 such feeble productions, brought him money enough 
 to form the nucleus of his fortune and earned for 
 him no little renown as a poet. 
 
 Richelieu, perceiving that the young author was 
 full of promise, chose him to be one of the band of 
 five dramatists, whose duty it was to work under the 
 Cardinal's direction, realize his ideas and complete 
 plays sketched by him in outline. The other four 
 members of this band were Boisrobert, Colletet, 
 I'fitoile and Rotrou. 
 
 Though thus admitted to the presence and favor 
 of the greatest statesman in Europe, Corneille found 
 the service of the Cardinal in some respects not 
 over pleasant. Richelieu proved rather a hard 
 master. 
 
 " Sa manie de faire faire des pifeces, dont il faisait 
 le plan et rimait quelques scenes, etait," says Michelet, 
 " despotique, irritante ; ces pauvres rimeurs k grand' 
 
TB.E FORMATIVE PEMOD. 65 
 
 peine tiraient la charrue sous I'aiguillon de ce terri- 
 ble camarade." 
 
 His Eminence carried into the republic of letters 
 the imperious spirit of the autocratic minister. He 
 liked not to be crossed or corrected. Originality 
 and independence on the part of his little coterie of 
 poets were, in fact, tabooed. Corneille, as we shall 
 see, could not long bear the badge of this subjection. 
 His self-respect soon compelled him to resign his 
 position as one of the cinq auteurs. 
 
 Before quitting the Cardinal's employ, however, 
 the poet produced, in 1635, his second tragedy, 
 MMie. In this piece for the first time we meet 
 some touches of that sublimity which is the peculiar 
 excellence of the great Corneille. 
 
 Probably our author had been roused to a con- 
 sciousness of his own glorious endowment of talent, 
 and his conception of the nature of tragedy had been 
 not a little exalted by reflection upon the decided 
 merits of Jean Mairet's Sophonisbe, a tragedy which, 
 as we said in a former chapter, appeared about 1633, 
 and which, lying amid that writer's weary waste of 
 worse than mediocre dramas, reminds one strongly 
 of a blooming, fountful oasis in a dreary desert. 
 
66 A STUDY IN COKNBIIjLB. 
 
 Sophonisbe was planned according to the precepts 
 of the ancients, and contained some undeniable ex- 
 amples of power, beauty and pathcjs. How so nota- 
 ble a piece should have come from so ordinary an 
 author must remain something of a mystery. It 
 would almost seem that fortune herself, smitten with 
 an Ariadne's love for him, had thus put into his 
 hands the thread to lead him out of the labyrinth of 
 bad taste. But Mairet was altogether incapable of 
 following the clue. 
 
 The excellencies of SopJionisbe, however, when 
 like good seed they fell into Corneille's fertile brain, 
 failed not to bring forth fruit an hundred fold. All 
 at once, as by a revelation, the great poet perceived 
 the grand possibilities of the drama. It was under 
 the spur of this elevated ideal that he made a study 
 of Seneca and composed M6d6e, an imitation of the 
 Roman writer's Medea. 
 
 The reader is familiar with the classic legend 
 upon which the play is based. Jason, whose father 
 Aeson, king of lolcus in Thessaly, had been 
 dethroned by his half-brother Pelias, lays claim on 
 attaining his maturity to his father's kingdom. 
 Pelias agrees to yield up the sovereignty to Jason, 
 
THE FORMATIVE PERIOD. 67 
 
 provided the latter shall first bring from Aea or 
 Colchis, the golden fleece which was suspended from 
 a tree in the grove of Ares and guarded by an ever- 
 vigilant dragon. 
 
 Accepting this condition and taking with him 
 about fifty of the most famous heroes of Greece, 
 Jason embarked in the ship Argo, and sailed for 
 Aea. 
 
 Here after many adventures the Argonautae 
 arrive. When they make known their mission, 
 Aeetes, king of the country, consents to let them 
 have the golden fleece, if Jason will, alone, plough 
 a piece of land with two fire-breathing, brazen-footed 
 oxen, sow in the furrows the remainder of the teeth 
 of the dragon which Cadmus had killed, and then 
 slay the armed warriors who will spring up from 
 these teeth. 
 
 This exploit of dire difficulty Jason is enabled to 
 perform through the help of the king's daughter, 
 Medea, a sorceress, who is deeply enamored of the 
 young hero. 
 
 In the mean time Aeetes is scheming to burn the 
 Argo and slay her crew. His eiforts, however, are 
 vain. Medea, by her magical powers, puts to sleep 
 
68 A STUDY IN CORNBILT.E. 
 
 the dragon which guards the golden fleece, Jason 
 obtains the object of his search, and he and his 
 comrades set sail at night, taking with them Medea 
 and her young brother Absyrtus. Aeetes follows 
 them in swift pursuit. When he begins to draw 
 near to the fugitives, Medea slays her brother, cuts 
 his corpse into pieces and throws them into the sea, 
 causing her father to stop in his course that he may 
 rescue from the waves the scattered limbs of his 
 boy. 
 
 At last, when they have experienced various 
 adventures, Jason and Medea reach lolcus in safety. 
 Jason does not, however, receive his throne. 
 
 Here Medea again displays her skill in sorcery. 
 First, she rejuvenates the aged Aeson, who, accord- 
 ing to one account, was still living. Then she courts 
 the confidence of the daughters of Pelias, and chang- 
 ing a ram into a lamb in their presence by boiling 
 the animal in a caldron, she succeeds in persuading 
 them to cut their father up and boil him also, prom- 
 ising that he shall thus be made young again. Of 
 course the sorceress did not restore her husband's 
 foe to life. 
 
 In punishment for this crime both Jason and 
 
THE FORMATrVB PEEIOD. 69 
 
 Medea were banished from lolcus by Acastus, son 
 of Pelias. The exiles sought refuge in Corinth. 
 Here they sjDent several happy years together. But 
 at length Jason determined to abandon Medea that 
 he might wed Creusa or Glauce, daughter of Creon, 
 king of Corinth. 
 
 Then was Medea wrought up into a frenzy of 
 rage. She destroys her hated rival Creusa by send- 
 ing her a poisoned robe which on being put on 
 burns her to death, and consumes in its fatal flames 
 her father also. Nov is Medea's mad craving for 
 vengeance yet satisfied. Heedless of the pleadings 
 of her mother's heart, she murders her two boys 
 with a dagger, in order thus to fill to overflowing 
 their father's bitter cup of grief. 
 
 Her inhuman fury satiated, Medea now escapes 
 to Athens in a chariot drawn by winged dragons. 
 Such is the theme of M6die. The scene of the play 
 is at Corinth whither Jason and M4d6e have fled to 
 escape the ire of Acastus. 
 
 I select a few striking passages which exhibit 
 
 well the growing power of the poet. After Jason 
 
 has disclosed his perfidious design of deserting his 
 
 wife, M6d6e, in the fourth scene of the first act, 
 
 7 
 
70 A STUDY IN COENEILLB. 
 
 makes the following passionate appeal to the"dii 
 conjugal es : " 
 
 " Sovereign protectors of the laws of marriage, 
 Ye gods, warranters of the faith that Jason has pledged me. 
 Ye whom he called to witness with an immortal ardor, 
 When by a false oath he conquered my modesty, 
 Behold with what scorn his perjury treats you. 
 And aid me to avenge this common injury ; 
 If he can to-day drive me forth with impunity, 
 You are without power or without resentment." 
 
 " Voici des vers," cries Voltaire, " qui annoncent 
 Corneille ! " 
 
 The fact that our author is here following in the 
 footsteps of Seneca can not cancel the Frenchman's 
 claim to honor. Seneca is his teacher in tragedy, 
 not his tyrant; Corneille is no servile copyist ;■ he 
 imitates, it is true, but not unfrequently he embel- 
 lishes the original thought with some sublime con- 
 ception of his own expressed in noble verse. Thus 
 in the passage just quoted the forceful line 
 
 " Et m'aidez 5, venger oette commune injure,'' 
 
 belongs not to Seneca ; it is Corneille's own in fee 
 simple. 
 
THE FORMATIVE PERIOD. 71 
 
 A little further on M6d6e exclaims : 
 
 " Can he really leave me after so many services ? 
 Dares he really leave me after so many crimes ? " 
 
 These lines, too, so plain and yet so profound and 
 so full of power, are the product of our poet's genius 
 and his alone. 
 
 The next remarkable passage, the most famous in 
 the play, occurs in the fifth scene, between M6d6e 
 and the attendant N6rine : 
 
 Nerine. 
 
 Compel the blindness by which you are misled, 
 To see to what condition fate has reduced you. 
 Your country hates you, your husband is faithless ; 
 In such a great reverse what remains to you ? 
 
 Medee. 
 
 Myself! 
 Myself, I say, and that is enough. 
 
 Nerine. 
 What ? You alone, madam ? 
 
 Medee. 
 
 Yes, thou beholdest in me alone sword and flame, 
 
 Land and sea, hell and heaven, 
 
 The sceptre of kings and the thunderbolt of the gods. 
 
72 A STUDY IN COKNEILLE. 
 
 What conciseness, what vigor, what sublimity! 
 Compare Corneille's " myself" — moi — with Seneca's 
 " Medea superest." Who can fail to see how far the 
 Frenchman has excelled his Roman rival here ? 
 
 This moi, which rang through France like a bugle 
 blast proclaiming the arrival of the tragic muse, 
 woke responsive echoes in many a heart. The reason 
 for the popularity of the passage is not far to seek. 
 
 France, sternly held in hand by Richelieu, still 
 cherished in the midst of her political subjection 
 and religious apathy an exalted ideal of dauntless 
 heroism, chivalrous individuality, firm self-reliance. 
 Med6e's sublime " Moi " is the very concretion of 
 this knightly sentiment. No wonder, then, that all 
 France applauded. 
 
 It is interesting to note in this connection that the 
 point of departure of Descartes's philosophy, as well 
 as of Corneille's poetry, was an appeal to personality. 
 
 " Je pense, done je suis" — it is the philosopher 
 crying " Moi, moi, dis-je, et c'est assez." Corneille 
 and Descartes, twin brothers they — the one in poetry, 
 the other in prose — stand on history's chiseled pedes- 
 tal, as the two formative factors in French letters 
 during the first half of the seventeenth century. 
 
THE FORMATIVE PEEIOD. 73 
 
 Michelet finds in the bold " Moi " of M6d4e an 
 unintentional affront to Cardinal Richelieu. "Ce 
 moi," exclaims the brilliant historian, " n'6tait que 
 le duel. Pr6cis6ment la chose que le rainistre pour- 
 suivait, punissait de mort." 
 
 Did the proud prelate feel the shock of this sub- 
 tle antagonism ? Did he imagine that he discovered 
 in the lines of the dramatist a spirit of revolt? Is 
 this a filament of the root of bitterness which was 
 soon to spring up between the statesman and the poet? 
 Perhaps ; we may not speak with more assurance. 
 
 This play contains another section well worthy of 
 study ; I mean the second scene of the second act. 
 M6d6e there argues with king Creon against a decree 
 which he has issued banishing her from his realm. 
 The passage is notable throughout for strength of 
 thought, energy of expression and skill in dialectic 
 fencing. Many of the lines which fall from the lips 
 of the disputants are stamped with the die of a 
 powerful mind. 
 
 Evidently this piece, from which we have not 
 space to quote more, is the prelude to far sublimer 
 strains. Corneille's genius is about to be made 
 manifest in all its glorious effulgence, 
 7* 
 
74 A STUDY IN CORNEILLE. 
 
 MM6e IB, indeed, marred by grievous faults. In 
 a measure, as Voltaire remarks, Corneille "6tait 
 encore subjugu6 par son sifecle." Glaring errors of 
 taste are still found in his work. The childish re- 
 quest of Creusa for M6d6e's robe is unworthy of the 
 stern style of tragedy. Old Aeg6e, king of Athens, 
 who offers his heart to Creusa, only to be con- 
 temned by her, and who afterward, for an attempt to 
 carry her off by force, is shut up by her partisans in 
 a prison whence he is delivered by the art of M6d6e, 
 is a character at once uninteresting and ridiculous. 
 
 Some of the declamatory passages are tiresome 
 from their length, a fault equally chargeable 
 upon Seneca's Medea. But in spite of all such 
 blemishes, Medle is still, intrinsically, a vigorous, 
 though unequal tragedy, adorned here and there 
 with bright jewels of thought, while historically the 
 play is a waymark on the road of progress indicat- 
 ing a notable advance in the direction of good taste. 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 The FtjLiL Bloom of Genitjs: Lb Cid. 
 
 'TyPE have now reached the never-to-be-forgotten 
 year 1636. Fame with busy fingers is weav- 
 ing a fadeless chaplet for our poet. Corneille is writ- 
 ing " Le Cid." He has lost the favor of his great 
 protector, the Cardinal. It happened in this wise. 
 Richelieu, about the close of 1635, put into the hands 
 of his five poets a comedy called Les Ihdleries, whose 
 scenes he had himself arranged. Corneille, to whomi 
 the third act had been given, had the hardihood to 
 make some needed change in that part of the piece. 
 The prime minister was much displeased. Two jeal- 
 ous and unworthy colleagues of the offending poet 
 eagerly added fuel to the flame of Richelieu's resent- 
 ment. He told Corneille sharply that he must have 
 "un esprit de suite" — must be more complaisant 
 and submissive, a sort of literary serf. Whereupon 
 Corneille with dignity retired from membership as 
 
76 A STUDY IN COENEILLE. 
 
 one of the cinq auteurs, and withdrew to Rouen. 
 Here following the advice of M. de Ch&lon, some- 
 time secretary to the queen-mother Marie de Medici, 
 he devoted himself to the study of the Spanish lan- 
 guage and literature. 
 
 The marriage of Louis XIII in 1615 to Anne of 
 Austria, daughter of Philip III of Spain, had made 
 the influence of the latter country a potent factor in 
 the fashions, society and letters of the time. Spanish 
 was as necessary a part of polite education in France 
 as French is to-day in England. 
 
 The dramatists, as we saw in a former chapter, 
 had not hesitated to draw upon the fund of foreign 
 genius thus placed at their disposal in the literature 
 of Castile. Drama after drama had been imitated 
 from the stage of Madrid. The playwrights strove 
 to transport into France the brilliant stage effects, 
 the stirring romance, the oriental pomp, the extrav- 
 agant hyperbole, the high-flown metaphors which 
 characterized the Spanish style. Thus far, however, 
 the French freebooters had shown but little taste 
 or judgment in the use of their captured treasure. 
 They did not go to Spain for inspiration simply. 
 They went thither for matter and manner both. 
 
LE CID. 77 
 
 What was the result? They caught the tone of 
 Spanish exaggeration, but they could not appropri- 
 ate that glowing imagination which colors Spanish 
 literature with gorgeous hues, even as the warm sun 
 colors a garden of the tropics. 
 
 In the hands of Frenchmen Castilian pomp de- 
 generates into pomposity and bold figures into vapid 
 fustian. What more could be expected? 
 
 Between France and Spain, both in character and 
 environment, there was a great difference. In the 
 passionate nation who lived beneath the splendor 
 of a southern sky — a nation through whose veins 
 coursed the mingled blood of the brave and digni- 
 fied Celtiberian, the fierce but withal chivalrous 
 Goth and the fervent, fanciful Arab — a nation 
 whose past was rich in heroic deeds and whose pres- 
 tige was still great among the peoples of Europe — 
 in such a nation a courtly manner, sometimes lapsing 
 into the grandiose, a flowery diction, a picturesque 
 extravagance, were natural and therefore pardonable. 
 
 But this style was not suited to France. Behind 
 her were different traditions ; within her dwelt a 
 different spirit; the elements of her national life 
 were different. What wonder then that her authors, 
 
78 A STUDY IN COENEILLB. 
 
 while they imitated all too successfully the artifice, 
 affectation and obscurity of Gongora and his school, 
 either naissed or marred the real beauties of the 
 Spanish theatre. 
 
 Corneille, however, is now studying that theatre 
 to far better purpose. His mind is soon impressed 
 by the great dramatic possibilities presented by a 
 play of Guillen de Castro, the subject of which is 
 the national hero of Spain, Rodrigo Diaz, called by 
 his grateful countrymen El Cid Campeador, or the 
 Lord Champion. 
 
 Corneille, finding in the popularity of the Spanish 
 drama a voucher which he sought for his own suc- 
 cess, at once determines to compose a piece upon the 
 same theme. 
 
 Before passing to the delightful task of reviewing 
 that piece, we must pause for an instant to chronicle 
 the appearance in 1636 of " L'lllusion Comique," a 
 very poor play, containing, it is true, some fiqe lines, 
 but as a whole misshapen, disfigured by far-fetched 
 conceits, and entirely unworthy of Corneille. 
 
 He himself calls it "un gtrange monstre," and 
 Voltaire declares " Cette piSce mgrite v^ritablement 
 le nom que lui donne Corneille, et pouvait 6tre 
 
LE CID. 79 
 
 regarcl6e corame un sommeil de I'auteur apres la 
 tragfidie de M6d6e: mais," continues the commen- 
 tator, " quel r6veil que la piece du Cid, qui suivit 
 imm^diatement cette farce ! " It was indeed a great 
 awakening — an awakening to undying fame. Never 
 in the history of French literature has there been 
 such an epoch-making or such an epoch-marking 
 play as the Old. From the god-like brain of Cor- 
 neille it sprang forth in all its peerless beauty, like 
 Pallas from the majestic brow of the cloud-compel- 
 ling Zeus. The poet had made no mistake in the 
 choice of his subject. The ermined honor of the 
 Cid as, to punish the insult inflicted upon his aged 
 father, he yields up all hope of wedding her who 
 was to him the half of his soul ; the devoted duty of 
 ChimSne, who in her turn like an inexorable yet 
 adorable Fury seeks vengeance on her lover for 
 the slaughter of her father ; the4eal love which still 
 lives in all its tender power in both these lancinated 
 hearts — such were the passionate principles to be 
 portrayed in conflict dire. The whole story was 
 informed with the very spirit of drama. How well 
 Corneille has mixed his colors, how vividly his 
 master's brush has brought out all the beauty and 
 
80 A STUDY IN CORNEILLB. 
 
 the pathos, all the nobility and the power, all the 
 lights and the shades of the battle, is plain to the 
 most untutored eye. 
 
 But without further preface let us turn to the 
 play. From Elvire, her governess, Chimfene learns 
 with tremulous joy that she has the permission of 
 her father, Don Gom6s, Count of Gormas, to follow 
 the dictates of her own heart in the choice of a hus- 
 band. Both of the cavaliers suing for her hand are 
 worthy of her, so the count says in his interview 
 with Elvire. Of Don Rodrigue, especially, upon 
 whom Chimfene has bestowed all the boundless 
 wealth of her best affections, he speaks in the high- 
 est terms, declaring that the young knight 
 
 " Goes forth from a house so prolifio in warriors 
 That they are there born in the midst of laurels,'' 
 
 and paying a high tribute to the worth of Eodrigue's 
 father, Don Difegue. How happy is Chimene at 
 hearing these glad tidings. But, like the swift 
 shadow that flits across the flowery meads in May, 
 a vague foreboding for a moment overcasts her 
 ecstasy of bliss. This presentiment, alas ! is to be 
 realized only too soon. 
 
LE Aia^ 81 
 
 The king appoints as tutor of his son Don Di6gue,. 
 ignoring the claims of Don GomSs who greatly 
 desired the office. The latter nobleman is so piqued 
 at his disappointment that he rejects with insults the 
 request which, in behalf of Rodrigue, Don Diegue 
 makes for the hand of ChimSne. In the dialogue 
 between the two fathers who boast not ■^vithoiit a 
 certain grave dignity, tlie one of past achievements, 
 the other of present prowess, Corneille admirably 
 depicts that haughty pride which was sncli a promi- 
 nent feature in the character of Castilian cavaliers. 
 The dispute waxes warmer. 
 
 At length, overcome with chagrin and irritation, 
 Don Gom6s strikes Don Diegue upon the cheek. 
 The poor old man is powerless to repay the 
 blow. Don GomSs snatches from his trembling 
 hand his useless sword, but at once returns it, 
 and then withdraws with a last cruel taunt. 
 The utter humiliation of Don Diegue is pitiable 
 to look upou. 
 
 " Oh rage ! oh despair ! " he cries, " oh hateful old age ! 
 Have I then lived so long only for this infamy ? 
 And have I grown gray in the toils of war 
 Only to see so many laurels wither in one day ? " 
 
82 A STUDY IN CORNEILLE. 
 
 Then he remembers that there is one who will 
 maintain for him the honor of his storied name and 
 wipe out in blood the stain upon his hitherto spot- 
 less glory — that one is his son Rodrigue. When, 
 therefore, the young man, his soul all filled with 
 " the purple light of love," comes with joyous step 
 and eager expectation to greet his father and receive 
 from him the formal consent of Don Gomis to the 
 marriage of the lovers, Don DiSgue startles the 
 would-be bridegroom with the unexpected question : 
 
 "Eodrigue, hast thou any courage?" 
 
 With the impetuous spirit of youth the son replies : 
 
 " Any other than my father should test it at once." 
 
 Don Diegue, rejoiced at this flash of fire which 
 argues a heart true as steel, then exclaims : 
 
 " Come my son, come my blood ; come to repair my shame ; 
 Come to avenge me." 
 
 "Of what?" cries the astonished Rodrigue. 
 
 " Of an affront so cruel," answers the galled father, 
 
 "That upon the honor of us both it inflicts a mortal wound; 
 ' Of a blow." 
 
I.E CID. 83 
 
 He warns Rodrigue that his foe is no mean an- 
 tagonist : 
 
 " I have seen him, all covered with blood and dust, 
 Cany terror everywhere into an entire army ; 
 I have seen by his valor a hundred squadrons broken; 
 And still to teU you something more, 
 More than a brave soldier, more than a great captain, 
 Heis— " 
 
 " I pray you finish," Rodrigue bursts forth as a 
 suspicion of the awful truth dawns upon him. Then 
 Don Diegue completes his sentence with the dread 
 words : 
 
 " The father of Chimene.'' 
 
 Don Rodrigue. 
 The — 
 
 Von Diigue. 
 
 Reply not, I know thy love ; 
 But he who can live dishonored is unworthy of life ; 
 The dearer the offender, the greater the offense. 
 In short thou knowest the offense and thou dost hold the venge- 
 ance. 
 I tell thee nothing more. Avenge me, avenge thyself; 
 Show thyself a son worthy of a father such as I. 
 
84 A STUDY IN COKNBILLE. 
 
 Eodrigue, whose soul is torn with agony, thus 
 bemoans his unhappy position in a lyric monologue 
 which pulsates, palpitates with passion : 
 
 " Pierced even to the bottom of the heart 
 By a blow unforeseen as well as mortal, 
 Miserable avenger of a just quarrel, 
 And unfortunate object of an unjust rigor, 
 I remain motionless and my dejected soul 
 Yields to the blow which slays me. 
 So near to seeing my love rewarded. 
 Oh ! God, the strange pain ! 
 In this affront my father is the offended 
 And the offender the father of Chim6ne. 
 
 " What hard struggles I feel ! 
 Against my own honor my love is interested ; 
 It is necessary to avenge a father and lose a lover; 
 The one animates my heart, the other restrains my arm. 
 Eeduced to the sad choice either to betray my love. 
 Or to live dishonored, 
 In either case my misfortune is infinite : 
 O God ! the strange pain ! 
 Must I leave an affront unpunished? 
 Must I punish the father of Chim6ne ? 
 
 " l''ather, lover ; honor, love ; 
 Noble and hard constraint, amiable tyranny ; 
 All my pleasures are dead, or my glory tarnished ; 
 
LE CID. 85 
 
 The one renders me unhappy, the other unworthy of life. 
 
 Dear and cruel hope of a soul noble, 
 
 But at the same time amorous ; 
 
 Worthy enemy of my greatest good fortune, 
 
 Sword which causest my pain ; 
 
 Art thou given me to avenge mine honor ? 
 
 Art thou given me to lose me my Chimene ? 
 
 " Then it is better to rush to death. 
 I owe a duty to my love as well as to my father : 
 In avenging myself I attract her hate and her wrath ; 
 Her scorn I attract in not avenging myself. 
 One course renders me faithless to my sweetest hope, 
 And the other unworthy of her. 
 My misfortune increases by wishing to cure it ; 
 All redoubles my pain. 
 
 Come, my soul, and since it is necessary to die, 
 Let us die at least without offending Chimene. 
 
 "To die without obtaining my satisfaction ! 
 To seek a death so fatal to my glory ! 
 To endure that Spain shall charge my memory 
 With having ill sustained the honor of my house! 
 To respect a love of which my distempered soul 
 Sees the destruction assured ! 
 Let us listen no longer to this corrupting thought 
 Which only serves to increase my pain. 
 Come, my arm, let us save honor at least. 
 Since after all I must lose Chimgne. 
 8* 
 
86 A STUDY IN COENEILLE. 
 
 " Yes, my mind was deceived : 
 I owe all to my father before my mistress. 
 Whether I die in combat or die of sorrow, 
 I will give back my blood as pure as I have received it. 
 I accuse myself already of too much negligence : 
 
 Let us run to vengeance ; 
 And, all ashamed for having hesitated so much, 
 Let us no longer he in pain, 
 Since to-day my father is the offended, 
 Though the offender ij. the father of Chimene.'' 
 
 This splendid passage shows how Corneille could 
 smite the quivering chords in the human heart, that 
 harp of many strings. 
 
 In accordance with his stern determination Rod- 
 rigue meets and slays the father of his beloved. 
 'Then there arises a terrible strife in the bosom 
 of ChimSne. All the emotions of her soul are 
 polarized around duty and love. She must bring 
 to justice the slayer of her father. But Rod- 
 rigue is the criminal ! How can she shed the 
 blood whose every drop is dearer to her than 
 oriental ruby ? Yet she does decide to follow 
 duty, and hastens to the king to demand that 
 Rodrigue be compelled to pay the extreme pen- 
 alty of his crime. 
 
LB CID. 87 
 
 "Sire," she cries, " Sire, justice ! 
 
 He has slain my father." 
 "He has avenged his own," pleads Don DiSgue. 
 
 And thus the maiden begs as a boon her lover's 
 death ; thus the gray-haired father implores pardon 
 for his dauntless son ; while all the spectators in 
 suspense know not what the end will be. The 
 king, however, delays his decision, promising that 
 justice shall eventually be done. 
 
 How wretched now is Rodrigue ! Like lurid 
 lightning his terrible trouble has scorched and 
 seared his soul ; the apples that grow in Love's 
 garden are ashen to his taste, the cypress waves 
 where roses bloomed, and from the spray on which 
 sat and sang the nightingale now croaks the bird 
 of doom. With crushed heart he goes to the 
 home of Chimeiie, himself to offer her the life 
 which she demands. To Elvire who expresses 
 her amazement at seeing him there, the sorrow- 
 stricken youth replies : 
 
 " Kegard me no more with astonished face ; 
 I seek death after having inflicted it. 
 My judge i.s my love, my judge is my Chimene ; 
 I merit death for meriting her hate ; 
 
8a A STUDY IN COENEILLB. 
 
 And I come to receive as a sovereign boon 
 Both the death-sentence from her mouth and the death-blow 
 from her hand." 
 
 Rodrigue withdraws for a time, and Chimfene 
 entering thus describes the anguished contest in her 
 bosom to Elvire : 
 
 " It is too little to say love, Elvire, I adore him ; 
 My passion opposes my resentment ; 
 In my enemy I find my lover ; 
 And I feel that in spite of all my wrath 
 Kodrigue in my heart still combats my father : 
 He attacks him, he presses him, he yields, he defends himself, 
 Now strong, now feeble and now triumphant: 
 But in this hard combat of anger and love, 
 He harrows my heart without dividing my purpose ; 
 And whatever power my love may have over me, 
 I hesitate not to follow my duty ; 
 
 I hasten without deliberation where honor constrains me. 
 Kodrigue is very dear to me, his fate afflicts me ; 
 My heart takes his part ; but against its influence 
 I know that I am a daughter and that my father is dead." 
 
 In vain does Elvire attempt to dissuade her from 
 her tragic determination, exclaiming at length, 
 
 " But you love Kodrigue, he can not displease you." 
 
LB CID. 89 
 
 Chimine. 
 
 I confess it. 
 
 Elvire. 
 After all, what think you then to do ? 
 
 Chimane. 
 
 In oi'der to preserve my glory and end my grief, 
 To pursue him, to destroy him, and after him to die. 
 
 Now ensues one of the most dramatic scenes in 
 literature. Rodrigue, the crowned liing of her 
 heart, Rodrigue, the abhorred slayer of her father, 
 presents himself to Chim&ne, bearing in his hand 
 the sword still crimson with that father's blood. 
 Hear the dialogue between these two who have so 
 fondly loved, who have so pitifully lost : 
 
 Rodrigue. 
 
 Ah well, without ti'oubling yourself to pursue, 
 Assure yourself the honor of taking my life. 
 
 Chimene. 
 
 Elvire, where are we ? and what do I see ? 
 Rodrigue in my house ! Eodrigue before me ! 
 
90 A STUDY IN COENBILLB. 
 
 Kodrigue. 
 
 Spare not my blood ; taste williout resistance 
 
 The sweetness of my destruction and of your %'engeance. 
 
 Chimclne. 
 Alas! 
 
 Iiodrigv£. 
 Listen to me. 
 
 Chimtne. 
 I die. 
 
 Sodrigue. 
 
 A moment. 
 
 Gkimine. 
 
 Go, let me die. 
 
 Rodrigue. 
 
 Four words only ; 
 Afterwards answer me only with this sword. 
 
 Chimine. 
 What ! all reeking still with my father's blood ! 
 
 Sodrigue. 
 My Chimene .... 
 
I.E CID. 91 
 
 Chimine. 
 
 Take from me this odious object 
 Wliich brings before my eyes the reproach of thy crime and 
 thy life. 
 
 Sodrigue. 
 
 Looli at it rather to excite thy liate, 
 
 To increase thy wrath and to hasten my punishment. 
 
 Chimine, 
 It is stained witli my blood. 
 
 Rodrigue. 
 
 Plunge it into mine ; 
 And make it lose thus the tint of thine. 
 
 Chimine. 
 
 Ah ! what cruelty which kills in one day 
 The fiither by the .sword, the daughter by the sight! 
 Take from me this object, I can not endure it: 
 You wish me to hear you and you make me die. 
 
 Rodrigue then declares that he does not repent of 
 his action. He has only walked in the plain path 
 of honor. Yet his love is not less strong. It had 
 made him, a knight of Castile, hesitate as to whether 
 he should avenge a mortal affront. Doubtless, he 
 
92 A STUDY In COEKEILLE. 
 
 says, his powerful passion would have made him 
 forget his glory had he not known that ChimSne 
 would have scorned a lover who bore the brand of 
 shame. In concluding his explanation Rodrigue 
 
 says : 
 
 " 1 have done what I ought, and what I ought I do ; 
 I know that a dead father arms thee against my crime ; 
 I have not wished to deprive thee of thy victim. 
 Immolate with courage to tlie blood that thy father has lost 
 Him who glories in having shed it." 
 
 Chimfene replies that she does not blame him, she 
 only weeps for her misfortune. But his laudable 
 course has marked out clearly her duty, too. He 
 avenged a father's injured honor, she must avenge 
 a father's blood. 
 
 " Alas ! " she cries in an outburst of pathetic grief, " thy fate 
 
 here puts me in despair. 
 If some other misfortune had snatched from me my father, 
 My soul would have found in the boon of seeing thee 
 The one solace that it would have been able to receive ; 
 And against my sorrow I would have felt some charms 
 When a hand so dear dried my tears. 
 But I must lose thee after having lost him ; 
 This effort against my love to my honor is due ; 
 
LE CID. 93 
 
 And this dreadful duty, whose command assassinates me, 
 Compels me myself to work for thy ruin." 
 
 Rodrigne now urges ChimSne to cut short his 
 miserable days, but she refuses, saying, 
 
 " I am thy adversary, and not thy executioner.'' 
 " My hand alone," Rodrigue argues, " has known how to avenge 
 the insult to my father. 
 
 Thy hand alone ought to avenge thine." 
 " Cruel ! " cries ChimSne, " why be obstinate upon that point ? 
 
 Thou hast avenged thyself without aid and thou wishest to 
 aid me ! 
 
 I will follow thy example and I have too much courage 
 
 To suffer that my glory be divided with thee. 
 
 My father and my honor will not consent to owe anything 
 
 To the promptings either of thy love or of thy despair." 
 
 " In the name of a dead father," Rodrigue pleads, " or of our 
 friendship 
 Punish me in vengeance or at least in pity. 
 Thy unhappy lover will have much less pain 
 To die by thy hand than to live with thy hate." 
 
 Chimine. 
 Go, I hate thee not. 
 
 Rodrigue. 
 Thou oughtest. 
 
94 A STUDY IN COBNEILLE. 
 
 Ohimine. 
 I can not. 
 
 Again Rodrigue urges her to kill him, and again 
 she refuses. 
 
 Rodrigue. 
 On what art thou resolved ? 
 
 Chim^ne. 
 
 In spite of the love so beautiful which disturbs my wrath, 
 I will do my best to avenge well my father ; 
 But despite the rigor of so cruel a duty 
 My one desire is to be able to do nothing. 
 
 Rodrigue. 
 O ! miracle of love ! 
 
 Chimine. 
 
 O ! acme of woe 1 
 
 Rodrigue. 
 How many ills and tears our fathers cost us I 
 
 Ohim&ne. 
 Kodrigue, who would have believed it 
 
 Rodrigtte. 
 Chimfine, who would have said it . . 
 
LE CID. 95 
 
 Chimine. 
 That our happiness should be so near and should be lost so soon. 
 
 Eodi-igae. 
 
 And tliat so near to haven, aguinst all appearance, 
 A storm so sudden should break our hope ? 
 
 Oh, mortal griefs ! 
 
 Oldm&ne. 
 
 Rodriyue. 
 
 Oh, useless regrets ! 
 
 Chimine. 
 Go away, once again, I hear thee no more. 
 
 Bodrigue. 
 
 Farewell ! I go to drag out a dying life 
 Until by thy pursuit it be taken from me. 
 
 Ghim^ne. 
 
 If 1 succeed in it, I engage thee my faith 
 
 To breathe not a moment after thee. 
 
 Farewell ; depart, and above all take good care not to be seen. 
 
 {^Modrigue goes Otti.] 
 
 Eivire. 
 
 Madam, whatever ills heaven may send upon us 
 
96 A STUDY IN COENBILLE. 
 
 Chim&ne. 
 
 Importune me no more, let me sigh ; 
 I seek silence and night to weep. 
 
 After this heart-rending interview Rodrigue meets 
 his father who gives him a guerdon of grateful 
 praise, and urges him at the same time to stifle 
 his love for Chimfene. But this Rodrigue will 
 not, this he can not do. Her name is chiseled on 
 his heart in imperishable letters. To her, more- 
 over, he is bound by a sentiment of honor not less 
 lofty and exacting than that which drove him to 
 slay her father. The noble young knight can not 
 break his plighted word, neither can he hope to wed 
 the woman of his love. Death, therefore, seems the 
 only portal of exit from his sorrow. 
 
 But his father, telling him that a Moorish fleet 
 menaces the city with immediate attack and striving 
 with the gleaming torch of glory to dissipate the 
 darkness of despair which has settled down upon 
 the soul of his son, bids him obey his country's 
 clarion call, and thus win the favor of the king and, 
 perhaps, the forgiveness of Chimene, or at least a 
 hero's glorious death and a patriot's deathless fame. 
 
LE CID. 97 
 
 Eodrigue heeds the appeal. The warrior's spirit 
 within him wakes. With five hundred heroes who 
 had assembled to avenge the affront offered to Don 
 Diegue, and whose I'anks were soon swelled to three 
 thousand, the gallant youth, stilling for a moment 
 with imperious command the wild waves of lovelorn 
 woe that surge over his soul, rushes forth, 
 
 " tiger-passioned, lion-tlioughted," 
 
 to pour out, if need be, his heart's blood as a 
 libation upon his country's hallowed altar. 
 
 In the gloom of the night this Spartan band 
 meets the Moorish host. Then and there amid the 
 clang of armor, the clash of swords and the clamor 
 of embattled soldiery, Rodrigue, by prodigies of 
 bravery rescues his country from peril, and wins 
 an exalted place in poetry's pantheon of deified 
 patriots. The report of this famous victory runs 
 like wild-fire through all the city. ChimSne, learn- 
 ing from the faithful Elvire of the glorious news, 
 exclaims in tender pride : 
 
 " And the hand of Kodrigue has wrought all these miracles ! " 
 
 Then, as she thinks of the manifold dangers of 
 9* 
 
98 A STUDY IN COENEILLB. 
 
 the battle, with changing color and fearful voice, 
 she hastens to ask, 
 
 " But is he not wounded ? " 
 
 Elvire assures her that there is no news of such 
 mishap. Thereupon duty again grapples love with 
 iron grasp, and, lilse Grecian athletes in an Olympic 
 contest, these powerful emotions struggle for master- 
 dom. Duty conquers. The cooing voice of love is 
 drowned in the bosom of Chim&ne by the serpent 
 hisses of revenge. 
 
 " If he has vanquished two kings," she cries in a wild transport 
 
 of rage, 
 " If he has vanquished two kings, he has slain my father." 
 
 Duty conquers, but oh ! at what cost of sufiering 
 to Chimene ! The higher Rodrigue rises on the 
 sun-gilded, far-gleaming peaks of fame, the more 
 dismal seems the dread abysm of despair in which she 
 languishes. His worth increased does but increase 
 her loss. 
 
 Now Rodrigue, having received permission to 
 recount the story of his great exploit to the king, 
 describes with nervous eloquence and in graphic 
 
LE CID. 99 
 
 style the glorious battle. Beginning with the 
 request that the king will pardon him for acting 
 without the royal authority, and urging in excuse 
 the imminence of the peril and the fact that he could 
 not come to the court without risking his life — a life 
 which he would far rather yield fighting for his 
 sovereign — the young soldier thus continues : 
 
 " Under me, then, this troop advances. 
 
 And they bear upon their brows a bold assurance. 
 
 We set out five hundred strong ; but, by a prompt reinforcement, 
 
 We saw ourselves three thousand on arriving at the port ; 
 
 So much courage did the most terrified regain 
 
 At seeing us march with such a mien ! 
 
 I conceal two-thirds of them as soon as they arrive, 
 
 In the holds of the vessels which were then found there : 
 
 The rest, whose number increased every hour. 
 
 Burning with impatience, remain around me. 
 
 Lie down on the earth, and, without making any noise. 
 
 Pass a good part of the beautiful night. 
 
 By my command the guard does the same. 
 
 And, keeping themselves concealed, aid my stratagem ; 
 
 And I boldly pretend to have received from you 
 
 The order which they see me follow and which I give to all. 
 
 That obscure light which falls from the stars 
 
 At last with the flood tide lets us see thirty sail ; 
 
 The wave swells beneath them, and, with a common impulse. 
 
 The Moors and the sea move onward to the port. 
 
100 A STUDY IN COENEILLE. 
 
 We let them pass ; all appears tranquil to them ; 
 
 No soldiers at the port, none on the walls of the city. 
 
 Our profound silence deceiving their minds, 
 
 They dare no longer doubt of having surprised us ; 
 
 They approach without fear, they anchor, they disembark. 
 
 And run to deliver themselves into the hands that await them. 
 
 We rise then, and all at the same time 
 
 Kaise to heaven a thousand piercing shouts. 
 
 Our men from our ships respond to these cries ; 
 
 They appear armed, the Moors are confounded ; 
 
 Terror seizes them when half disembarked ; 
 
 Before fighting they believe themselves lost. 
 
 They were running to pillage and they encountered war ; 
 
 We press them on the water, we press them on land. 
 
 And we make rivulets of their blood run. 
 
 Before one of them can resist or regain his rank. 
 
 But very soon, in spite of us, their princes rally them ; 
 
 Their courage revives and their terrors are forgotten. 
 
 The shame of dying without having fought 
 
 Stops their disorder, and gives them back their valor. 
 
 Against us with firm foot they draw their simitars ; 
 
 They make horrible mixtures of our blood with theirs; 
 
 And the earth and the river, and their fleet and the port 
 
 Are fields of carnage where death triumphs. 
 
 Oh, how many actions, how many fame-worthy deeds. 
 
 Have remained without gloiy in the midst of the darkness. 
 
 Where each one, sole witness of the great blows which he gave. 
 
 Could not see to which side fate inclined ! 
 
 I went on all sides to encourage our men, 
 
LE CID. 101 
 
 To make some advance, and to sustain the others, 
 
 To marshal those who came, urge them forward in their turn, 
 
 And I could not know the issue until the break of day. 
 
 But at last its light shows our advantage : 
 
 The Moor sees his defeat, and suddenly loses courage ; 
 
 And, seeing a reinforcement coming to succor us, 
 
 The ardor of conquering yields to the fear of death, 
 
 They gain their ships, they cut their cables, 
 
 Raise to heaven frightful cries, 
 
 Betreat in tumult, and without considering 
 
 Whether their kings can retire with them. 
 
 Their terror is too strong. to permit this duty ; 
 
 The flood-tide brought them thither ; the ebb takes them back ; 
 
 While their kings, engaged among us. 
 
 And some few of their soldiers, all pierced with our strokes, 
 
 Contend valiantly and sell their lives dear. 
 
 In vain I myself invite them to surrender ; 
 
 Simitar in hand, they heed me not : 
 
 But seeing all their soldiers fall at their feet. 
 
 And that, alone, henceforth they defend themselves in vain. 
 
 They ask for the chief ; I announce myself ; they surrender. 
 
 I send them both to you at the same time ; 
 
 And the combat ceased for want of combatants. 
 
 It is in that way, that, for your service " 
 
 These last words of his story still flutter on his 
 lips, when it is announced that Chimdne is coming 
 again to demand justice from the king. Rodrigue 
 
102 A STUDY IN COKNEILLE. 
 
 retires and ChimSne enters. The king, to test her 
 feelings, pretends that Eodrigue has died of wounds 
 received in battle, and bids Chimene thank heaven 
 for thus avenging her. The sudden, death-like 
 pallor that overspreads her face proves how deep is 
 the poor girl's love. 
 
 " What ! " she cries, " Eodrigue then is dead I " 
 
 " No, no," replies the king, " he lives 
 And for thee stiU preserves an unchangeable love ; 
 Calm this grief which interests itself for him ! " 
 
 But recovering her self-possession, Chimfine de- 
 clares that her evident emotion was due to chagrin 
 that Rodrigue should have met his death on the 
 field of honor instead of on the scaffold. Vainly the 
 king pleads for Rodrigue. Chimtoe is implacable. 
 Since the king will not punish her lover, she appeals 
 to arms, calling upon all the cavaliers of the court 
 to espouse her cause in the lists, and promising that 
 when Rodrigue shall have fallen, she will wed his 
 conqueror. Although, according to custom, Chimene 
 was entitled to this trial by battle, the king at first 
 peremptorily refuses to subject Rodrigue to the perils 
 of successive duels with the numerous knights likely 
 
LE CID. 103 
 
 to be brought into the field by such an offer from 
 such a maiden. 
 
 " The Moors as they fled," says the grateful monarch, " have 
 carried away his crime." 
 
 But Don Di^gue begs the king not to break the 
 law in order to favor Rodrigue, lest such action 
 should sully his fair fame. Reluctantly the king 
 yields so far as to permit one combat, bidding 
 Chimene choose well the warrior to represent her, 
 as by the issue of this duel she must abide. She 
 accepts Don Sanche as her champion. The contest 
 is to take place two hours hence. In conclusion, 
 the king, in spite of her protest, announces that 
 upon the victor, whoever he may be, he will bestow 
 the hand of Chimene. All now await the decisive 
 moment. But in the meantime Rodrigue goes to 
 take his last farewell of Chimfene. It is a fine 
 scene. Since she so resolutely seeks his death, he 
 will not, he says, defend himself against the arm 
 that fights for her. She tells him to remember 
 that defeat would eclipse the splendor of his glory. 
 Again, touching another chord, she exclaims : 
 
 " Dost thou treat my father with so much rigor 
 That after having conquered him, thou dost suffer a conqueror." 
 
104 A STUDY IN COENEILLE. 
 
 But Rodrigue is deaf to all appeals, until at last, 
 driven to extremities, she entreats him to save her 
 from a marriage with Don Sanohe ; and bids him 
 come forth " conqueror from a combat of which 
 Chim6ne is the prize." At these magic words 
 Rodrigue's heart leaps within him ; every nerve 
 quivers with joy ; at last the sun bursts through the 
 rifted clouds. 
 
 " Is there," he cries in rapture, " Is there any foe that I can not 
 
 conquer now? 
 Appear Navarrese, Moors and Castilians, 
 And all the heroes that Spain has nourished ; 
 Unite and make an army 
 To combat a hand thus incited ; 
 Join all your efforts against a hope so sweet ; 
 Too few are ye to succeed." 
 
 Fired by such enthusiasm 'tis but an easy task 
 for Rodrigue to disarm his antagonist, whose life, 
 however, he spares because it was hazarded for 
 Chim6ne. Obedient to his conqueror's command, 
 Don Sanohe carries to her his sword in token of 
 Rodrigue's victory, but she, supposing her lover 
 fallen, receives her champion with such words as, 
 " Perfidious one ! " — " Execrable assassin ! " She 
 
LE CID. 105 
 
 will hear no explanation. Her passionate love for 
 Rodrigue finds full vent. She implores the king to 
 release her from a loathsome union with Don Sanche. 
 At last she learns the truth. The king urges her 
 to pursue no more her noble lover, no more to resist 
 the manifest will of Heaven. Rodrigue on bended 
 knee again offers her his life. She bids him rise. 
 She can not now deny the love she bears him. She 
 even demurely admits that where a king commands 
 one must obey. And yet — she shrinks back, for a 
 father's corpse lies between them. The king, know- 
 ing the healing power of time, wisely grants her a 
 year to balm her grief, bidding Rodrigue meantime 
 continue his glorious career. 
 
 And thus, as the curtain falls, we feel assured that, 
 when the uttermost farthing of duty's debt shall 
 have been paid, the rainbow of love in brightness 
 and beauty shall shine through the tempest of tears. 
 
 The success of the Cid was j)henomenal. The 
 poet received at once his accolade, not indeed by 
 princely favor, but from a proud people. Every- 
 where the piece was greeted with perfect transports 
 of enthusiasm. How just was the verdict of Cor- 
 neille's countrymen, how powerfully he has depicted 
 10 
 
106 A STUDY IN COENEILLE. 
 
 in this piece love, honor and duty, has, I hope, been 
 evident, even from my feeble effort. As a humble 
 admirer of some master artist might lift a veil from 
 the face of one of that artist's greatest paintings, so 
 have I simply tried to lift the veil of French which 
 hides from American eyes this magnificent picture 
 of the Old, and to let my readers see for themselves 
 how the passions were there portrayed by Corneille. 
 If you ask me whether there are any faults in 
 the Old, I might reply in proverbial phrase that 
 the sun has its spots, or quote to you the sensible 
 words of Pope : 
 
 " Whoever thinks a faultless piece to see, 
 Thinks what ne'er was, nor is, nor e'er shall be." 
 
 Of course the Cid contains some defects, but you 
 will have to read it more than once and wait until 
 the lyric passion which its fervid eloquence and 
 sublime poetry with their rush and roll and rhythm 
 excite has subsided, before you can begin to perceive 
 those blemishes. Critics generally agree in con- 
 demning as superfluous the part of the Infanta, a 
 character whom I have not mentioned in my sum- 
 mary. She is represented in the first act as greatly 
 
LE CID. 107 
 
 troubled in spirit. Secretly she loves Rodrigue. 
 But she can not wed him. Her royal rank forbids 
 that. She has, therefore, labored to bring about a 
 union between him and Chimfene. But, alas for the 
 poor jDrincess, until that marriage shall have been 
 finally consummated, she is doomed to be tortured by 
 a passion which she strives in vain to stifle. In the 
 second act, after speaking words of cheer to Chimene, 
 when the latter is dreading an encounter between 
 her father and Rodrigue, the Infanta lays bare her 
 heart to her confidant Ldonor. Confessing her love 
 for Rodrigue, the unhappy princess tells what flatter- 
 ing hopes her fond heart whispers. Suppose Rod- 
 rigue should meet and conquer the Count; what 
 exploit after that will be too difficult for the young 
 hero's arm ? Will he not go on from deed to deed 
 of valor till vanquished nations shall confess his 
 prowess and her love be vindicated by its object's 
 high renown? The Infanta does not appear in the 
 third act. In the fourth, she vainly entreats Clii- 
 ni6ne to sacrifice the demands of blood to the claims 
 of country and to desist from the prosecution of 
 Rodrigue, who has now become 
 
 " the pillar of a people's hope." 
 
108 A STUDY IN COENEILLE. 
 
 In the fifth act the princess, after weighing Rod- 
 rigue's fame against her pride of rank, decides that 
 he is worthy of her, but determines to give him up 
 to Chimfine who, in spite of her cries for vengeance, 
 is evidently devoted to him still. 
 
 " I will conquer myself," exclaims tlie Infanta, " not for fear of 
 any blame, 
 But in order not to disturb such a beautiful love." 
 
 And so, indeed, she does. But all this is justly 
 regarded as unnecessary and tedious, because it is 
 something outside of the real action of the play. 
 
 Having thus pointed out the main defect in " Le 
 Cid," we need merely say with regard to the other 
 strictures made upon it, that they fall into two classes ; 
 first, criticisms to which an adequate defence might 
 be opposed, and, second, criticisms which, though 
 well-founded, are still of altogether minor import- 
 ance, and which can not cloud the bright glory of 
 this noble drama. Our limited space makes it 
 impossible for us to notice either of these two 
 classes further. 
 
 It is interesting to note the effect of the appearance 
 of "Le Cid" upon French politics. In 1624, 
 
LE CID. (jOS 
 
 Richelieu, seeing that the ranks of the nobility 
 were being decimated by frequent duels, persuaded 
 the king to issne a stringent ordinance against the 
 custom. For disobedience to this ordinance M. de 
 Bouteville, who was a Montmorency, and his second, 
 the Count of Chapelles, were put to death. Richelieu, 
 in discussing with the king the expediency of their 
 execution, boldly exclaimed : " It is a question of 
 breaking the neck of duels or of your Majesty's 
 edicts ! " The Cardinal was evidently bent on 
 eradicating the code. 
 
 Now " Le Cid" was,_in^some sort, a glorification 
 of the du el ! The young Corneille, with Rodrigue's 
 courage, appeared to be throwing down the gauntlet 
 to "I'fiminentissime" himself! Again Richelieu 
 since 1635 had been carrying on a war with Spain. 
 But in " Le Cid " Spanish manners and Spanish 
 chivalry were -presented in such a blaze of glory 
 as to call forth from every audience tumultuous 
 applause. Well_tnigh..t the prime minister gnash 
 his teeth amid the general laudation of the play. 
 Michelet comments as follows upon the subjects to 
 which I have just referred: " Aurait-on pu en 
 1637, apres le Cid, ce qu'on avait pu en 1626, punir 
 10* 
 
( 110 ) A STUDY IN COKNEILLE. 
 
 de mort I'obstinS duelliste revenu pour se battre 
 sous les crois^es du roi ? Non, I'^dit 6tait aboli, la 
 scfene avait vaincu les lois; sur Richelieu planait 
 Corneille. La campagne s'ouvrait. De quel coeur 
 la noblesse allait-elle se battre centre les descen- 
 dants du Cid, ces Espagnols aim6s et admirfe? 
 Franpais et Espagnols allaient penser 6galement 
 que I'ennemi n'^tait qu'k Paris, I'ennemi cornmun, 
 Richelieu." 
 
 These considerations would be sufficient to show 
 that " Le Cid " could never be looked upon with 
 approval by the Cardinal. But his sharp antipathy 
 to Corneille was doubtless due to a complex of 
 causes. Perhaps the first of these was a feeling of 
 resentment at M6d6e's bold"MOi" — that quintes- 
 sence of the duel, as Michelet thinks. Then came 
 the strain in the relations between the poet and the 
 prelate consequent upon the correction made by the 
 former in the comedy of " the Thuilleries." Cor- 
 n eille, a king in spirit, could but ill play the courtier. 
 When, therefore, the Cardinal bestowed favors upon 
 other dramatists, the great tragedian preserved a 
 dignified indifference; nay, more, in the "Excuse k 
 Ariste," published in 1636, before the appearance of 
 
LE CID. (Ill 
 
 " Le Cid," he gloried in the fact that his increasing 
 fame had been w on by his ow n unaided genius. 
 
 "Mon travail," he exclaims, "sans appui monte sur le theatre 
 
 Par d'illustres avis je n'dblouis personne 
 
 ********** 
 
 Je ne dois qu'a moi seul toute ma renommde." 
 
 It was probably with little patience that Richelieu 
 heard this proud boast. But the breach, already 
 considerable, was greatly widened by the appearance 
 of " Le Cid." Here was a play written by a man 
 from whom the Cardinal was estranged, exalting at 
 once, as we have seen, the duel which he had pro- 
 scribed and the Spaniards with whom he was at war, 
 outshining far every attempt which he himself had 
 made at dramatic composition, and setting all Paris 
 wild with delight. Richelieu was stung to the quick. 
 The young poet, so it seemed to the Cardinal, had 
 dared to assume toward him, the most powerful 
 premier in Europe, an_attitude_ofJnd£peud^nce, if 
 not of absolute defiance. This rebel must be crushed, 
 this rival must be downed. 
 
 Richelieu found willing helpers in his project. 
 The devil of bad taste which Corneille had bidden 
 
-J. 12 A STUDY IN COENEILLE. 
 
 come out of literature departed not without much 
 
 wrathful writhing and rending. An atrabilious 
 
 band of authors, among whom may be mentioned 
 
 ScudSry, Mairet, Bois-E-obert and Claveret, stood 
 
 with daggers drawn ready to do to the death the 
 
 reputation of the great poet. The Cardinal — alas ! 
 
 for his fame — debased himself so far as to encourage 
 
 and set on these assassins, f^j lcnd^ry, a. ridinnlQ iia 
 
 writer 
 ' " dont la fertile plume 
 
 Peut tous les mois sans peine enfanter un volume " 
 
 is chief of_iihe-cabal. He is quite beside himself 
 with rage. He can discover little or no beauty in 
 " Le Cid," for he sees it only through the green 
 spectacles of jealousy. He gives vent to his venom 
 by composing a critique upon the play, beginning 
 his attack with this savage thrust :p' There are cer- 
 tain pieces, like certain animals that exist in nature, 
 which, at a distance, look like stars, and which, on 
 close inspection, are only worms." j " Le Cid " a 
 glow-worm, forsooth ! This passage is sufficient to 
 show the spirit of Scud^ry's onslaught. The same 
 feeling of bitter envy animated the other members 
 of the clique. The fight waxed hot and hotter. 
 
LE CID. 113 
 
 Insults were heaped upon Corneille. Scud6ry in an 
 insolent private letter even went so far as to send 
 him a kind of challenge. To this silly burst of 
 spleen Corneille, who had proudly defended his 
 fame against his enemies, made the following sensible 
 reply: "There is no necessity for knowing how 
 much nobler or more valiant you may be than my- 
 self, in order to judge how far superior 'Le Cid' 
 is to the 'Amant Liberal.' .... I am not a fight- 
 ing man ; so that, in that respect, you have nothing 
 to fear." 
 
 In all the dispute the public were true to our 
 author. 
 
 "En vain centre Le Cid un ministre se ligue, 
 Tout Paris pour Chimene a les yeux de Eodrigue." 
 
 At length the Cardinal, rightly thinking that it 
 was high time to end such a noisy and unseemly 
 wrangle, determined to remove the case from the 
 bar of public opinion and carry it into the court of 
 the French Academy which he had created and from 
 which he expected a servile deci sion. Accordingly 
 he persuaded Scud^ry to appeal to this tribunal for 
 judgment upon the matter at issue. The Academy 
 
114 A STUDY IN COENEILLE. 
 
 were very loath to try the case. They pointed out 
 to the Cardinal by way of mild remonstrance the 
 obvious risk which the infant institution would run 
 of rendering itself hateful to the nation by assuming 
 finally to pronounce upon the worth of so popular 
 apiece. But it was of no avail. Richelieu declared 
 that their reasons seemed to him of but little mo- 
 ment. The Academicians then advanced another 
 objection. They reminded him that their statutes 
 ■forbade them " to judge a work without the con- 
 sent and request of the author." This request 
 Corneille had not made, this consent he had not 
 given. Determined not to be balked, Richelieu 
 employed Bois-Robert to obtain from him the desired 
 declaration of acquiescence in the proceeding. But 
 Corneille with suave diplomacy maintained his posi- 
 tion of vantage, skilfully parrying every appeal. He 
 told Bois-Robert that the matter was quite below 
 the dignity of the Academy, and that the establish- 
 ment of such a precedent as the proposed trial of " Le 
 Cid" was furthermore, fraught with much danger 
 and vexation, since envious scribblers would be con- 
 stantly bringing before the Academy indictments 
 against each new piece that might win popular 
 
LE CID. 115 
 
 favor. Finally Bois-Robert found it necessary to 
 declare in plain terms the will of Richelieu. Then 
 Corneille saw that he must yield, and, after stating 
 once more his objections, he added : " The gentle- 
 men of the Academy may do as they please ; as you 
 write that Monseigneur would be glad to have their 
 judgment, and that it would divert his Eminence, I 
 have nothing more to say." If Corneille seems to 
 us to have displayed some weakness in thus sur- 
 rendering, let us remember the age, the country, the 
 civilization in which he lived. " Le moyen," cries 
 M. Fontenelle, " Le moyen de ne pas manager un 
 pareil ministre, et qui 6tait son bienfaiteur?" ^ 
 
 Richelieu greedily clutched Corneille's reluctant 
 words as a carte blanche. But the Academy still 
 hung back from the business. At last the tiger 
 showed his teeth. " Tell those gentlemen that I 
 desire it," exclaimed the Cardinal, " and that I shall 
 love them as they love me." The Academy dare 
 resist no longer. Theirs was a hard task, for they 
 had on the one hand the irritated premier and on 
 the other the enthusiastic public to conciliate. The 
 luckless critics were thus between the Devil and the 
 
 ■' The poet was then receiving a pension from the premier. 
 
116 A STUDY IN COENBILLE. 
 
 Deep Sea, so to speak. Three times did they pre- 
 sent to the Cardinal -thairlrfipart, .only to^ have it 
 thrice thrust back upon them as unsatisfactory. 
 His Eminence was greatly vexed, because they could 
 not, with any heed to their literary consciences, deal 
 out condemnation unmixed and unmeasured upon 
 " Le Cid." Their fourth report, drawn up by 
 Chapelain, was accepted by the Cardinal who was 
 reconciled to the mildness of the criticism only by 
 the consideration, artfully presented by the Academy, 
 that they must preserve a judicial tone in their 
 review, if they desired it to be received with any 
 respect by the people. The celebrated verdict thus 
 rendered by the supreme court of culture in France 
 was not satisfactory to" any of the parties to the 
 dispute. Richelieu and Scud6ry had desired a far 
 severer judgment; Corneille was justly indignant 
 that it should be so severe. The Academy had 
 clearly resorted to trimming. In their effort to 
 mediate between the two sides, the learned -judges 
 censured here and praised there, sometimes with 
 wisdom, often without. But though this verdict, 
 which may be characterized as a mixture of fearful- 
 ness, feebleness and nascent good taste, falls far 
 
I.B CID. 117 
 
 short of doing anything like justice to the beauties 
 of Corneille's great creation, the poor, belabored 
 Academicians should be given considerable credit 
 for making even the stand that they did in behalf of 
 literary merit and against the jealous anger of a 
 despotic minister. Such a stand at such a time was 
 a boon to literature. 
 
 The result of the contest was substantially a vic- 
 tory for Corneille. All France, as Balzac wrote to 
 Scudfiry, sided with the persecuted poet. In vain 
 had his foes confederated against him ; a great nation, 
 as one man, rose up to do him honor. Cela est 
 BEATJ COMME Le Cid became, in some parts of the 
 country, a proverbial tribute to exalted excellence. 
 Corneille decided, for prudential reasons, to make 
 no reply to the strictures upon his piece ; the discom- 
 fited Scud^ry with comic courtesy returned thanks to 
 the Academy ; and Richelieu's resentment gradually 
 cooled off. The pacification of the Cardinal was 
 largely due to the kind offices of Mme. de Corabalet, 
 but for whom, according to Voltaire, Corneille would 
 have been disgraced. 
 
 Thus was a very discreditable chapter in the his- 
 toiy of French letters brought to a close. Across 
 11 
 
118 A STUDY IN COENEILLE. 
 
 the darkened scene, however, one golden gleam of 
 purest light had fallen.- While the other writers of 
 the time were engaged in the vile work of detraction, 
 the noble Rotrou, who stood head and shoulders 
 above them all, remained Corneille's firm and faith- 
 ful friend, giving his unstinted praise to the great 
 poet's genius, and furnishing to the world a glorious 
 example of lofty generosity. All honor to Jean 
 Rotrou ! 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 A. Chaeactee Study: I-Iobaoe. 
 
 FBOUT two years had passed since the events 
 recorded in our last chapter, when Corneille 
 produced another magnificent masterpiece which 
 appears pretty eifectually to have stopped the mouths 
 of his Lilliputian rivals. This time he sought his 
 inspiration not in the legends of Spanish chivalry 
 but^ in the -glorious jexploitSy- fabled, perhaps, yet 
 true in spirit, of dome's , earliest heroes whoae_ forms, 
 as we look at theni, through the mistoftraditionb 
 which tlieyjjf„^ enveloped,^ seem grown to gigantic 
 size^^Taking for the subject of his drama the 
 famous story of the combat between the three 
 Curiatii and the three Horatii which has been 
 preserved in Livy's amber Latin, our immortal 
 poet composed a tragedy which must ever rank 
 among the sublimest productions of the sublimest 
 authors in French literature. Here Corneille was 
 
 119 
 
120 A STUDY LN COKNBILLE. 
 
 injiis jiatLve element. No one was better fitted 
 than he to present an ideal personification of that 
 heroic patriotism which under the direction pfjfar- 
 seeing statesmanship reared a stiipeiidfiUS_emjHre, 
 bore Rome's eagles in triumph ,ahQ.y£-the_jidjQiaiin 
 tide of battlfe on a thousand famous fi^elds, and com- 
 pelled the proudest kings to fling down their diadems 
 at her feet. The great_poet's harp was attuned to 
 just such themes as this. Though he had not proved 
 his valor amid the " volleyed thunder" of contending 
 armies, nor murdered his man in a duello.X!orneille 
 had, nevertheless, a heroic soul. Had this not been 
 true he could never have composed either " Le Cid " 
 or the ^lartialdrgjna which we are now about to 
 examine. To describe the gallant dfiedSu.wrp'^g^*' 
 by a hero's sword demands a hero's„pen. ^^The poet 
 of warfare must Jje himself, potentially, a warrior. 
 With this much by way of introduction we begin 
 at once our examination of the play. The title is 
 " Horace," sometimes less correctly written " Les 
 Horaces." The dramatis personae are Tulle, king 
 of Rome; the old Horace, a Roman cavalier; 
 Horace, his son ; Curiace, a gentleman of Alba, and 
 lover of Camille ; Val^re, a Roman cavalier, in love . 
 
HOEACB. 121 
 
 with Catnille, but rejected by her ; Sabine, wife of 
 young Horace and sister of Curiace ; Caniille, lover 
 of Curiace and sister of Horace ; Julie, a Roman 
 lady, confidant of Sabine and Camille ; Flavian, an 
 Alban soldier. 
 
 When the play opens Rome and Alba, inflamed 
 by the lust of power, are engaged in fratricidal war. 
 This day the stern arbitrament of battle is to decide 
 which nation shall rule. In the first scene consist- 
 ing of a dialogue between Sabine and Julie, the 
 former laments her unhappy position, a prey as she 
 is to clashing emotions. 
 
 " I am a Boman, alas ! " she exclaims, " since Horace is a Koman ; 
 I have received that title in receiving his hand ; 
 But this tie would hold me as a chained slave, 
 If it hindered me from seeing in what places I was born. 
 Alba, where I began to breathe the day, 
 Alba, my dear country and my first love ; 
 When between us and thee I see war opened, 
 I fear our victory as much as our defeat. 
 Eome, if thou complainest that that is to betray thee, 
 Make thyself enemies whom I can hate. 
 When I see from thy walls their army and ours, 
 My three brothers in one, and my husband in the other. 
 Can I form prayers, and without impiety, 
 Importune heaven for thy success?" 
 11* 
 
122 A STUDY IN COENEILLE. 
 
 This is a true cry of paiu from a stricken heart. 
 Continuing, Sabine says that she knows that Rome 
 must enter upon a career of conquest. Thus only 
 can she achieve the high destiny which the gods 
 have marked out for her. Nor does Sabine con- 
 demn such ambitious projects. 
 
 "I would like already," she cries, "to see thy laurel-crowned 
 
 troops 
 With victorious step pass over the Pyrenees. 
 Go, push on thy battalions even to the Orient ; 
 Go plant thy standards upon the banks of the Khine ; 
 Make the pillars of Hercules tremble under thy steps, 
 But respect a city to which thou owest Eomulus. 
 Ingrate, remember that from the blood of its kings 
 Thou hast thy name, thy walls and thy first laws. 
 Alba is thy origin ; stop and reflect 
 
 That thou art plunging thy sword into the bosom of thy mother. 
 Direct elsewhere the efforts of thy triumphant arms ; 
 Her joy will shine forth in the happiness of her children ; 
 And allowing herself to be enraptured by maternal love. 
 Her prayers will be for thee, if thou art no longer against her." 
 
 Julie, recalling Sabine's seeming indifference here- 
 tofore to the fortunes of Alba, expresses herself as 
 surprised at this sudden outbreak of emotion. Sabine 
 replies that as long as the engagements occurring 
 
HORACE. 123 
 
 between the forces of the two nations were of too 
 little moment seriously to affect the welfare of either, 
 she did, indeed, boast that she was altogether Roman, 
 but now that the fates of both cities hang trembling 
 in opposite pans of the balance, now that all is staked 
 upon the issue of one decisive battle, the smouldering 
 embers of her love for Alba burst forth into flame. 
 
 " I am not for Alba," she says, " and I am no longer for Home. 
 
 I fear for both in this last struggle. 
 
 And I will be of the side which fortune shall overthrow. 
 
 Impartial toward both until the victory, 
 
 I shall share in the woes without sharing in the glory ; 
 
 And in the midst of so many harsh rigors I keep 
 
 My tears for the vanquished and my hate for the victors." 
 
 "How very differently," remarks Julie, " Camille acts in our 
 
 eyes! 
 Her brother is your husband, your brother is her lover : 
 But she sees with an eye very different from yours 
 Her blood in one army and her love in the other." 
 
 Julie then tells how much sorrow Camille had 
 suffered on account of the minor combats which had 
 previously taken place. 
 
 " But yesterday," continues the coniidant, " wlien she knew that 
 they had fixed a day, 
 
124 A STUDY IN COENBILLE. 
 
 And that at last a battle was going to be given, 
 A sudden joy shining upon her brow 
 
 " Ah, Julie," interrupts Sabine, " how I fear a change so quick ! 
 
 Yesterday in her fine humor she conversed with Valfere ; 
 
 For this rival, doubtless, she abandons my brother ; 
 
 Her mind, moved by present objects, 
 
 Does not find an absent one worthy of love after two years.'' 
 
 Julie says that she can not explain Camille's con- 
 duct. Just at that juncture the latter approaches, 
 and Sabine, bidding her talk to Julie, withdraws. 
 
 " How wrong she is,'' exclaims Camille, " to wish me to enter- 
 tain you ! 
 Does she think my grief less poignant than her own, 
 And that, more insensible to such great misfortunes, 
 I mingle fewer tears with my sad words ? 
 My soul is alarmed with similar terrors ; 
 I shall lose like her in both armies. 
 I shall see my lover, my only wealth. 
 Die for his country or destroy mine ; 
 And this object of love become for my sorrow 
 Worthy of my sighs or worthy of my hate. 
 Alas ! " 
 
 Julie suggests that she discard Curiace and accept 
 Valfere. Camille rejects the idea with scorn. But 
 
HORACE. 125 
 
 this exhibition of constancy does not shiy the doubt 
 in Julie's mind. 
 
 " You disguise in vain/' slie exclaims, " a tiling too clear : 
 1 saw you yesterday converse with Valere, 
 And tlie gracious welcome which he received from you 
 Permits him to nourish a sweet enough hope.'' 
 
 Camille, hastening to explain away this charge 
 which makes her faithful heart wince with pain, 
 alludes to the happy hour when she and Curiace were 
 betrothed, tells how that very day scowling war arose 
 to thrust his bloody arm between them, speaks of their 
 agonized parting, and then continues thus : 
 
 " You have since seen the sorrows of my soul ; 
 
 You know what prayers my love has made for peace; 
 
 And what tears I have shed at each event, 
 
 Now for my country, now for my lover. 
 
 At last my despair in these unending difficulties 
 
 Made me have recourse to the voice of oracles. 
 
 Hear whether the one which was given me yesterday 
 
 Was capable of assuring my distracted mind. 
 
 This Greek, so renowned, who for so many years 
 
 Has predicted our destinies at the foot of the Aventine, 
 
 He whom Apollo has never made speak falsely. 
 
 Promised me by these verses the end of my trials : 
 
 ' Alba and Kome shall assume another aspect ; 
 
126 A STUDY IN COENEILLE. 
 
 Thy prayers are heard, they shall have peace, 
 
 And thou shalt be united to thy Curiace 
 
 Without any bad fortune ever separating thee from hiii ? ' 
 
 I derived from this oracle an entire assurance ; 
 
 And, as the issue surpassed my hope, 
 
 I abandoned my soul to raptures 
 
 Which surpassed the transports of the happiest lovers. 
 
 Judge of their excess : I met Valere, 
 
 And, contrary to his custom, he could not displease me ; 
 
 He spoke to me of love without wearying me ; 
 
 I did not perceive that I was talking to him ; 
 
 I could not show him scorn or coldness : 
 
 All that I saw seemed to me Curiace, 
 
 All that was said to me spoke to me of his love ; 
 
 All that I said assured him of my affection. 
 
 The general combat is risked to-day ; 
 
 I knew the tidings of it yesterday and I paid no attention to 
 
 them: 
 My mind, charmed with the sweet thought of marriage and 
 
 peace, 
 \ Bejected these ill-omened ideas, 
 ^ight has dissipated errors so enchanting ; 
 A thousand frightful dreams, a thousand bloody images, 
 Or rather a thousand heaps of carnage and of horror, 
 Have snatched from me my joy and given me back my terror. 
 I have seen blood, dead men, and I have seen nothing connected ; 
 A spectre, in appearing, suddenly took flight ; 
 They effaced one another ; and each illusion 
 Redoubled my fright by its incoherence." 
 
HORACE. 127 
 
 Julie tries to reassure iier, telling her that dreams 
 go by contraries and that this grim battle which 
 she dreads so much shall usher in smiling peace. 
 Camille, however, is not to be comforted. 
 
 " Let the ill endure forever," she cries, " if it requires that 
 
 remedy ! 
 Whether Rome succumb in the contest or whether Alba be 
 
 worsted, 
 Dear lover, no longer expect to be one day my husband ; 
 Never, never shall that name be for a man 
 Who is either the conqueror or the slave of Rome." 
 
 As she utters these words she sees Curiace himself 
 coming towards them, and exclaims : 
 
 " But what new person presents himself in these places? 
 
 Is it thou, Curiace ? shall I believe my eyes ? " 
 
 " Doubt thou not, Camille," he answers, " and behold again a 
 
 man 
 Who is neither the conqueror nor the slave of Rome ; 
 Cease to dread seeing my hands crimson 
 Under the shameful weight of fetters or with the blood of the 
 
 Romans." 
 
 Camille, thinking that overcome by the power 
 of his love for her he has deserted from the 
 Alban army, declares that she has, nevertheless. 
 
128 A STUDY IN COKNEILLB. 
 
 no word of reproach for his action. He quickly 
 undeceives her. 
 
 " I do not abandon the cause of my city, 
 
 I love still my honor while adoring Camille. 
 
 So long as the war lasted they saw me constantly 
 
 As good a citizen as true lover. 
 / 1 reconciled Alba's quarrel with my love ; 
 I I sighed for you while fighting for her ; 
 
 And if it were still necessary Ihat one should come to blows, 
 
 I would fight for her while sighing for you." 
 
 He then explains that a cessation of hostilities has 
 permitted him to visit his beloved. She naturally 
 desires to know the reason for the truce, whereupon 
 he tells how, when the two hosts were drawn up 
 ready to charge, the Alban dictator, advancing before 
 his army, made an impassioned protest against this 
 hitei-necine strife, 
 
 .^ 
 
 " In which the death of the vanquished enfeebles the victors, 
 And the most glorious triumph is watered with tears." 
 
 To put an end to the suicidal war he proposed that 
 each side choose three champions. These should do 
 battle for their respective states. The city whose 
 
HORACE. 129 
 
 champions should be conquered must thenceforth 
 train under the banners of the other. 
 
 /^"Thus," he concludes, "our two states sliall make but one 
 empire." 
 
 All joyfully agreed to this proposal. Each 
 chieftain is now deliberating upon the choice of 
 champions. 
 
 " O, gods," cries Caraille, " liovv content these words make ray 
 soul ! " 
 
 Curiace then finishes his report Ijy telling her 
 that her father has promised to bestow upon him 
 her hand on the morrow. 
 
 \ 
 
 "You will not becoQie rebellious to his power?" asks the ^^^ 
 
 ardent lover. ; 
 
 "The duty of a daughter," Camille naively replies, "is in / 
 obedience." 
 
 Thus at the close of the first act the angel of 
 peace for a time spreads her snowy wings above the 
 rival armies. But soon, alas ! her gentle soul is lo 
 be startled into flight by the clang of gleaming 
 swords and the sight of flowing blood. 
 12 
 
130 A STUDY IN COENEIIiLE. 
 
 Act second commences with a scene between 
 Curiace and Horace. They have just learned that 
 E,ome has chosen the three Horaces to fight for her. 
 Curiace after speaking of the high honor thus bestowed 
 upon the young heroes, an honor which, had it been 
 divided, might, he thinks, have covered three distinct 
 families with glory, goes on to say that, while he par- 
 ticipates as much as he can in the high distinction of 
 his brothers-in-law, he is filled with apprehension 
 for Alba. 
 
 "Since you fight," he declares, "her defeat is assured ; 
 / In causing you to be named, f^eJiasjjjjfiiBJit.-' 
 I see but too clearly her baleful designs in this choice. 
 And I count myself aXreaay for one of your subjects." 
 
 " Whatever may be the designs of envious fate," answers Horace, 
 
 "T.do not count myself for one of your subjects. 
 /Ebme has overestimated my worth ; but my delighted soul 
 j Will fulfil her expectation or renounce life. 
 \ He who wills to die or conquer is rarely conquered ; 
 VThis noble despair perishes with difiiculty. 
 
 Be that as it may, Rome shall never be subject 
 
 Unless my last gasps assure my defeat." 
 
 y>Alas ! " cries Curiace, " it is just here that I ought to be pitied. 
 /Wliat my country desires, my friendship fears. 
 \ Dire extremity, to see Alba enslaved, 
 
HORACE. 131. 
 
 Or lier victory at the price of a life so dear; 
 
 Dire extremity, tliat the only boon to which her desires go out 
 
 Is purchased but by your last gasps ! 
 /what prayers can I form, and what happiness await ! 
 / On both sides I have tears to shed ; 
 V On both sides my hopes are deceived." 
 
 "What!" replies Horace, astonished, " What ! you would weep 
 
 for me dying for my country ! 
 For a noble'lieirt this death has charms, 
 Tlife'"gicrry- which follows it permits not tears. 
 And I would receive it and bless my fate, 
 If Rome and all the state lost less in my death." 
 
 Now ensues a scene which must thrill the most 
 stoical spectator. While Horace and Curiace are 
 still talking, Flavian appears bearing a message for 
 the latter. Let us listen to the dialogue that follows. 
 
 Curiace. 
 Has Alba made the choice of three warriors ? 
 
 Flavian. 
 I come to apprise you of it. 
 
 Ouriace. 
 
 Well, who are the three? 
 
132 A STUDY IN COKNEILLE. 
 
 Flavian. 
 Your two brothers and you. 
 
 Ouriace. 
 Who? 
 
 Flavian. 
 
 You and your two brothers. 
 But why this sad brow and these stern looks? 
 Does this choice displease you ? 
 
 Cktriace. 
 
 No, but it surprises me ; 
 I esteemed myself of too little worth for an honor so great. 
 
 Flavian. 
 
 Shall I tell the dictator, whose order sends me hither, 
 
 That you receive it with so little joy? 
 
 This gloomy and cold reception surprises me in my turn. 
 
 fell 
 
 Ouriace. 
 
 fell him that friendship, marriage ties and love 
 AVill not be able to hinder the three Curiaces 
 \From serving their country against the three Horaces. 
 
 Flavian. 
 Against them ! Ah ! that is to tell me much in a few words. 
 
HORACE. 133 
 
 Ouriace. 
 Take him my answer and leave us in repose. 
 
 After Flavian's withdrawal, Horace and Curiace, 
 doomed, as they now know to contest against each 
 other in mortal combat, discuss their dreadful situ- 
 ation. Hgre the poet's art is entitled to high prais^ 
 With fine effect he.setsiiLshai:pLCfflitrastjthe,pliara6ters 
 otj ^ie two_ y_oung warriors. 
 
 ^Horace, heedless of the cries of affection, a stranger 
 tQ fear, thoroughly possessed by the one thought of 
 his duty to his country, is a type, somewhat exagger- 
 ated, of the stern, unyielding nation of soldiers who 
 wrought and fought for Rome 
 
 " In the brave days of old." 
 
 " To combat an enemy," says he, " for the safety of all, 
 And against an unknown foe to expose oneself alone to the blows. 
 Is the ordinary effect of a common-place courage : 
 A thousand have already done it, a thousand could do it ; 
 To die for the country is so acceptable a lot. 
 That crowds would court so glorious a death : 
 But to be willing to sacrifice to the state what one loves. 
 To engage in a combat against another self. 
 To attack an enemy who takes for a defender 
 The brother of a wife and the lover of a sister, 
 12* 
 
134 A STUDY IN CORNBILLE. 
 
 And, breaking all these ties, to arm oneself for the fatherland 
 Against blood which one would fain ransom with his life ; 
 Such a courage belongs only to us." 
 
 Curiace is much nearer the ideal hero. Not Jfiss 
 patriotic, not less brave than Horace, the'S^lban is 
 far more intellectual, far more humane. 
 
 " I see," he says, sadly, " that your honor demands aJJ^my blood. 
 That all mine consists in piercing your breast ; j' 
 That, about to espouse the sister, I must kill the brother ; 
 And that for my country I have a lot so contrary. 
 While to my duty I hasten without terror, 
 My heart is shocked and I tremble with horror ; 
 Tpity myself and cast an envious eye 
 On those whose life our war has consumed. 
 Without the desire, however, of being able to retreat. 
 This sad and proud honor agitates me without unsettling me : 
 -^ love what ^t gives me, andj[ regret what it takes away ; 
 And if Rome demands a higher courage, 
 I return thanks to the gods that I am not a Eoman, 
 In order to preserve still some humanity.'' 
 
 The feelings of Horace are far different. 
 
 " Rome has chosen my arm," he cries, "I consider nothing, 
 
 With an alacrjt^as full and sincere 
 
 As that wii^which I espoused the sister, I will fight the brother ; 
 
 And, finally, to out short this useless talk. 
 
 Alba has named you, I know you no longer." 
 
HOEACE. 135 
 
 The reply of Curiace is admirable. 
 
 "I know you still," he says, " and it is that which kills me." 
 
 A moment later the stricken Camille joins them. 
 Horace, bidding her bear up bravely in her grief, 
 urges her in case he should be slain by Curiace, not 
 on that account to steel her heart against her lover. 
 
 "Accomplish the marriage,'4says the just, if .fetljtish^ brother, 
 
 "as if I were living." 
 " But," he adds, " if this sword also cuts short his life. 
 Give to my victory a similar treatment ; 
 Beproach me not with the death of your lover. 
 Your tears are going to flow and your heart to ache ; 
 Consume with him all this weakness, 
 Quarrel with heaven and earth and curse fate ; 
 But after the coijihat think no more of the dead." 
 
 With these ominous words, which are the distant 
 rumbling of a coming storm, Horace goes to seek 
 Sabine and leaves the two lovers alone together. 
 
 Standing upon the very brink of the awful chasm 
 of despair, their cheeks blanch, and their young 
 hearts sicken and sink within them as they look 
 down into its dreadful depths, where death sits grin- 
 ning on his gory throne. " Wilt thou go, Curiace ? " 
 
136 A STUDY IN COKNEILLE. 
 
 questions Camille. His soul is bursting with vol- 
 canic grief. But he will do his duty, nevertheless. 
 With tears in every tone he answers. 
 
 / -^T'pity-^iou5-i-piiy_m^fi]£f-b«t-I must_gD/' 
 
 Camille's entreaties are all in vain. 
 
 " No," he cries, " No, Alba, after the honor which I have received 
 
 from thee, 
 Thou shalt neither succumb nor conquer save by me ; 
 Thou hast entrusted to me thy fate, I will render thee a good 
 
 account of it, 
 And will live without reproach, or perish without shame : " 
 
 /' What ! " says Camille, " thou wilt not see that thou dost thus 
 betray me?" 
 
 Grandly he answers: 
 
 " Before belonging to thee, I belong to my country.'' 
 
 The painful interview of the lovers is interrupted 
 a few moments after this by the arrival of Horace 
 and Sabine. We need not dwell upon the turgid 
 rhetoric of the rather superfluous scene which fomws. 
 In it Sabine, phrensied with bitter woe, urges that 
 either her husband or her brother take her life, and 
 
HORACE. 137 
 
 SO create a legitimate cause for their fatal strife. 
 Or, if this course be derogatory to their glory, she 
 begs them to pour out her blood as the initiatory 
 libation of their awful sacrifice to the Moloch of 
 savage patriotism. Should they notgrant her request, 
 she will throw herself between their hurtling swords 
 upon the field of battle and perish thus. Her words, 
 while they wring the hearts of the warriors, can not 
 make them swerve from their duty. 
 
 The elder Horace now appears for the first time. 
 
 " What is this, my children," he demands, " do you listen to 
 
 your love, 
 And do you still waste time with women ? 
 Keady to shed blood, do you regard tears ? 
 Flee and let them deplore their misfortunes. 
 Tlieir plaints have too much art and tenderness for you : 
 They will make you share at length their weakness. 
 And it is only by fleeing that one parries such blows." 
 
 At this the women withdraw, Sabine exclaiming 
 as she departs, 
 
 " Tigers, go fight ; and for us, let us go die.'' 
 
 Young Horace then requests his father to watch 
 over Sabine and Camille and above all to keep 
 
138 A STUDY IN COENEILLE. 
 
 them from the scene of battle, lest by cries and tears 
 they disturb the combat, and cause Eome's champions 
 to be suspected of employing a cowardly artifice. 
 
 " I will take care of thera," replies the noble old patriot, 
 
 " Go ; your brothers await you ; 
 
 Think only of the duties which your countries demand." 
 
 " What farewell shall I tell you ? " exclaims Curiace, " and by 
 what honoring phrase " 
 
 ^" Ah ! to udi„not_hgre_m^feeling:s ; " the heroic 
 father cries in a speech admired by every critic 
 for its Deer less patri^jtism_JrajL§iused - witt-.sti^^ 
 natural affection : 
 
 " My voice lacks words to encourage you ; 
 My heart does not form lirm enough thoughts ; 
 I myself in this parting have tears in my eyes ; 
 y Do your duty, and leave the rest to the gods." 
 
 So the dauntless warriors go forth to battle, while 
 every heart in both armies beats high with excite- 
 ment, and Atropos, the unavoidable, makes ready 
 her glittering shears. 
 
 The marked difference in the merit of the first 
 and second halves of the third act illustrates the 
 
I-IOEACE. 139 
 
 unequal nature of Corneille's genius. In the one 
 this bird of Jove is walking with folded wings upon 
 the earth ; in the other he soars amid the battling 
 clouds and grasps the forked lightnings in his 
 talons. The act begins with a tiresome monologue. 
 " Sabi.nes'adresse sa pensdc, la retourne, r6pete ce qu' 
 elle^ji dit, oppose parole h parole." ' She tries to 
 extract some sips of honey even from sorrow's 
 bitter herbs. 
 
 " Neither side can triumph," ^ she muses, " save by the arms of 
 my dear ones." 
 
 But this thought is soon succeeded by its obverse, 
 and she says with hopeless sadness, 
 
 " Neither side can triumph save by the death of my dear ones." 
 
 Julie now arrives with tidings from the field. 
 She announces that the two armies, when they 
 discovered that the three Horatii and the three 
 Curiatii had been chosen as champions by their 
 respective nations, indignantly refused to allow 
 soldiers so closely bound together by family ties 
 to be pitted against each other in deadly strife. 
 
 ^Voltaire. 'Lit. "One can only triumph," &c. 
 
140 A STUDY IN COENEILLE. 
 
 In vain did the champions, fearing lest they 
 might lose their high renown, pi'otest against this 
 interruption. The two armies were determined that 
 so barbarous a combat should not take place. They 
 loudly demanded either that other combatants be 
 selected or else that a general battle be joined. In 
 the midst of this uproar the Roman king proposed 
 that the question whether the Horatii should fight 
 the Ctiriatii be left to the decision of the gods whose 
 will was to be sought at once in sacrifice. The two 
 armies agreed to this and all are now awaiting the 
 report of the harugpices. 
 
 Like the grateful drops of a gentle rain in summer 
 upon a drooping flower fall these words of Julie 
 upon Sabine's sad heart. Gladly she welcomes 
 returning hope. 
 
 Camille, on the contrary, with whom in the next 
 scene Sabine and Julie discuss the situation, finds 
 in the news no physic for despair. After some 
 moments of conversation Julie retires. The two 
 sisters-in-law, thus left by themselves, enter into a 
 debate as to whose condition is the more deplorable. 
 Camille maintains that marriage looses the bonds of 
 birth ; that one's husband is incomparably dearer 
 
HORACE. 141 
 
 than one's brothers ; and that Sabine, therefore, has 
 only the death of Horace to dread. 
 
 Very much more harrowing, Camille thinks, is 
 her own position. Curiace, the lover whom she 
 was just about to marry, is less to her than a hus- 
 band and not less than a brother. Her heart is 
 thus convulsed with contrary feelings. 
 
 Sabine in reply says that love for a husband does 
 not extinguish love for one's brothers ; that the 
 passion felt for a lover is after all more or less a 
 matter of caprice ; and that it is a crime to weigh 
 such an attachment against the affection to which 
 by nature's law one's brothers are entitled. Hence 
 Sabine does not see why Camille can not offer up 
 undivided prayers for her brothers' success. 
 
 Each of the ladies thus thinks her own burden 
 the heavier. Their logical duel, so entirely out of 
 place on such a solemn, such a tragic occasion, when 
 every spectator, moreover, is eager to know what is 
 going on in the field, is happily interrupted by the 
 entrance of Camille's father, who announces that, 
 agreeably to the will of the gods, the fatal combat is 
 now in progress. Instantly our interest, chilled by 
 the preceding scene, rises to fever heat. " Com me 
 13 
 
142 A STUDY IN COENBILLE. 
 
 I'arrivge du vieil Horace rend la vie au thMti:a.qui 
 languissait ! " exclajms^Xoltaire, " Quel m oment et 
 quelle noble simplicity ! " 
 
 The grand old man pities the agonj; of the_two 
 women. His own soul is sorely tried. But his 
 grief, he well understands, is not so hard to bear as 
 theirs. The three Curiatii are indeed still very 
 dear to him. He is not bound to them, however, 
 by ties of love or blood. He can give his sympathy 
 unreservedly to his own brave boys. He would 
 have been rejoiced, he admits, had the gods for- 
 bidden this cruel combat and constrained Alba to 
 choose other champions. The Horatii could then 
 have conquered without shedding the blood of the 
 Curiatii. 
 
 But " Dis aliter visum." Tbe_divijQfi-»ill must 
 now be done. He therefore bids Sabine and Camille 
 bear with pious faith and Roman fortitude the fear- 
 ful calamity that has befallen them. As for him- 
 self, the iiery furnace of affliction only causes his 
 golden character to glow with a brighter lustre. 
 While he is striving to inspire them with his own 
 heroic spirit Julie enters with news of the fight, 
 and the following scene ensues. 
 
HORACE. 143 
 
 The Elder Horace. 
 Do you come, Julie, to apprise us of the victory ? 
 
 JvMe. 
 
 Nay, ratlier of tlie baleful results of the combat. 
 
 Kome is the subject of Alba and your sons are defeated ; 
 
 Of the three two are dead, her husband alone remains to you. 
 
 The Elder Horace. 
 
 O, truly baleful result of a sad combat ! 
 
 Kome is the subject of Alba, and, to preserve her from it. 
 
 He has not employed even his last breath ! 
 
 No, no, that is not true, they deceive you, Julie ; 
 
 Rome is not subject, or my son is without life : 
 
 I know my blood better, he knows better his duty. 
 
 A thousand from our ramparts have, like me, been able to see it. 
 He made himself admired so long as his brothers lived ; 
 But, as he saw himself alone against three adversaries, 
 About to be surrounded by them, his flight saved him. 
 
 The Elder Horace. 
 
 And pur betrayed soldiers have not dispatched him? 
 Have they given refuge in their ranks to this coward ? 
 
 Julie. 
 I did not wish to see anything after this defeat. 
 
144 A STUDY IN CORNEILLE. 
 
 Camitle. 
 O, my brothers ! 
 
 The Elder Sorace. 
 
 Stop, weep not for them all ; 
 
 Two enjoy a fate of which their father is jealous. 
 
 Let their tombs be covered with the noblest flowers ; 
 
 The glory of their death has paid me for their loss. 
 
 This happiness has followed their unconquerable courage, 
 
 That they have seen Kome free as long as they lived. 
 
 And they will not have seen her obey any save her own 
 
 prince. 
 Nor become the province of a neighboring state. 
 Weep for the other, weep for the irreparable disgrace 
 Which his shameful flight imprints upon our brow ; 
 Weep for the dishonor of all our race. 
 And the eternal opprobrium which he leaves to the name of 
 
 Horace. 
 
 JvZie. 
 
 What did you wish that he should do against three ? 
 
 The Elder Horace. 
 
 That he die. 
 Or that a fine despair should then succor him. 
 Had he only delayed his defeat one moment, 
 Bome would at least have been a little later subject ; 
 He would have left my gray hairs with honor, 
 And that was a sufficiently worthy price for his life. 
 
HORACE. 145 
 
 He is accountable to the fatherland for all his blood ; 
 Each drop spare J has withered his glory ; 
 Each instant of his life, after this cowardly act, 
 Blazes abroad so much more my shame with his. 
 I shall speedily cut short his life, and my just wrath. 
 Using against an unworthy son the rights of a father, 
 Will well know how to display, in his punishment. 
 The signal disavowal of such an action. 
 
 Sabine. 
 
 Listen a littJeJess to this noble heat, 
 And make us jiot utterly unhappy. 
 
 The Elder Horace. 
 
 Sabine, your heart is easily consoled ; 
 Our misfortunes thus far touch you feebly. 
 You have yet no part in our miseries ; 
 Heaven has saved to you your husband and your brothers. 
 If we are subject, 'tis to your country ; 
 Your brothers are conquerors when we are disappointed ; 
 And, seeing the high point to which their glory rises, 
 Yftu regard very little what shame comes to us. 
 /But your excessive love for this infamous husband 
 Will soon give you cause to sorrow like us. 
 Your tears are feeble defenses in his favor. 
 I call to witness the supreme powers of the great gods. 
 That before the end of this day, these hands, these very hands 
 Shall wash away in his blood the shame of the Eomans. 
 
 13* 
 
146 A STUDY IN COKNEILLE. 
 
 Sabine. 
 
 'Let us follow him quickly, rage carries him away. 
 
 Gods ! shall we always see such misfortunes ? 
 
 Must we always dread greater ones, 
 ^ And always fear the hand of our kindred ? 
 
 Thus ends the third act. In the short initial scene 
 of act fourth the elder Horace refuses to hearken to 
 Camille's plea as she tries to calm his rage and to 
 extenuate her brother's action. The poor old father 
 nladdened by the thought that son of his has 
 proved himself a coward on the field of battle, be- 
 trayed the trust of Rome, and brought eternal dis- 
 grace upon the house of Horace, persists in his 
 purpose to punish the culprit with death. 
 
 But now ValSre appears in scene second with 
 intelligence which puts an entirely new face upon 
 matters. We will listen while he tells his story. 
 
 Vcd^e. 
 
 Sent by the king to console a father, 
 And to testify to him 
 
 The Elder Horace. 
 
 Take no trouble about it. 
 It is a solace of which I have not need : 
 
HORACE. 147 
 
 And I prefer to see dead rather than covered with infamy 
 
 Those whom a liostile hand has just taken away from me. 
 
 Both of them died for their country like men of honor ; 
 
 It suffices me. 
 
 Valire. 
 
 But the other is a rare blessing ; 
 He ought to hold the place of all three with you. 
 
 The Elder Horace. 
 Why did not the name of Horace die with him ? 
 
 Valire. 
 You alone outrage him after what he has done. 
 
 The Elder Horace. 
 It is for me alone, also, to punish his crime. 
 
 Valire. 
 What crime find you in his brave conduct ? 
 
 The Elder Horace. 
 What display of courage find you in his flight ? 
 
 Valire. 
 Flight is glorious on this occasion. 
 
 The Elder Horace. 
 
 You redouble my shame and my confusion. 
 Verily, the example is rare and worthy of memory, 
 To find in flight a road to glory. 
 
148 A STUDY IN COENEILLB. 
 
 Val&re. 
 
 What confusion, and what shame for you 
 
 To have produced a son who saves us all, 
 
 Who makes Eome triumph, and wins her an empire? 
 
 To what greater honors needs a father aspire ? 
 
 The Elder Horace. 
 
 What honors, what triumph, and what empire in fine. 
 When Alba under her laws ranges our destiny? 
 
 Val^re. 
 
 What say you here of Alba and of her victory ? 
 Are you ignorant still of half of the story ? 
 
 The Elder Horace. 
 I know that by his flight he has betrayed the state. 
 
 Val&re. 
 
 Yes, if he had in fleeing ended the fight ; 
 .'But one soon saw that he only fled as a man 
 Who knew how to make the best use of the advantage of Eome. 
 
 The Elder Horace. 
 What, Kome then triumphs ! 
 
 Val^re. 
 
 Learn, learn 
 The valor of this son whom you wrongfully condemn. 
 Left alone against three, but, as it chanced, 
 
HORACE. 149 
 
 All three being wounded, and he only without wound, 
 
 Too feeble for them all, too strong for each one of them. 
 
 He well knows how to extricate himself from a strait so hazardous ; 
 
 He flees to fight the better, and this prompt ruse 
 
 Skilfully divides three brothers whom it deceives. 
 
 Each one follows him with a step or more or less rapid, 
 
 According as he finds himself or more or less wounded 
 
 Their ardor is equal to pursue his flight ; 
 
 But their various wounds separate their pursuit. 
 
 Horace, seeing them separated one from another. 
 
 Turns about, and already believes them half conquered. .._^^ 
 
 He awaits the first, and it was your son-in-law. 
 
 The other, all indignant that he should have dared await him. 
 
 In vain in attacking him displays great courage ; 
 
 The blood that he has lost abates his vigor. 
 
 Alba in her turn begins to fear a contrary fate. 
 
 She cries to the second to succor his brother : 
 
 He hastens and exhausts himself in useless efforts ; 
 
 He finds on coming up to them that his brother is no more. 
 
 Camille. 
 Alas! 
 
 VaUre. 
 
 All out of breath he takes, however, his place. 
 
 And soon doubles the victory of Horace. 
 
 His courage without strength is a feeble support ; 
 
 Wishing to avenge his brother he falls near him. 
 
 The air resounds with the shouts which all raise to heaven, 
 
 Alba utters cries of anguish and the Bomans cries of joy. 
 
150 A STUDY IN COENEILLE. 
 
 As our hero sees himself about to finish, 
 
 It is little for him to conquer, he wishes also to show defiance : 
 
 "I have just immolated two of them to the shades of my 
 
 brothers ; 
 Kome shall have the last of my three adversaries, 
 'Tis to her that I am going to immolate him," 
 Said he ; and straightway they see him fly thither. 
 The victory between these two was not uncertain ; 
 The Alban pierced with wounds only drags himself along with 
 
 difliculty ; 
 And, like a victim at the steps of the altar, 
 He seemed to present his throat to the fatal stroke : 
 Also he receives it almost without defense. 
 And his death establishes the power of Rome. 
 
 ^ 
 
 The Elder Horace. 
 
 my son ! O, my joy ! O, honor of our time ! 
 
 -unhoped for succor of a tottering state ! 
 Valor worthy of Rome and blood worthy of Horace ! 
 Support of thy country and glory of thy race ! 
 When shall I be able to stifle in thy embrace 
 The error from which I have formed such false sentiments ? 
 When shall my love be able to bathe with tenderness 
 Thy victorious brow in tears of joy ? 
 
 ValSre after assuring the now exultant father 
 that he shall soon see his gallant son, and after 
 delivering the king's twofold message of condolence 
 
HORACE. 151 
 
 and congratulation, then retires to tell his naajcsty 
 what noble sentiments animate the old patriot and 
 how ardently he is devoted to the royal service. 
 So the scene closes. 
 
 If, with Voltaire, we find in its first twenty or 
 twenty-five verses " un artifice trop visible, une 
 m^prise trop longtemps soutenue," this fault is 
 quite forgotten in the charm of the remaining 
 portion . 
 
 " What, Rome then triumphs ! " — the dynamic 
 of Roman history is contained in these patriotic 
 words. Patriotism incarnate it is that speaks. In 
 vain must even the transcendant genius of a Hanni- 
 bal battle against a people nerved to high exploits 
 by such a sentiment, nay, by such a passion as 
 this. 
 
 Observe, too, Valere's description of the combat. 
 How vigorous, how vivid, how thrilling ! The 
 style is not unworthy of an epic bard. 
 
 The next few pages of the play are much inferior^ 
 In scene third the elder Horace with a coarseness 
 near akin to brutality tells Camille that she can 
 easily repair the loss of her lover by choosing one 
 of the young gallants of Rome. 
 
152 A STUDY IN CORNEILLE. 
 
 Sabine's loss, the old man thinks, is far more 
 grievous. To her, therefore, he goes with words of 
 consolation, bidding his weeping daughter choke 
 down her sorrow and receive her brother with a 
 sister's welcome. 
 
 Camille, thus left alone, rebels against her father's 
 heartless injunction, recapitulates the story of her 
 woe, and deliberately reasons herself into a white- 
 heat of rage. She will not greet the conqueror 
 with hollow words of compliment ; she will boldly 
 display her grief; she will strive to provoke his 
 wrath ; she will be true to her dead lover. 
 
 When, therefore, in scene fifth young Horace 
 comes to claim from her his meed of praise, she 
 bids him receive her tears. Mistaking her mean- 
 ing, he replies that there is now no need of tears as 
 he has avenged the death of his brothers. 
 
 I" But," cries Camille, " who will avenge for me that of a lover, 
 ! To make me forget his love in a moment? " 
 
 Horace. 
 What dost thou say, unhappy girl ? 
 
 Oamille. 
 
 O, my dear Curiace ! 
 
HORACE. 153 
 
 Soraxx. 
 O, unbearable audacity of an unworthy sister ! 
 The name of a public enemy whom I have conquered 
 Is in thy mouth and the love of him in thy heart ! 
 Thy criminal passion aspires to vengeance 1 
 Thy mouth demands it and thy heart ardently desires it 1 
 Follow less thy passion, rule better thy desires, 
 No more make me blush to hear thy sighs : 
 Thy love hereafter ought to be' stifled ; 
 Banish it from thy soul, and think of my tropliies ; 
 Let them henceforth be thy only theme. 
 
 Camitle. 
 
 Give me then, barbarian, a heart like thine ; 
 And, if thou deairest in short that I should open to thee my soul. 
 Give me back my Curiace, or let my love have vent : 
 My joy and my grief depended on his fate ; 
 I adored him living, and I weep for him dead. 
 Seek no more thy sister where thou hast left her; 
 Thou seest in me only an offended lover, 
 Who following like a fury upon thy footsteps, 
 Wishes incessantly to reproach thee with his death. 
 _Eloodthirsty tiger who forbiddest my tears, 
 Who wisTiest that in hiildeath I shouIH^ilTfind delight, 
 And that, lauding to the skies thy exploits, 
 I myself should kill him a second time ! 
 May so many misfortunes accompany thy life. 
 That thou mayst fall to the point of envying me I 
 
 14 
 
154 A STUDY IN COENEILLE. 
 
 ■Andjnaj;stJlijOU"Soon.soil-by some -base~deed 
 This glory so dear to thy brutality ! 
 
 Horace. 
 
 O heaven ! who ever saw such rage ! 
 
 Believest thou then that I am insensible to insult, 
 r That I suffer in my blood this mortal dishonor ? 
 
 Love, love this death which makes our good fortune, 
 
 And prefer at least to the memory of one man 
 s^hat thy birth owes to the interests of Rome. 
 
 CamiUe. 
 
 Rome, the one object of my resentment I 
 
 Rome, to whom thy arm has just immolated my lover ! 
 
 Rome, who saw thee born and whom thy heart adores ! 
 
 Rome, in short, whom I hate because she honors thee ! 
 
 May all her neighbors in conspiracy together 
 
 Sap her foundations yet ill assured ! 
 
 And, if all Italy is not enough, 
 
 May the East league with the West against her; 
 
 May a hundred peoples united from all the ends of the world 
 
 Pass over both mountains and seas to destroy her ! 
 
 May .she herself overturn her walls upon herself. 
 
 And tear her vitals with her own hands ! 
 
 May the wrath of heaven, kindled by my vows. 
 
 Rain upon her a deluge of fire ! 
 
 May I with my eyes see this tliunderbolt fall upon her, 
 
 See her houses in ashes, and thy laurels in dust, 
 
HORACE. 155 
 
 See the last Eoman in his last gasp, 
 
 I be the sole cause of it, and die of pleasure ! / 
 
 Sorace 
 
 (Taking his sword in h is hand, and pursuing his sister w lio flees) . 
 
 'Tis too much, my patience gives way to justice ; 
 Go pity in Orcus thy Ouriace ! 
 
 Oamille (wounded, behind the scenes). 
 Ah ! traitor ! 
 
 Horace (returning upon the stage). 
 
 Let whoever dares weep for an enemy of Rome 
 
 Thus receive a sudden punishment ! 
 
 / 
 
 Frightful as this deed of Horace is, it is iii keep- 
 ing with the character of that she wolf's whelp as 
 already delineated in previous scenes.- The murder 
 of Camilie—was- foreboded by his earlier speeches. 
 It is the true resultant of ^uclva nature and such 
 an environment. What but butchery could follow 
 when an insensate savage drunk with blood, swollen, 
 with pride, and restrained by no single prompting \ 
 of fraternal affection, met his phrensied sister, who I 
 in electric flashes of fiercest hate cursed both him / 
 and Rome for the slaughter of her lover? / 
 
156 A STUDY IN COENEILLE. 
 
 Nor are these scorching imprecatictos, so famous 
 ill French literature, the magniloquent declamation 
 of artificial wrath. Ilfeey are the^juIraioatieHS~gf 
 '~«:eaiLBassi»n. 
 
 The two remaining scenes of this act are very 
 feeble. In scene sixth Procule, a Roman soldier 
 who has not appeared in the play heretofore and 
 who will not appear hereafter, mildly reproves 
 Horace for his dastardly deed, exclaiming 
 
 " You ought to have treated her with less rigor." 
 
 " Tell me not," answers Horace hotly, " that she is both my 
 
 blood and my sister. 
 My father can no longer avow her for his daughter : 
 Who curses his country, renounces his family." 
 
 Procule Jias nothing_jnore to say. He is a poor, 
 pitiahlg^^sim^crum o£..a..dia .racter , utterly without 
 jcais(m,^6tre. Yet, though he does nothing and 
 says, nothing to advance the action of the drama, 
 he still " lags superfluous " on the stage during the 
 next scene. The interlocutors in this are Sabine 
 and Horace. The frantic woman seeks death at 
 her husband's hands. 
 
HORACE. 157 
 
 "Join Sabine to Camille," she cries, " and thy wife to thy sister ; 
 Our crimes are alike as well as our miseries, 
 I sigh like her, and mourn my brothers." 
 
 But Horace does not drench his laurels in the 
 blood of a second murder. He^even exhibits some 
 ..semblance of feeling. 
 
 "I love thee,'' he exclaims, "and I know the grief which 
 
 oppresses thee, 
 Embrace my virtue to conquer thy feebleness." 
 
 Sabine, however, spurns such virtue as but another 
 name for inhumanity. Then, finding after strenuous 
 efforts that she can not provoke him into killing her, 
 she changes her tone and begs him for death as 
 for a blessing. 
 
 "Dear husband," she pleads, "dear author of the torment 
 
 which oppresses me. 
 Listen to pity, if thy choler ceases ; 
 Exercise one or the other, after such misfortunes. 
 To punish my weakness, or end my griefs : 
 I ask for death as a boon, or as a punishment." 
 
 Horace, remarking upon the great power of women 
 over the noblest souls and fearing the effect of his 
 14* 
 
J 
 
 158 A STUDY IN C!OKNEILLE. 
 
 .wife's words upon his virtue, dow seek s safety in 
 flight. Sabine, after the withdrawal of the men, 
 laments her ill success, but determines to continue 
 her quest of death. With these desperate utterances, 
 the tone of which has now become tiresome, the 
 scene and the act close. 
 
 The last act opens with a scene between the elder 
 Horace and his son. The sorely afflicted father 
 utters not a word of sharp reproach. The killing 
 of Camille, he says, was jjerfectly just. But he is 
 grieved that his son should have brought shame 
 upon himself by that act. 
 
 "Her crime," the old patriot aptly says, "though frightful 
 i and worthy of death, 
 
 \ Was better unpunished than punished by thy arm." 
 
 The son confesses his error, admits his father's 
 right to inflict paternal justice therefor and urges 
 him to put him to death. The father, however, 
 evidently has no such purpose. He looks upon his 
 son, he says, in a diiferent light from that. 
 
 At this moment king Tulle enters accompanied 
 by Val&re and a troop of guards. The king, com- 
 mending the fortitude of the elder Horace in his 
 
HORACE. . 169 
 
 affliction, expresses the most heartfelt sympathy for 
 him. Then Valere, who cuts but a sorry figure 
 in the whole tragedy, demands justice against the 
 murderer in a speech which, as Voltaire remarks, 
 " resembles that of a lawyer who has prepared him- 
 self." It is quite in the style of a prosecutor. 
 
 We need give only a synopsis of the speech. In 
 the first place, Valfere declares that the safety of the 
 people demands the death of the eororicide, since 
 almost everybody in Rome is weeping for some 
 dear friend who has fallen while fighting in the 
 Alban ranks, and if Horace be allowed to kill 
 people for displaying such grief, the lives of well- 
 nigh all the city will be put in jeopardy. Next the 
 orator with artful words emphasizes the shameful- 
 ness of the deed. Then he argues that the chief 
 cause of Horace's victory over the three Curiatii 
 was not his own prowess, but the favorable destiny ' 
 of Rome, since the gods, abandoning him to ruin, ! 
 have allowed him so soon to soil his glory. ValSre 
 then closes with another appeal for justice upon the 
 criminal. 
 
 The king now bids young Horace defend himself. 
 Of his speech, also, we give but the outline. He 
 
160 A STUDY IN COENEILLE. 
 
 makes no defence. On the contraiy, he simply 
 expresses in courtly words his entire submission to 
 the royal authority ; refers to the improbability of 
 his ever having another such opportunity to distin- 
 guish himself as that which was presented in his 
 combat with the Curiatii ;~~liid~finally_ sho ws not 
 only his willingness_buL-his--eagfii:neesH5©-die-^iow- 
 befbre Tiis glory shall j)e_dimmed by^less brilliant 
 deedsr 
 
 At the conclusion of Horace's speech Sabine appears 
 upon the stage. Her grief is too studied to be affect- 
 ing. She begs the king to put her to death instead 
 of Horace, declaring that that will punish him far 
 more than would the taking of his own life, since 
 he lives in her. Such action on the part of the 
 king, she says, will be to her a joyful release from 
 her present woes. 
 
 "~Now ^he elder Horace__speaJjs^__HeEe^a8-evei:^ 
 lie..is-the.idfial_!R.Qinan. So eloquent, so powerful, 
 so patriotic, is his speechjhat we must give it all. 
 
 " Sire," he says, " it is then for me to answer Val6re. 
 
 My children conspire with him against a father ; 
 
 All three wish to destroy me, and arm themselves without reason 
 
 Against the little blood which remains in my house. 
 
HOKACE. 161 
 
 (to Sabine) 
 
 You, who, by grief contrary to your duty, 
 
 Wish to leave a husband in order to rejoin your brothers, 
 
 Go rather consult their noble shades ; 
 
 They are dead, but for Alba, and they hold themselves happy ; 
 
 Since heaven willed that she should be subjugated. 
 
 If any feeling remains after life. 
 
 This misfortune seems less, and less rude its strokes. 
 
 Seeing that all the honor of it falls upon us ; 
 
 All three will disavow the grief which affects you. 
 
 The tears of your eyes, the sighs of your mouth, 
 
 The horror which you display of a valorous husband. 
 
 Sabine, be their sister, follow your duty like them. 
 
 (to the King) 
 
 Against this dear husband Val6re in vain grows incensed : 
 
 A first impulse was^ never a crime ; 
 
 And praise is due in place of punishment, 
 
 When virtue causes the first impulse. 
 
 To love your enemies with idolatry. 
 
 To curse the fatherland with rage at their death. 
 
 To wish an infinite misfortune to the state. 
 
 That is what is called crime, and what he has punished. 
 
 The love of Rome alone has nerved his hand ; 
 
 He would be innocent, if he had loved her less. 
 
 What have I said, Sire ? he is innocent, and this paternal arm 
 
 Would already have punished him, if he were criminal ; 
 
 I would have known better how to use the absolute power 
 
162 A STUDY IN COENEILLE. 
 
 Which the right of fatherhood gives me over him ; 
 
 I love honor too much, Sire, and am not of a rank 
 
 To suffer either insult or crime in my blood. 
 
 On this point I wish no other witness than Valere ; 
 
 He has seen what reception my wrath reserved for him 
 
 When ignorant still of the half of the combat, 
 
 I believed that his flight had betrayed the state. 
 
 Who makes him charge himself with the cares of my family ? 
 
 Who makes him, in spite of me, wish to avenge my daughter ? 
 
 And for what reason does he take 
 
 In her just death an interest which a father does not? 
 
 They fear lest, after his sister, he may slay others ! 
 /Sire, we have part in the shame of our own kin alone, 
 [And, in whatever way anotlier may act, 
 '^He who is not related to us does not make us blush. 
 
 (to Val6re) 
 
 You can weep, Val6re, and even before the eyes of Horace ; 
 
 He is interested only in the crimes of his kindred : 
 
 He who is not of his blood can not offer an insult 
 
 To the immortal laurels which circle his brow. 
 
 Laurels, sacred branches that they wish to reduce to dust. 
 
 You that protect his head from the thunderbolt, 
 
 Will you abandon him to the infamous knife 
 
 Which makes the wicked fall under the hand of the executioner? 
 
 Bomans, will you suffer that a man be slain 
 
 Without whom Rome to-day would cease to be Eome, 
 
 And that a Roman strive to stain the renown 
 
 Of a warrior to whom all owe such a glorious name ? 
 
HOEACE. 163 
 
 Tell ua, ValSre, tell us, if you wish that he perish, 
 Where think you to choose a place for his punishment : 
 Will it be between these walls which thousands of voices 
 Still cause to resound with the noise of his exploits ? 
 Will it be outside the walls in the midst of those places 
 Which are still seen to smoke with the blood of the Curiaces? 
 Between their three tombs and in the field of honor. 
 Witness of his valor and of our good fortune ? 
 You would not know how to conceal his punishment from his 
 
 victory : 
 In the walls, outside the walls, all speaks of his glory, 
 All opposes the efforts of your unjust love. 
 Which would stain so glorious a day with such good blood : 
 Alba will not be able to suiTer such a sight, 
 And Rome by her tears will put too great an obstacle in the way. 
 You will anticipate them. Sire, and by a just decree 
 You will know how to conserve much better her interest. 
 What he has done for her he still can do ; 
 He can guard her still from an adverse fate. 
 Sire, grant nothing to my feeble years : 
 Rome has to-day seen me the father of four children ; 
 Three in this same day have died for her quarrel : 
 There remains to me one ; preserve him for her ; 
 Take not from her walls so powerful a support ; 
 And permit me, in conclusion, to address myself to him. 
 Horace, believe not that the stupid populace 
 Is the absolute master of a truly solid renown. 
 Its tumultuous voice often enough makes a noise. 
 But a moment raises it, a moment destroys it ; 
 
V" 
 
 164 A STUDY IN COENEILLE. 
 
 , And what it contributes to our renown 
 Is always in less than no time dissipated in smoke. 
 It is for kings, it is for the great, it is for minds well made, 
 To see valor perfect in its least effects ; 
 It is from them alone that one receives true glory. 
 They alone assure the memory of true heroes. 
 Live always like an Horace ; and always among them 
 Your name shall be great, illustrious, famous, 
 Although the opportunity, less lofty or less brilliant. 
 Should disappoint the unjust expectation of an ignorant 
 
 populace. 
 Hate, then, no longer your life, and at least live for me. 
 And to serve again your country and your king. 
 Sire, I have said too much ; but the affair concerns you ; 
 And all Eome has spoken by my mouth. 
 
 What a superb speech this is ! How the majesty of 
 the man's character informs every sentence ! ^NatuFe 
 boasis-oojiabler-brand of patriot than-this. 
 
 The decision of Tulle is just what all expected it 
 to be. While acknowledging that young Horace 
 has committed a heinous crime against the laws of 
 the state, and that he deserves death therefor, the 
 king . declares that the distinguished public services 
 of the culprit, the fact that he has saved his country 
 from slavery, and brought beneath her sceptre another 
 city, have raised him above the laws. 
 
HORACE. 165 
 
 \y' Live," therefore, cries Tulle, " Live to serve the State." 
 
 The king closes his speech with a tender refer- 
 ence to Camille. 
 
 "I pity her," he says, "and in order to render to her rigorous 
 i fate 
 
 J What her loving heart may wish. 
 
 Since in one same day the ardor of one same zeal 
 
 Ends the destiny of her lover and of her, 
 \l desire one same day, witness of their two deaths. 
 
 To see their bodies enclosed in one same tomb." 
 
 Phus the play ends. In the first edition there 
 was another scene in which Julie, pronouncing, 
 alone, a monologue, apostrophizes Camille, speaks 
 of the boundless happiness which heaven seemed to 
 promise her through the oracle of the Greek priest 
 mentioned in the first act, and calls attention to the 
 perfect fulfilment of that oracle, though in a manner 
 totally unexpected by them. This scene was, how- 
 ever, very properly omitted as superfluous in subse- 
 quent editions. 
 
 The glaring defect_of_the fifth act is that it is 
 barren of action and^consists solely of speeches. 
 Gornenie^ himself with that noble candor which 
 15 
 
166 A STUDY IN CORNEILLE. 
 
 ever glistens brightly in his diadem of virtues 
 frankly confesses this. Speaking of that act he 
 says : "II est tout_en4)laidoyers ; et ce n'est pasjl, 
 la place_des harangues et des longs discours." It 
 is to be remembered, however, that while this scene 
 of oratory is a serious fault, the oratory in itself 
 considered is, as we have seen, of the noblest kind. 
 The effects of Corneille's legal training are here 
 quite evident. He had certainly learned the art 
 and the artifice of the French pleaders. 
 
 With the production of " Horace," whose pro- 
 foundly conceived characters, thrilling interest and 
 massive eloquence, far outweigh all defects, the 
 formative period of the French drama may be said 
 to close. Chaos has now yielded to cosmos. The 
 potential mixture has crystallized into the regular 
 forms of the classic theatre. A mould of drama 
 has been established which, remaining unchanged 
 while blazing chateaux light up the midnight 
 darkness, while the streets of Paris blush crimson 
 at her children's crimes, and while all things save 
 literature are fused in the crucible of Revolution, 
 shall only be broken at last by the weird tooting of 
 Hernani's horn, when- iUsalls Classicism ttrits death. 
 
HORACE. 167 
 
 Henceforth the three unities are to dictate to 
 poets and determine the outline of every drama, as 
 , three points determine a circle. 
 
 What are these unities, and how did they come 
 to enthrall the theatre of France? In order to answer 
 those questions intelligently we must take a rapid 
 glance at the history of the serious drama of Greece 
 which the French classicists claim to have imitated. 
 
 That drama, as has been said, grew out of the 
 worship of Dionysus. The name tragedy, derived 
 from rpdyoii, a goat and mBoj, a song, and signifying 
 thus a goat-song, was probably chosen because of 
 the fact that the performers of the primitive Dionysiac 
 songs and dances, who were disguised as satyrs, were 
 clothed in goat skins. 
 
 This "explanation is not accepted by all. Some 
 suppose that the term was adopted because a goat 
 was sacrificed to Dionysus on such occasions, and 
 still others because a goat was the prize offered. 
 
 However that may be, it is quite clear that the 
 classic Greek tragedy was developed from the mourn- 
 iiil ditliyrambic^odes which were designed to express 
 the sufferings of Dionysus and were sung by a chorus 
 of fifty men as they danqed around the altar oftlie god. 
 
168 A STUDY IN COKNEILLE. 
 
 The chorus was thus the embryon of the serious 
 drama. 
 
 A great improvement was made when Thespis, 
 in order to give rest to the chorus, introduced 
 a single actor who added an epic element to the 
 hitherto purely lyrical tragedy, engaged in dialogue 
 with the leader of the chorus, and by the use of 
 linen masks was able to represent the different char- 
 acters of the piece. 
 
 Such was the serious drama when it passed into 
 the hands of Aeschylus (626-456^ e. c). That 
 immortal masteiV-the_real -fether of Greek tragedy 
 made further radical changes. He brought a second 
 actor upon the stage, introduced painted scenes, 
 provided for the actors more magnificent costumes 
 and invented the needed auxiliary machinery. The 
 dialogue now became the dominant feature, while 
 the chorus was made subsidiary. Henceforth the 
 evolution of the tragedy is but a process of elabora- 
 tion, the most important improvement being the 
 introduction by Sophocles of a third actor, which 
 enabled the poet to add greater scope, variety and 
 richness to his dialogue. 
 
HORACE. 169 
 
 English readers will form an excellent conception 
 of Greek tragedy in this, its most perfect form, from 
 a study of Milton's magnificent play, " Samson 
 Agonistes." 
 
 Another piece, also written in the Greek style, 
 but far inferior to Milton's great poem _i^ Swin- 
 burne's " Atalanta in Calydon." Both of these 
 aixEIiors have succeeded in no small degree in repro- 
 ducing Greek form. The classic spirit breathes 
 from every page. 
 
 The tragedy of the Greeks, which was distin- 
 guished for its solemn majesty, its massive grandeur 
 aud its stately beauty — qualities largely owing, 
 doubtless, to its religious origin and to the fact 
 that the poet generally sought his subject in the 
 mythology of his native land, — was simple iu.^plot, 
 but in thejiighfist degree artistic-in- execution. . 
 
 The action of the play from prologue to exode 
 must be one closely forged chain of cause and effect. 
 Every incident must be a tributary to one main 
 stream flowing onward to the cataract of catastrophe. 
 This oneness in the action produces in the spectator 
 a oneness of interest. 
 15* 
 
170 A STUDY IN CORNEILLE. 
 
 No considerable change of place was permissible 
 in the play, nor did the time supposed to be occupied 
 by the action often exceed one day. From these 
 facts were deduced the three laws known as the 
 unity of action, the unity of place and the unity of 
 time, which have ruled the French theatre with 
 despotic sway and which have been aptly stated by 
 JBoileau in the following famous lines : 
 
 " Qu'en un lieu, qu'en un jour, un seul fait accompli 
 "~- Tienne jusqu'a la fin le th6a.tre rempli." 
 
 French poets and critics have very generally 
 attributed those laws to Aristotle, though but little 
 warrant can be shown for so doing. As a matter 
 of fact that great philosopher speaks but briefly 
 and somewhat indistinctly of the unity of action, 
 never once mentions the unity of place and in 
 regard to the unity of time merely makes the 
 remark that tragedy " seeks as far as possible to 
 circumscribe itself within one revolution of the sun, 
 or to exceed this very little." 'Jliejhree unities 
 can_jiot-Hbe greatly buttressed, therefore, by the 
 authority of Aristotle. 
 
HOEACE. 171 
 
 Were we ignorant of the literary history of 
 France, did we not know how classic literature was 
 idolized after the revival of learning, we should be 
 amazed at seeing these rules established as the invio- 
 lable laws of the French stage. But it is evident 
 that the explanation of this voluntary servitude is to 
 be found in that blind worship of the past which 
 was for so long prevalent in France. It was simply 
 another example of classicism carried to excess. 
 
 Unity of action, indeed, every perfect play must 
 have. But the unity of place and the unity of time, 
 except so far as these are from the nature of things 
 bound up with the unity of action, are needless 
 chains which hamper the movements and rasp the 
 bones of genius. 
 
 The character of the Greek representations, and 
 especially the fact that they were continuous, made 
 such restrictions eminently proper in Greece, although 
 even there they were sometimes not observed. 
 
 But in modern times, when the curtain falls at 
 the end of every act, and when each of these five 
 divisions may be regarded as a photograph of one 
 phase of a comprehensive action, no sufficient reason 
 can be adduced for wearing these manacles. 
 
CHAPTEE V. 
 
 A Tragedy of the Golden Age of Rome : 
 
 CiNNA. 
 
 FN the plays of Corneille we have a sei-ies of stere- 
 opticon views which picture in vivid colors the 
 successive stages of the historic development of the 
 RoaTan people from the time when the gray light of 
 dawning histoi'y first falls upon their insignificant 
 city of thatched huts, through the splendors of the 
 empire, when these huts had given place to marble 
 palaces with sculptured columns and mosaic pave7 
 ments, when all roads led to Rome, and when she 
 was the great heart of the civilized world, down to 
 the time when the cancer of corruption was doing 
 within her its work of death. 
 
 Recognizing this fact, M. Ernest Desjardins enti- 
 tles his work on our author, "Le Grand Corneille, 
 Historien." Upon one such historic picture we have 
 already looked. We have seen with what verve 
 172 
 
CINNA. 173 
 
 and vigor the famous dramatist has portrayed in 
 " Horace " the hardy patriots of legendary times. 
 
 We are now to gaze on very diiferent scenes. 
 Roman freedom lies dead, slain by the same sword- 
 stroke that beheaded Cicero ; the government, though 
 republican in form, is imperial in fact; with marvel- 
 ous skill a sagacious despot is acting beneath a painted 
 mask his role of patron, protector and pater patrice; 
 the golden chains which bind the people hang so 
 loosely about their limbs, glitter so brightly in the 
 sunlight of general prosperity, and clink so musi- 
 cally together, link on link that the thoughtless 
 citizens have forgotten that they are slaves ; the 
 upper classes are reveling in wealth, luxury and 
 fashion ; three civilizations — the Oriental, the Greek 
 and the Latin — have poured their treasure together 
 into the vast smelting-pot of the cosmopolitan city ; 
 literature's boughs are laden with a beautiful fruit- 
 age ; culture is being widely diifused ; the army on 
 whose firm shoulders rests the whole fabric of the 
 empire holds a conquered world in subjection ; stal- 
 wart opposition to despotism there is none ; but in 
 spite of the conciliatory policy of the_ artful Octavi us, 
 in spite of bribery and intrigue and force, in spite 
 
174 A STUDY IN COENBILLE. 
 
 of lictors and legions, in spite of the apathy of the 
 people and the cowardice of the nobles, there are 
 some to whom the memory of the old republic still 
 is sacred and iia whose heart of hearts the hatred of 
 tyranny burns like a consuming fire, pent up, indeed, 
 but liable at any moment to burst forth in fury. 
 
 Such is the setting of circumstance in which Cor- 
 neille places his next tragedy, " Cinna," a play 
 which appeared in 1639, and which is thought by 
 not a few critics to be its author's grandest creation. 
 The dramatis personce are Auguste, Emperor of 
 Rome; Li vie, the Empress; Cinna, son of a daugh- 
 ter of Pompey ; Maxime, a young man of rank ; 
 Elmilie, daughter of C. Soranius, tutor of Auguste 
 and proscribed by him during the triumvirate ; 
 Fulvie, confidant of fimilie ; and Polyclfete, ifivan- 
 dreand Euphorbe,freedmen, respectively of Auguste, 
 Cinua and Maxime. The play opens with a mono- 
 logue by fimilie, composed in that grand style for 
 which Corueille is famous and which, though to 
 Americans it may at times seem somewhat turgid, 
 is yet admirably suited to the portraiture of the 
 grandeur of Roman character, to the expansion of 
 the poet's own sublime soul, and to the taste of the 
 
CINNA. 175 
 
 people that he wrote for — a people to wliom, as to 
 their Celtic forefathers, oratory is an instinct and 
 the pomp of splendid declamation next in esteem to 
 " battle's magnificently stern array." 
 
 ]6milie, though she is daily the recipient of unde- 
 niable marks of the Emperor's most distinguished 
 favor, nevertheless secretly hates him as her father's 
 murderer and passionately desires his destruction. 
 She has, therefore, made it a necessary condition to 
 her marrying her lover, Cinna, that he, in spite of 
 his own heavy obligations to Auguste shall form 
 and carry to a successful issue a conspiracy of dis- 
 contented nobles against his life. Cinna has accepted 
 her hard terms. Now, however, when the mine is 
 about to be sprung, even this implacable woman, 
 this veritable Nemesis, whose heart " robur et aes 
 triplex" encase, begins to feel anxious fears for her 
 lover's safety, finds two emotions battling in her 
 soul, and for a moment pauses to consider whether 
 she shall even for vengeance risk the object of her 
 passion. Her soliloquy shows well her painful 
 position. We translate the scene entire. 
 
 Emilie. 
 
 Impatient desires for an illustrious revenge, 
 Whose birth my father's death has formed, 
 
176 A STUDY IN CORNEILLE. 
 
 Impetuous children of my wrath, 
 
 Which my deluded grief blindly embraces, 
 
 You assume too powerful a sway over my soul : 
 
 Permit me for few moments to breathe, 
 
 And to consider, in the state in which I am. 
 
 Both what I hazard and what I aim at. 
 
 When I behold Auguste in the midst of his glory, 
 
 And when yoa reproach my sad memory with the fact 
 
 That my father, massacred by his very hand. 
 
 Forms the first step of the throne on which I see him. 
 
 When you present to me this bloody image, 
 
 The cause of my hate and the effect of his rage, 
 
 I abandon myself entirely to your ardent transports. 
 
 And believe that for one death I owe him a thousand deaths. 
 
 In the midst, however, of a fury so just, 
 
 I love Cinna still morejhanl hate Auguste, 
 
 And I feel this boiling emotion grow cool. 
 
 When to follow it, I must expose my lover. 
 
 Yes, Cinna, against myself I myself become angered, 
 
 When I think of the perils into which I thrust thee. 
 
 Although in my service you fear nothing. 
 
 To demand of thee blood, is to expose thine own : 
 
 From so high a place one casts not down heads 
 
 Without drawing upon oneself a thousand tempests ; 
 
 The issue of it is doubtful, the peril certain : 
 
 A faithless friend may betray thy design ; 
 
 The plan ill-arranged, the occasion ill chosen. 
 
 May overturn the enterprise upon its author ; 
 
 Direct upon thee the blows with which thou wish est to strike him ; 
 
CINNA. 177 
 
 In his ruin, even, he may envelop thee; 
 
 And whatever thy love may execute in my behalf, 
 
 He may, in falling, crush thee under his fall. 
 
 Ah ! cease to run upon this deadly peril ; 
 
 To destroy thyself in avenging me, is not to avenge me. 
 
 A heart is too cruel when it finds any delights 
 
 In pleasures which the bitterness of tears corrupts ; 
 
 And one should put in the rank of the severest misfortunes 
 
 An enemy's death which costs so many tears. 
 
 But can one shed any when one avenges a father ? 
 
 Is there any loss at that price which does not seem light? 
 
 And when his assassin falls under our effort 
 
 Ought one to consider what his death costs? 
 
 Cease, vain fears, cease, cowardly affection. 
 
 To throwiinto my heart your unworthy weakness; 
 
 And thou who dost produce them by thy superfluous cares 
 
 Love, serve my duty, and combat it no longer ! 
 
 To yield to it is thy glory, and to conquer it thy shame. 
 
 Show thyself noble, permitting that it overcome thee : 
 
 The more thou shalt give it, the more it is going to give thee. 
 
 And it will only triumph in order to crown thee. 
 
 After this passionate monologue comes a con- 
 versation between iSmilie and Fulvie. " Ce n'est 
 qu'une scene avec une confidante," says Voltaire, 
 " et elle est sublime." fimilie announces her deter- 
 mination to persist to the bitter end in her plot 
 16 
 
178 A STUDY IN COENEILLE. 
 
 against the Emperor's life, whatever may be the 
 consequences to Cinna. It is to no avail that 
 Fulvie seeks to turn her from her tragic purpose. 
 No tigress could be more ferocious than is she. The 
 confidant refers to the Emperor's uniform kindness 
 to her mistress and his evident affection for her. 
 But fimilie will not hear to the argument. 
 
 " All this favor," she cries, "does not give rae back my father ; 
 
 And, however people may consider me. 
 
 Abounding in riches or powerful in influence, 
 
 I remain always the daughter of a prescript. 
 
 Benefactions do not always do what you think ; 
 
 From an odious hand they are equivalent to offences : 
 
 The more of them we lavish on him who may hate us. 
 
 The more arms we give to him who wishes to betray us. 
 
 He bestows favors on me each day without changing my heart ; 
 
 I am what I was, and I am more powerful. 
 
 And with the same presents which he pours into my hands 
 
 I buy the minds of the Romans against him ; 
 
 I would receive from him the place of Livie 
 
 As a surer means of making an attempt upon his life. 
 
 For one who avenges a father there are no cri me'', 
 
 And to yield to favors is to sell one's blood." 
 
 In sucli words, bursting like volcanic fire from 
 her lips, does the orphan girl pour forth her molten 
 
CINNA. 179 
 
 soul. Fiilvie then urges her, while hating Augusta 
 as much as she pleases in secret, to leave the desperate 
 task of assassinating him to the hundreds of other 
 Romans who had been as deeply wronged as she, 
 and who doubtless only await a favorable oppor- 
 tunity to strike. This course, however, fimilie 
 utterly condemns. If Auguste should fall thus, 
 pierced by a dagger in a hand which she had 
 not nerved to action, her father would not be 
 avengfd. No, she must herself be the real cause 
 of the Emperor's death. It would be base and 
 cowardly to shirk her duty. Seeing the futility 
 of all other arguments, Fulvie now advances her 
 strongest one. She speaks of the imminent peril 
 which Cinna must incur in executing the proposed 
 plot. 
 
 " Be not blind," she exclaims, " when his death is visible." 
 " Ah, thou knowest how to strike me where I am sensitive," 
 
 cries Emilia ; 
 " When I think of the dangers which I make him run. 
 The fear of his death makes me already die ; 
 My mind in disorder is opposed to itself ; 
 I wish and I do not wish, I am enraged and I dare not; 
 And my duty confused, languishing, astounded. 
 Yields to the rebellions of my mutinous heart." 
 
180 A STUDY IN COKNBILLE. 
 
 Yet, despite all of passion's powerful pleading, 
 she is still firmly resolved to do what she believes 
 to be her duty. The tyrant's blood must be offered 
 as a sacrifice to the shade of her father. If her 
 lover be slain in the attempt to carry out her 
 behest, she will die after him. 
 
 Just then Cinna comes upon the stage. He is 
 fresh from a meeting of the band of conspirators, 
 fimilie eagerly and anxiously asks in what frame 
 of mind he found them — whether or not they were 
 dismayed at the prospect of their desperate attempt 
 to throttle despotism. Cinna is all aflame with 
 enthusiasm. 
 
 " Never," he answers, " did an enterprise conceived against a 
 
 tyrant 
 Permit one to hope bo glorious an issue : 
 Never did people swear a tyrant's death with such ardor ; 
 And never were conspirators better agreed ; 
 All appear impelled to this project with so much alacrity 
 That they seem, like me, to serve a mistress ; 
 And all display a wrath so intense 
 That they all seem, like you, to avenge a father." 
 
 Emilie. 
 I had well foreseen that for such a work 
 Cinna would know how to choose men of courage, 
 
CINNA. 181 
 
 And would not entrust to bad hands 
 
 The fate of Emilia and that of the Bomans. 
 
 Oinna. 
 
 Would to the gods that you yc urself had seen with what zeal 
 This band undertake an enterprise so noble ! 
 At the mere name of Csesar, of Auguste and of emperor, 
 You would have seen their eyes flame up with fury, 
 And in the same instant, by an opposite effect, 
 Their brow grow pale with horror and flush with rage. 
 " Friends," said I to them, "this is the happy day 
 Which is to consummate at last our noble designs ; 
 Heaven has put the fate of Rome in our hands, 
 And her safety depends on the destruction of one man. 
 If one owes the name of man to him who has nothing human, 
 To this tiger thirsting for all the Eoman blood. 
 How many intrigues has he formed to shed it ! 
 How many times has he changed parties and leagues, 
 Now the friend of Antony and now his enemy. 
 And never insolent nor cruel by halves ! " 
 There by a long recital of all the woes 
 Which our fathers suffered during our infancy. 
 Reviving their hate with their recollection, 
 I redouble in their hearts the ardor of punishingjiim ; 
 I paint for them pictures of those sad battles 
 In which Rome by her own hands tore her own vitals. 
 In which the eagle struck down the eagle, and on each side 
 Our legions armed themselves against tifiir4iberty ; 
 In which the best soldiers and the bravest chief 
 16* 
 
182 A STUDY IN COENEILLE. 
 
 Made it all their glory to become slaves ; 
 
 In whicli to better assure the shame of their own fetters 
 
 All wished to attach the universe to their chain ; 
 
 And the execrable honor of giving it a master 
 
 Making all love the infamous name of traitor, 
 
 Komans against Eomans, kinsmen against kinsmen, 
 
 Fought only for the choice of tyrants. 
 
 I add to these pictures the frightful painting 
 
 Of their union, impious, dreadful, relentless. 
 
 Deadly to people of worth, to the rich, to the senate ; 
 
 And, to say all, in short, of their triumvirate : 
 
 But I find not colors black enough 
 
 To represent their tragic records. 
 
 I paint them revelling with emulation in murder, 
 
 All Eome drowned in the blood of her children : 
 
 Some assassinated in the public squares. 
 
 Others in the midst of their household gods ; 
 
 The wicked encouraged to crime by rewards. 
 
 The husband butchered by his wife in his bed ; 
 
 The son all dripping with the slaughter of the father, 
 
 And, with his head in his hand, demanding his recompense ; 
 
 Without being able to express by so many horrible touches 
 
 More than an imperfect sketch of their bloody peace. 
 
 Shall I tell you the names of those great personages 
 
 Whose death I painted to embitter their hearts, 
 
 Of those famous prescripts, those human demi-gods. 
 
 Who have been sacrificed even upon the altars ? 
 
 But Qould I tell you to what impatience, 
 
 To what shudders, to what violence, 
 
CINNA. 183 
 
 These infamous murders, though ill-portrayed, 
 
 Moved the minds of all our conspirators ? 
 
 I did not lose time, and seeing their wrath 
 
 At the point of fearing nothing, in a state to do everything, 
 
 I add in a few words : " All these cruelties. 
 
 The loss of our properties and of our liberties. 
 
 The devastation of the fie lds, the p illage of the cities, 
 
 And the proscriptions, and- the civil wars 
 
 Are the bloody steps which Auguste has chosen 
 
 To rise to the throne and give us laws. 
 
 But we can change a destiny so dire, 
 
 Since of three tyrants he is the only one who remains to us, 
 
 And since, just for once, he has deprived himself of support, 
 
 Destroying, in order to reign alone, two wicked men like him- 
 self: 
 
 He being dead, we have no avenger to fear nor master to serve ; 
 
 With liberty "Rome will revive ; 
 
 And we shall merit the name of true Romans, 
 
 If the yoke which weighs her down is broken by our hands. 
 
 Let us take the opportunity while it is propitious : 
 
 To-morrow at the Capitol he makes a sacrifice ; 
 
 Let him be the victim, and let us do in these places 
 
 Justice to all the world in the sight of the gods : 
 
 There, he has- hardly more than our band for his suite ; 
 
 It is from my hand that he takes both the incense and the cup ; 
 
 And I desire this same hand, for signal. 
 
 To give him, instead of incense, a blow with a poniard in his 
 breast. 
 
 Thus the victim stricken with a mortal wound 
 
184 A STUDY IN COBNBILLB. 
 
 Will make it appear whether I am of the blood of the great 
 
 Pompey ; 
 Make it appear, after me, whether you remember 
 The illustrious ancestors from whom you are descended." 
 Scarcely had I finished when each one renews 
 By a noble oath the vow to be faithful : 
 The opportunity pleases them ; but each desires for himself 
 The honor of the first blow which I chose for myself. 
 Eeason rules at last the ardor which transports them ; 
 Maxime and one half make sure of the door ; 
 The other half follow me and are to surround him, 
 Ready at the least signal which J shall give. 
 That is the point to which we have arrived in the matter, 
 
 beautiful Emilie. 
 To-morrow I await the hatred or the favor of men. 
 The name of parricide or of liberator ; 
 Caesar, that of prince or usurper. 
 On the issue which they obtain against tyranny 
 Depends either our glory or our ignominy ; 
 And the people, inconsistent with regard to tyrants. 
 If they detest them when dead, adore them while living. 
 As for me, whether heaven be hard or propitious to me, 
 Whether it lift me to glory or deliver me to punishment, 
 Whether Borne declare herself either for or agaijist us, 
 Dying to serve you, all will seem sweet to me." 
 
 Even in our bald, literal translation the powerful 
 eloquence of this passage will, we hope, be felt by 
 every reader. But when one studies the original 
 
CINNA. 185 
 
 French with its vivid color, its nervous energy and 
 its sonorous versification, one sees how truly Corneille 
 deserves the title " Grand," and how sublime are 
 those sheer heights to which he sometimes soars. 
 Every line vibrates under the__trfiath of intense 
 emotion. The spectator is swept away by the rush- 
 ing flood ^flCijina^dfielajiiation. Our hearts are 
 fired by his fervid \vords-o£-ptatri.otism ; we long to 
 see liome rend her fetters; we loathe the bloody 
 crimes of Auguste ; we tremble at the peril that 
 threatens to engulf the two lovers ; we are pro- 
 foundly interested in the outcome of this conspiracy, 
 fraught with such momentous consequences to them 
 and to the state. Especially is it to be noted, also, 
 that both in sentiment and in style the scene is 
 intensely- Roman. 
 
 But M'e must return to the story, fimilie, well 
 pleased with her lover's ardent devotion, confirms 
 him in his daring and dangerous purpose, urging 
 him, however, not to expose his life unnecessarily. 
 Their conversation is now interrupted by the arrival 
 of the freedman Evandre, who tells Cinna that Au- 
 guste commands both him and Maxime to repair 
 immediately to his presence. The cheeks of the 
 
186 A STUDY IN COENEILLE. 
 
 lovers blanch at this announcement. Has the Em- 
 peror discovered the conspiracy? If not, why does 
 he send for the two leaders ? 
 
 Even fimilie's stout heart grows faint within her 
 at the thought of losing her lover, and she begs 
 him abandon the plot and flee from the wrath of 
 Auguste. Cinna is much more calm. He revives 
 the courage of his terrified mistress, telling her that 
 perhaps this is a false alarm, and that, even if it 
 prove true, his evident duty as a man of honor is to 
 meet death fearlessly in her quarrel, a duty which 
 he will gladly and proudly perform, firailie bids 
 him, then, go forth in this bold spirit. 
 
 " If you must die," she cries, " die like a Roman citizen, 
 And by a noble death crown a noble design." 
 
 She indicates in conclusion that she is determined 
 not to survive him. Cinna, however, would dis- 
 suade her from such a course, informing her that 
 her connection with the conspiracy is unknown save 
 to their faithful confidants and urging her to live to 
 avenge him as well as her father, fimilie then says 
 that she will seek the Empress and, in case the plot 
 is discovered, will employ both the influence of Livie 
 
CINNA. 187 
 
 and her own in behalf of her lover. But she 
 reiterates her determination to end her life, too, if 
 he must perish. 
 
 " For my sake," pleads Cinna, " be less cruel lo yourself." 
 " Go," she answers, '' and only remember that I love you." 
 
 With these affectionate words the act closes. 
 When the curtain rises again, we behold Auguste 
 surrounded by a troop of courtiers among whom 
 are Cinna and Maxirae. The Emperor bids all 
 retire save the two chiefs of the conspiracy. Then, 
 when his command has been obeyed, he addresst-s 
 them in the following words : 
 
 " This absolute empire over land and sea, 
 
 This sovereign power which I have over all the world, 
 
 This grandeur without limit and this illustrious rank 
 
 Which cost me formerly so much pain and blood, 
 
 In short all in my high fortune 
 
 Which the importunate presence of a, flattering courtier 
 
 adores, 
 Is only beauties whose splendor dazzles, 
 And which one ceases to love as soon as one enjoys them. 
 Ambition displeases when it is satiated, 
 And its ardor is followed by a contrary ardor; 
 And as our mind, even till our last sigh, 
 
188 A STUDY IN COENEILLE. 
 
 Always puts forth some desire toward some object, 
 
 It turns back upon itself, having nothing else to lay hold on, 
 
 And, having risen to the summit, it aspires to descend. 
 
 I wished for the empire and I have obtained it ; 
 
 But when I wished for it I did not know it: 
 
 In its possession I have found, as its only charms, 
 
 Frightful cares, alarms eternal, 
 
 A thousand secret enemies, death at every turn. 
 
 No pleasure without uneasiness, and never any rest." 
 
 As the crown has thus grown heavy jigori__his 
 brow arid the sweets of power have cloyed to his 
 taste, the Emperor is debating in his own mind the 
 expediency of abdicating. Upon this momentous 
 question he desires the advice of Cinna and Maxime. 
 It is for this that he has summoned them into his 
 presence. He bids them speais their minds with 
 perfect freedom and frankness. 
 
 "Consider not," he says, "this supreme grandeur, 
 Hateful to the Romans, and burdensome to myself; 
 Treat me as friend, not as sovereign ; 
 Rome, Auguste, the state — all is in your hand : 
 You shall put Europe, and Asia, and Africa, 
 Under the laws of a monarch or of a republic ; 
 Your advice is my rule, and by virtue of that alone 
 I will be Emperor or private citizen." 
 
CINNA. 189 
 
 What a thrilling situation is this ! The master 
 of a mighty empire, the great ruler at whose word 
 three continents tremble, has chosen as the arbiters 
 of his destiny the two conspirators who have sworn 
 to dye their daggers upon the morrow in his blood. 
 Cinna strongly advises the Emperor not to resign 
 his power. 
 
 "One daes__ngt renounce, legitimate grandeur,'' says the con- 
 spirator ; 
 
 " One keeps without remorse what one acquires without crimes ; 
 
 And the nobler, grander, more exqaisite the fortune one sur- 
 renders, 
 
 The worse he who dares give it up, deems it to have been 
 acquired. 
 
 Imprint not, my lord, this shameful stamp 
 
 Upon those rare virtues which have made you monarch ; 
 
 You are so justly, and it is without crima , 
 
 That you have changed the form of the state. 
 
 Rome is under your laws by the right of war. 
 
 Which has put all the earth un der the laws of Rome ; 
 
 Your arms have conquered her, and all conquerors 
 
 Are not tyrants because they are usurpers ; 
 
 When they liave reduced provinces under tlieir laws, 
 
 Governing justly, they make themselves just princes ; 
 
 That is what Cssar did ; you m\ist to-day - 
 
 Condemn his memory, or do as he did. ^ 
 
 17 
 
190 A STUDY IN COENEILLE. 
 
 If supreme power is censured by Auguste, 
 
 Caesar was a tyrant, and his assassination was just, 
 
 And you owe to the gods an account for all the blood 
 
 With which you have avenged him to rise to his rank. 
 
 Fear not, my lord, his sad fate ; 
 
 A more powerful genius watches over your years : 
 
 Ten times have they attempted your life without effect, 
 
 And the one who wished to destroy him did it the same instant. 
 
 They plot enough, but no one executes ; 
 
 There are assassins, but there is no Brutus ; 
 
 In fine, if you must expect such a catastrophe. 
 
 It is glorious to die master of the world." 
 
 It is, of course, quite apparent to the spectator 
 why Cinna speaks thus. If Auguste lays down his 
 sceptre, all Rome will join in one universal anthem 
 of praise, the conspiracy will vanish like a gruesome 
 vision of the night, and fimilie will fail of her 
 revenge. All this flashes through Ciuna's mind, 
 his love conquers his patriotism, and he strives 
 by flattering words to lure Auguste on to a bloody 
 death. 
 
 Very different is the course of Maxime. He 
 admits that Auguste has the right to rule as mon- 
 arch of Rome, but denies that abdication would be 
 in any sense a confession that he had himself obtained 
 
CINNA. J 91 
 
 his power unjustly or a reflection upon the legitimacy 
 of Ceesar's reign. Maxime then continues thus : 
 
 '' Rome is yours, my lord, the empire is your property ; 
 
 Everyone can dispose of his own in liberty ; 
 
 He can at his choice keep it or part with it: 
 
 Were Cinna's^viewxarreol,, you alone could not do what the 
 
 herd can, 
 And would have become, for having conquered all. 
 The slave of the glories to which you have risen ! 
 Possess them, my lord, without their possessing you ; 
 Far from leading you captive, suffer that they obey you ; 
 And boldly make it known in short to all 
 That all that those glories embrace is beneath you. 
 Your Rome formerly gave you birth ; ~ 
 You wish to give her your~supreme_power ; 
 And Oinna imputes to you as a capital crime 
 Liberality towards your native land ! 
 He calls the love of country remorse ! 
 Glory is then tarnished byjlofty virtue, 
 And this is only an object worthy of our scorn, 
 If infamy is the reward of its perfect-Consummation. 
 I will indeed confess that a n act ion so noble 
 Gives to Rome much more than you hold from her ; 
 But does one commit a crime unworthy of pardon. 
 When his gratitude is above the gift ? 
 Follow, my lord, follow, heaven which inspires you : 
 Your glory redoubles when you scornimperial power ; 
 
192 A STUDY IN COENEILLE, 
 
 And you will be famous among posterity, 
 
 Less for having conquered tlian for having resigned it. 
 
 Good fortune may lead you to supreme glory, 
 
 But to renounce it virtue itself is needed ; 
 
 And few noble souls, after a sceptre has been won. 
 
 Go BO far as to disdain the pleasure of ruling. 
 
 Consider moreover that you reign in Kome, 
 
 Where, whatsoever title your court may give you, 
 
 Monarchy is hated ; and the name of emperor. 
 
 Concealing that of -king, causes not less horror. 
 
 They regard as a tyraiji-whoever_makes_himself_their master; 
 
 Him who serves him as a slave, and him who loves him as a 
 
 traitor. 
 He who endures him has a heart cowardly, weak, spiritless, 
 And every move made to free the state is called virtue. 
 Of this you have, my lord, too certain proofs : 
 They have formed ten unsuccessful plots against you ; 
 Perhaps the eleventh is ready to burst out', 
 And perhaps this impulse which comes to agitate you, 
 Is only a secret warning that heaYen sends you, 
 As it has only this way to preserve you. 
 Expose yourself no more to these famousj^atastrophes : 
 It is glorious to die master of the world ; 
 But the most glorious death stains our memory. 
 When we might have lived and increased our glory." 
 
 Oinna. 
 
 If the love of country_OHght4o prevail liere. 
 It is her good alone that you ought to desire ; 
 
CINNA. 193 
 
 And this liberty, which seems to her so dear, 
 Is only, my lord, an imaginary blessing to Rome, 
 More hurtful than useful, and which does not approach 
 That which a good prince brings to his states : 
 With order and reason he dispenses honors, 
 Punishes and rewards with discernment, 
 And disposes of all as a just owner. 
 Without precipitating aught for fear of a successor. 
 But when the people are masters they act only in tumult ; 
 The voice of reason is never consulted ; 
 Honors are sold to the most ambitious. 
 Authority given over to the^ost factious. 
 These little sovereigns whom^the people make for a year. 
 Seeing their power limited by so short a time. 
 Render the fruit of the happiest designs abortive, 
 For fear of leaving it to him who follows them ; 
 As they have little part in the benefits they ordain, 
 They gather an abundant harvest in the field of the 
 , public, 
 
 Assured that each one readily pardons them. 
 Hoping in his turn a similar treatment. 
 The worst of states is the democratic state. 
 
 Aiigusk,. 
 
 And yet the only one that canj)lease_inJiome. 
 This hatred of kings which for five hundred years 
 All her children have sucked with their first milk, 
 Is too deeply rooted to tear it from their hearts. 
 
 17* 
 
194 A STUDY IN COKNEILLE. 
 
 Maxime. 
 
 Yes, ray lord, Kome is too obstinate in her disease ; 
 
 Her people, who are pleased by it, flee its cure: 
 
 Their custom conquers, and not reason ; 
 
 And this old error which Cinna wishes to strike down. 
 
 Is a happy error which they idolize. 
 
 By which the entire world, enslaved under their laws, 
 
 Has seen them march a hundred times upon the head of kings, 
 
 And their treasury become swollen from the plunder of their 
 
 provinces. 
 What more could the best princes give them ? 
 I dare say, my lord, that all kinds of governments are not well 
 
 received 
 By all climates. Each nation has its own, suited to its nature, 
 Which one could not change without doing it an injury : 
 Such is the law of heaven whose wise equity 
 Sows this diversity in the world. 
 The Macedonians love monarchy, 
 And the rest of the Greeks public liberty : 
 The Parthians and the Persians wish sovereigns, 
 And the consulate alone is good for the Komans. 
 
 Ginna. 
 
 It is true that the infinite prudence of heaven 
 Dispenses to each nation a different genius ; 
 But it is not less true that this order of heaven 
 Changes according to times as well as according to places. 
 Kome has received from the kings her walls and her birth ■ 
 
CINNA. 195 
 
 She holds her glory and her power from the consuls, 
 
 And receives now from your rare goodness 
 
 The sovereign complement of her prosperity. 
 
 Under you the state is no longer pillaged by armies ; 
 
 The gates of Janus are closed by your hands, 
 
 Which was only seen once under her consuls, 
 
 And which the second of her kings like them brought to pass. 
 
 Maxime. 
 The changes of government which the divine dispensation 
 
 makes, 
 Cost no blood, have in them nothing that is baleful. 
 
 Oinna. 
 
 It is a rule of the gods which never is broken, 
 
 To sell us a little dear the great blessings which they bestow 
 
 on us. 
 The exile of the Tarquins even stained our lands with blood, 
 And our first consuls cost us some wars. 
 
 Maxime. 
 
 Then your grandfather Pompey resisted heaven 
 When he fought for our liberty ? 
 
 Oinna. 
 
 If heaven had not wished Eome to lose it. 
 
 It would have defended it by the hands of Pompey : 
 
 It chose his death to serve worthily 
 
196 A STUDY IN COENBILLE. 
 
 As an eternal mark for this great change, 
 
 And owed to the shade of such a man this glory, 
 
 To carry away with it the liberty of Eome. 
 
 This name for a long time has only served to dazzle her, 
 
 And her own greatness hinders her from enjoying it. 
 
 Ever since she beheld herself mistress of the world, 
 
 Ever since wealth has abounded within her walls. 
 
 And her bosom, fruitful in glorious exploits. 
 
 Has produced citizens more powerful than kings ; 
 
 The great, buying suffrages to strengthen themselves. 
 
 In their pay pompously hold their masters. 
 
 Who, allowing themselves to be chained by gilded fetters. 
 
 Receive from them the laws which they think they impose upon 
 
 them. 
 Thus Sulla became jealous of Marius ; 
 Csesar of jny grandfather ; Marc Antony of you ; 
 Thus liberty can no longer be useful 
 Save to instigate the furies of a civil war. 
 When in a quarrel fatal to the world, 
 One wishes no master, and the other no equal. 
 My lord, to save Eome, it is necessary that she be united 
 In ..the hand of a goo.dj3hifi£ji!db,om..all obey. 
 If you still love to_fayor Jier, 
 
 Take from her the means of becoming more dwided.. 
 Sulla, abandoning at lastjhe plg^e well_usurped, 
 Has only opened the field to Csesar and Pompey, 
 Whom the misfortune of the times would not have caused us 
 
 to see. 
 If he had assured his power in his family. 
 
CINNA. 197 
 
 What has tlie cruel assassination of the great Caesar done, 
 
 But to raise against you Antony with Lepidus, 
 
 Who would not by the Romans have destroyed Eome, 
 
 If Caesar had left the sovereignty in your hands? 
 
 By abandoning this sovereignty, you will plunge her back 
 
 Into the woes from -whiok she yet scarcely rests; 
 
 And a new war, my lord^will exhaust her 
 
 Of the little blood which remains to her. 
 
 Let love of country, let pity touch you ; 
 
 Your Rome on her knees speaks to. you by my mouth. 
 
 Consider the„pric^_that you have cost: 
 
 Not that she thinks she has bought you too dear ; 
 
 For the ills that she has suffered she is too well paid ; 
 
 But a just fear holds her soul affrighted ; 
 
 If, jealous of her good fortune, and weary of ruling, 
 
 You give her back.a boou^ hat sh e can not preserve ; 
 
 If she must at this price-buy another sovereign. 
 
 If you do notprefer Ler_interests to your own. 
 
 If this baleful gift pats her in despair, 
 
 I dare not say here what I dare foresee. 
 
 Preserve yourself, my lord, in leaving her a master 
 
 Under whom her true weal begins to revive ; 
 
 And in order to b etter assu re the common good of all. 
 
 Give her a successor who shall be worthy of you. 
 
 At the conclusion of this speech, Augusta declares 
 that pity for the sad plight in which his country 
 would be left were he to abdicate, constrains him 
 
198 A STUDY IN COKNEILLE. 
 
 in spite of his strong desire for repose to accept the 
 advice of Cinna and retain the sovereign power. 
 The Emperor then announces his intention of mak- 
 ing Cinna his partner iii_th_e_caies of state, bestows 
 upon him the hand of fimilie, and appoints Maxime 
 governor o flSicily. 
 
 This superb scene, though parts of the discussion 
 are pitched in a key that grates upon our American 
 ears, is entirely worthy of the intensely dramatic 
 situation, and has always been regarded by French 
 critics as a marvellous triumph of genius, equally 
 admirable for majestic language and political 
 wisdom. Statesmen have perceived with surprise 
 that Corneille was familiar with some of the pro- 
 foundest secrets of their guild. Principles at which 
 political philosophers arrive only after long and 
 laborious processes of reasoning, he seems to 
 apprehend by the simple exercise of his poetic 
 intuition. 
 
 Corneille's greatness of soul at once puts him in 
 touch with all that is great in every walk and work 
 of life. The law of the correlation of forces, as we 
 have intimated before, is as true of the mental and 
 the moral as it is of the physical world. The energy 
 
CINNA. -199 
 
 which created " Cinna " could, with the necessary 
 environment, have created and carried out a great 
 governmental policy. 
 
 It is exceedingly interesting to note the impres- 
 sion produced by this play upon the warrior states- 
 man. Napoleon Bonaparte. 
 
 " Quel chef d'oeuvre que Cinna ! " he exclaims, 
 " comme cela est construit ! comme il est Evident 
 qu' Octave, malgr6 les taches de sang du triumvirat, 
 est n^cessaire h I'empire, et I'empire k Rome ! La 
 premiere fois que j'entendis ce langage, je fus comme 
 illuming, et j'aper9us clairement dans la politique et 
 dans la po6sie des horizons que je n'avais pas encore 
 soup9onn6s, mais que je reconnus faits pour moi." 
 What is this but the joyous cry of genius recogniz- 
 ing genius? 
 
 The next scene consists of a conversation between 
 the two conspirators. Maxime demands to know 
 what course Cinna is now going to pursue after his 
 flattering words to the Emperor. Cinna replies that 
 his purpose is unchanged. He wants Rome to be 
 free. But he is unwilling to let the tyrant escape 
 punishment for his crimes by putting off the purple 
 and laying down the sceptre. 
 
200 A STUDY IN CORNEILLE. 
 
 No, he must die — die in all the pomp of his power 
 — die as a sacrifice on liberty's altar — die as a crim- 
 inal whose hands are red with blood — die as a warn- 
 ing to all would-be usurpers in future. 
 
 Maxime takes a different view. He thinks that 
 it would have been wiser to accept liberty when it 
 was freely offered than to jeopardize it by a resort 
 to violence in order to take vengeance on the tyrant. 
 Each maintains his opinion with considerable earnest- 
 ness. 
 
 Finally, Cinna suggests, that, as it is very danger- 
 ous to talk about such a subject in the palace, they 
 had better postpone their conversation until they 
 reach a safer place. Maxime agrees, they go out, 
 and the act closes. 
 
 A calcium light is now thrown into the dark 
 chambers of each conspirator's heart, revealing its 
 secret workings, its turbulent emotions. 
 
 The third act opens with a conversation between 
 Maxime and his freedman, Euphorbe. Maxime has 
 learned from Cinna's own mouth that his love for 
 Eimilie and his hope of winning her hand by aveng- 
 ing her father's death are the real reasons why he, 
 the Emperor's trusted counsellor, has conspired 
 
CINNA. 201 
 
 against his benefactor's life and put back the cup 
 of liberty which Auguste was holding to the lips of 
 Rome. 
 
 This intelligence has produced in the mind of 
 Maxime the bitterest chagrin, for, as he confesses 
 to Euphorbe, he is passionately in love with fimilie 
 himself, and he sees now thatjf-ttiis'conspiracy, by 
 which he thought to prove himself worthy of her 
 hand, should succeed, its effect would be to crown 
 his rival's brow with laurels and give him ifimilie 
 for his bride. To prevent such a consummation, 
 Euphorbe stronglyLurges-his master to betray Cinna 
 to Auguste. Maxime, though his betteroiatjire revolts 
 at the base proposal, nevertheless considers its expe- 
 diency with Euphoi;^. 
 
 While they are discussing the matter, Cinna comes 
 up, Euphorbe retires, and the two conspirators enter 
 into conversation. Cinna tells iiow remorse, with 
 her scorpion brood, has made her nest within his 
 heart, how he is horrified at the thought of his black 
 ingratitude toward the Emperor who had lavished 
 so many favors upon him, and how against all his 
 scruples his love for Emilie asserts its sovereign . 
 power. 
 
 18 
 
202 A STUDY IN CORNEILLE. 
 
 Maxime, who has no patience with these senti- 
 ments, reproaches him sharply for advising Auguste 
 as he had, and calls upon him now at least to hear 
 the voice of Rome and join in forcibly freeing her 
 from the tyrant's thrall. Cinna begs his comrade to 
 cease his harsh words, assures him that he will soon 
 repair his fault toward Rome, and finally entreats 
 him to leave him alone with his melancholy thoughts. 
 Maxime, aiming a Parthian arrow at his chagrined 
 accomplice in conspiracy, then withdraws. 
 
 The ensuing soliloquy of Cinna is full of passion. 
 As he remembers the countless favors that Auguste 
 has showered upon him, his soul revolts at the 
 thought of the dastardly deed he is pledged to do ; 
 his cheeks are seared by the burning blush of guilty 
 shame ; his base ingratitude stands revealed to him 
 in all its hideousness, a " marble-hearted fiend ; " 
 his better nature breaks forth in expostulation 
 against his treacherous course. But now across the 
 swelling billows of passion by which his soul is 
 tossed he hears the ravishing strain of the Siren 
 Love ; he yields to her enchantment ; he throttles 
 protesting honor; and the doomed bark drifts on 
 toward the dread reefs of disgrace. 
 
CIMNA. 203 
 
 At the conclusion of this monologue, fimilie, 
 accompanied by her confidant, Fulvie, reappears 
 upon the stage. During the interview between the 
 lovers which follows, Cinna tries to persuade fimilie 
 to forgive Auguste for the wrong he had done her 
 in the long ago — a wrong for which he had surely 
 made all the atonement that lay in his power. But 
 fimilie indignantly spurns the proposal, rebukes and 
 reproaches her lover in words of withering scorn, and 
 finally declares her intention to slay the Emperor 
 herself and perish with him. 
 
 This maddens Cinna. He will satisfy her, he 
 cries; he will avenge her father; he will assassinate 
 A uguste ; and then he will recover his lost honor 
 by burying his dagger in his own unhappy heart. 
 With such wild words, he rushes out. fimilie is 
 not unmoved at this outburst, as we see from the 
 rapid colloquy which immediately ensues between 
 her and her confidant. 
 
 FuMe. 
 You have plunged his soul in despair ! 
 
 Emilie. 
 Let him cease to love me, or let liim follow his duty. 
 
'204 A STUDY IN CORNEILLE. 
 
 Fulvie. 
 
 He is going to obey you at the expense of his life : 
 You are weeping ! 
 
 jEmilie. 
 
 Alas ! run after him, Fulvie, 
 And, if thy friendship deigns to aid me. 
 Snatch from his heart the determination to die ; 
 Tell him ... . 
 
 Ftdvie. 
 
 That for his sake you let Auguste live ? 
 
 Eniilie. 
 Ah ! that is to subject my hate to too unjust a law. 
 
 Fulvie. 
 And what then ? 
 
 Emilie. 
 
 Let him finish his task, and redeem his faith. 
 
 And let him afterwards choose between death and me. 
 
 Once more her womanliness, like the silver moon 
 from under leaden clouds, shines through the dark 
 passions that overcast her soul. She can not entirely 
 annihilate her sensibilities. When love with magic 
 rod smites her rocky heart, tears of tenderness will 
 gush forth, despite her grim resolution. We are 
 
CINNA. 205 • 
 
 glad it is thus; we are pleased to find that this 
 strange creature, so ruthless, so relentless, so ran- 
 corous, whom no subsequent kindness, however 
 loving and lavish it may be, can ever make forget 
 her wrong, nor forgive its author, nor forego her 
 vengeance, is human after all. 
 
 True, she almost at once conquers her emotion, 
 but it is by a great effort, and now that we have 
 seen this exhibition of feeling we shall be far less 
 offended at her stoicism, for we shall know the 
 terrible tension under which she is acting, and shall 
 realize that only a stern sense of duty to her father 
 drives her to pursue so desperate a course. The 
 above scene which concludes the third act, is one 
 of those brilliant strokes that bespeak the master. 
 Hard, indeed, would it be to conceive a more splen- 
 did conclusion. 
 
 In the first scene of act fourth, Euphorbe reveals 
 the plot to Auguste, telling him that Maxime now 
 bitterly repents his part in it, but that Ciuna still 
 persists in his treason, and is doing his best to banish 
 the remorse and dissipate the fears of the other con- 
 spirators. Auguste, horror-stricken at the well-nigh 
 incredible news, whispers to his freedman, Polycl^te, 
 18* 
 
206 A STUDY IN COENEILLE. 
 
 some secret instructions regarding Cinna, and orders 
 that Maxime be told to repair to the palace that he 
 may receive pardon from his outraged sovereign. 
 Euphorbe thereupon lyingly declares that his master 
 was so overcome by the consciousness of his guilt 
 that he threw himself into the Tiber whose swift 
 and swollen waters iu the darkness soon bore him 
 out of sight. Auguste replies that Maxime has 
 yielded too much to remorse. 
 
 " There is no crime against me," says the Emperor, " which 
 repentance does not efface.'' 
 
 Then, dismissing Euphorbe and the attendants, 
 he gives vent to his emotions in a long monologue, 
 now calling upon heaven to take back the fatal 
 power whose possession has thus raised up against 
 him his friends with poniards in their hands ; now 
 humbly confessing that, in view of his own bloody 
 excesses, he has no right to complain of the murder- 
 ous plot against- himself; now working himself up 
 into a passion against-the faithless Cinna and crying 
 out for vengeance ; then sickening at the thought of 
 more blood and punishments, despairing of crushing 
 out treason by violence, and bidding himself rather 
 
CINNA. 207 
 
 seek refuge iu death from the ills that encompass 
 him ; then once more growing_fifirce_agaiiist Cinna ; 
 exclaiming in a vehement address to himself: 
 
 " but at least with glory leave life, 
 Extinguish its torch in the blood of the ingrate ; " 
 
 and savagely gloating for a moment over the thought 
 of inflicting this retribution on the traitor; then, at 
 the last, vibrating" in painful susge_nse-iietvs:een the 
 impulse to die and the desire to conquer the hatred 
 of Rome, and reign^i n trium ph ove)?-a-HHtiis foes. 
 
 At the conclusion of this soliloquy there ensues 
 a scene betweexLAuguste^iind Livie, in which the 
 Empress advises her husband, as he has in vain 
 tried severity hitherto, to try mercy now in Ciuna's 
 case. Auguste, however, declares that he is going 
 to abdicate like_Sulla. Livie earnestly opposes this 
 course, saying that it would be interpreted as the 
 effect of despair rather than of nobility of soul. 
 Auguste persists in his_j)pinion and she in hers. 
 Finally the Emperor goes out in some irritation. 
 
 The scene now changes to the apartment of 
 fimilie. From Fulvie she has just heard that 
 Auguste has commanded Cinna to appear before 
 
208 A STUDY IN COENEILLE. 
 
 him. Yet, affected apparently by some psychical 
 reaction, her only emotion is one of strange joy 
 instead of one of terror. Astonished at her own 
 entire composure, she asks whether she has cor- 
 rectly understood Fulvie's words. The confidant, 
 in reply, repeats all that she knows of the matter. 
 She says that she, having succeeded in dissuading 
 Cinna from suicide, was bringing him back to 
 fimilie's presence to try once more to appease her 
 inveterate hatred, when all at once he was accosted 
 by Polycl&te who, acting by the Emperor's order, 
 immediately conducted him to the palace. 
 
 Auguste himself is greatly perturbed about some- 
 thing, fivandre and Euphorbe have both been 
 arrested and Maxime is reported to have thrown 
 himself into the Tiber. In spite of this alarming 
 story of Fulvie's, ifimilie still remains indifferent to 
 the imminent peril to which all the conspirators are 
 exposed, and still feels an unaccountable exaltation 
 of soul, an emotion which she takes to be the gift of 
 the gods to enable her to meet death with a cour- 
 age becoming the daughter of an heroic house. A 
 moment later she is amazed to see Maxime advan- 
 cing toward her. 
 
CINNA. 209 
 
 "They told me you were dead," she cries. 
 
 Maxime. 
 
 Euphorbe deceives Auguste with that false report ; 
 Seeing himself arrested, and the plot discovered, 
 He invented this death to prevent my destruction. 
 
 i/milie. 
 What do they say of Cinna ? 
 
 Maxime. 
 
 That his greatest regret 
 Is to see that Csesar knows all your secret ; 
 In vain he denies it and wishes to feign ignorance of it ; 
 Evandre has told all to excuse his master, 
 And by the order of Auguste an officer is coming to arrest you. 
 
 Emilie. 
 
 The one who received it delays to execute it ; 
 
 I am ready to follow him and weary of waiting for him. 
 
 Maxime. 
 He awaits you at my house. 
 
 Emilie. 
 
 At your house ! 
 
210 A STUDY IN COENEILLE. 
 
 Maxime. 
 
 'Tis to take you by surprise : 
 But learn the care that heaven has for you : 
 He is one of the conspirators who is going to flee with ns. 
 Let us seize our advantage before they pursue us ; 
 We have a boat on the river bank ready to start. 
 
 • '• Emilie. 
 
 Dost thou know me, Maxime, and knowest thou who [ am? 
 
 Thus, with fine dignity, she repulses his first 
 advance. But he does not desist at one rebuff. 
 Again and again he tries to overcome her cold 
 disdain. The miserable villain makes himself posi- 
 tively ridiculous by the far-fetched conceits which 
 he employs in pressing his suit. All his efforts, 
 however, are utterly futile, fimilie with her sharp 
 scorn pricks the brilliant bubble he had blown. She 
 does not hesitate to tell him that she suspects him 
 of perfidy. The essential nobility of her character 
 shines out all through the scene in marked contrast 
 with his despicable meanness. At length, cutting 
 short his importunities, and declaring that she will 
 hear him no more until they meet in the presence of 
 the Emperor, she retires with her confidant. 
 
CINNA. 21 1 
 
 Maxime, in a soliloquy, confesses that he deserves 
 the contemptuous rejection which he has met with, 
 expresses his belief that iSmilie will at her execu- 
 tion tell the whole story of his infamy, speaks with 
 chagrin of the ignominious failure of his damnable 
 designs, bitterly accuses Euphorbe of being the au- 
 thor of his trouble, and in conclusion indicates his 
 determination first to slay the freednaan and then to 
 kill himself as a sacrifice to Cinua and £milie. 
 
 This monologue closes the fourth act which, it 
 must be admitted, is as a whole, noticeably deficient 
 in dramatic incident. But the critic's pen, lifted 
 to blame this blemish, falls powerless before the 
 grandeur of the last act. 
 
 The first scene is exceedingly brilliant. Cinna is 
 alone with the Emperor. Auguste, after enumera- 
 ting in a strain of magnificent eloquence, vivid, 
 terse and ornate, all the signal fevors which he had 
 bestowed upon th e traitor _before him, charges the 
 wretched man with his terrible crime in these cogent 
 words : 
 
 " Thou rememberest, Cinna ; so much good fortune and so much 
 
 glory 
 Can not so soon escape thy memory ; 
 
212 A STUDY IN COENEILLE. 
 
 But, what one could never imagine, 
 
 Cinna, thou rememberest and wishest to assassinate me." 
 
 What a powerful home thrust is that last line ! 
 
 "Thou rememberest and wishest to assassinate me/" 
 
 Cinna at first attempts to deny the accusation. But 
 Auguste, bidding him be silent, at once convicts 
 him by giving the details of the plot and mentioning 
 the names of the most prominent conspirators. The 
 Emperor then excoriates the culprit with a caustic 
 rebuke, granting him permission at its close to speak 
 in his own defence. Cinna meets the crisis with 
 true Roman firmness. Anxious to save fimilie, he 
 declares that the sole cause of his treason was the 
 desire to avenge the slaughter of his grandfather 
 Pompey and his two sons. But not a word does the 
 young man deign to say in excuse for his course. 
 Not the slightest profession of penitence does he 
 make. Not a prayer for mercy does he utter. 
 He looks death in the face without a tremor, 
 and calmly waits for the Emperor to wreak his 
 vengeance. Surprised at this haughty demeanor, 
 Auguste exclaims: 
 
CINNA. 213 
 
 "Let us see whether thy constancy will continue even to 
 
 the end. 
 Thou knowest what is thy due, thou seest I know all : 
 Pass sentence on thyself, and choose thy own punishments." 
 
 Just then Livie enters accompanied by fimilie 
 and Fulvie. 
 
 " You do not know all the accomplices," cries the Empress ; 
 " Your Emilie is one of them, my lord, and here she is." 
 
 'Tis she herself, O gods ! 
 
 And thou, too, my daughter! 
 
 Emilie. 
 
 Yes, all t&at he has done, he has done to please me. 
 And I, my lord, was the cause and the reward of it. 
 
 The Emperor at first thinks that the girl is simply- 
 making a mad effort to save her lover. This idea, 
 however, she immediately dispels as she relates how 
 she fairly dragged Cinna into treason by making her 
 acceptance of his hand conditional upon his avenging 
 her father. The heart of Auguste is terribly wrung 
 by this new sorrow. 
 19 
 
214 A STUDY IN COENBILLE. 
 
 "Oh, my daughter," he cries, "is that the reward of my 
 benefits?" 
 
 Mmilie. 
 
 Those of my father produced in you the same effects. 
 
 Auguste. 
 Think with what love I reared thy youth. 
 
 Emilie. 
 
 He reared yours with the same tenderness ; 
 He was your tutor, and you his assassin ; 
 And you have taught me the road to crime : 
 Mine differs from yours in this point alone. 
 That your ambition sacrificed my father to itself, 
 And that a just wrath with which I feel myself burn. 
 To his innocent blood wished to sacrifice you. 
 
 At this point Livie breaks in with a protest. She 
 tells fimilie that Auguste has by his kindness to her 
 paid off only too well the debt which he owed her 
 father, declares that the Emperor ougjit not to be 
 held to account Jor_the crimes of Octavius, and 
 maintains that, whatever be the provocation, subjects 
 have no right to raise their hands against the sover- 
 eign. Here Corneille unconsciously makes Livie 
 speak the language of the courtly casuists o f the 
 seventeenth century, fitnilie replies that she spoke 
 
CINNA. 215 
 
 to irritate Angnste, not to defend herself. She then 
 bids him take her life to assure his own. 
 
 " If I have corrupted Cinna/' she exclaims, "I will seduce many 
 
 others, 
 And I am the more to be feared and you the more in danger. 
 If I have love and blood both to avenge.'' 
 
 No sooner have these last lines fallen from her 
 lips than Cinna, filled with a passionate desire to 
 save his lover, earnestly denies that the plot origi- 
 nated with her. He declares that he had formed 
 the design before he fell in love with her, and 
 that, finding his suit vain at first, he had finally 
 won success by appealing to her feminine love 
 for revenge and offering to her with his heart 
 the service of his arm. 
 
 " She has only conspired," he cries, " through my craft ; 
 
 I am the sole author of the plot, she is only an accomplice.'' 
 
 EmUie. 
 
 Cinna, what dost thou dare say ? is that to cherish me. 
 To take away honor from me when I must die ? 
 
 Die, but in dying stain not my glory. 
 
216 A STUDY IN COENEILLE. 
 
 Emilie. 
 Mine is blasted, if Caesar wishes to believe'you. 
 
 Oinna. 
 
 And mine is lost if you take to yourself 
 
 All that which follows from such noble deeds. 
 
 Emilie. 
 
 Ah, well ! take thy part of it and leave me mine ; 
 
 'T would be to diminish it, to diminish thine: 
 
 Glory and pleasure, shame and tortures. 
 
 All ought to be in common between two lovers. 
 
 Our two souls, my lord, are two Koman souls ; 
 
 In uniting our desires, we united our hates ; 
 
 The lively resentment of the slaughter of our relatives 
 
 Taught us our duties in one and the same moment ; 
 
 In this noble design our hearts met ; 
 
 Our lofty spirits formed it together ; 
 
 Together we seek the honor of a glorious death. 
 
 You wished to unite us, do not separate us. 
 
 Augusle. 
 
 Yes, I will unite you, ungrateful and perfidious couple, 
 
 And more hostile to me than is Antony or Lepidus, 
 
 Yes, I will unite you, since you wish it : 
 
 It is, indeed, necessary to satisfy the fires with which you burn, 
 
 And let all the world, knowing what incites me. 
 
 Be astonished at the punishment as well as at the crime. 
 
CINNA. 217 
 
 We have now reached the last scene in the play 
 — a scene which stirs some of the noblest emotions 
 of the soul, and whose grandeur has compelled 
 the homage of the critics of every land. Auguste, 
 the master of the world, proves that he is also master 
 of himself. Within his heart rages the furious pas- 
 sion of anger against the ingrates who had conspired to 
 assassinate him. But by a mighty eifort he conquers 
 this desire for vengeance, pardons his enemies, and 
 bestows upon them far greater favors than ever before. 
 
 Some dramatists, by depicting such things as the 
 horrors of battle, the awful glare of a conflagration 
 or the wild fury of a tempest, have attained what 
 Coleridge called " the material sublime ; " it is the 
 glory of Corneille that not here only but time and 
 again elsewhere, he has created matchless examples 
 of the moral sublime. The triumph of a godlike 
 soul over the Python passion — what could be grander 
 than this ? But let us at once turn to the inspiring 
 spectacle. I quote the entire scene. 
 
 But in short heaven loves me, and its renewed favors 
 Have rescued Maxime from the fury of the waters. 
 Approach, sole friend that I find faithful. 
 
 19* 
 
218 A STUDY IN COKNEILLE. 
 
 Honor less, my lord, a criminal soul. 
 
 Auguste. 
 
 Speak no more of crime after thy repentance, 
 
 After thou hast saved me from peril : 
 
 'Tis to thee that I owe both life and empire. 
 
 Know better the worst of all your enemies : 
 
 If you reign still, my lord, if you live. 
 
 It is to my jealous rage that you owe it. 
 
 A virtuous remorse has not touched my soul ; 
 
 To destroy my rival I have disclosed his plot. 
 
 Euphorbe pretended to you that I had drowned myself, 
 
 For fear that you had sent after me : 
 
 I wished to have the means of deceiving Emilie, 
 
 Terrifying her mind, drawing her away from Italy, 
 
 And thought to reconcile her to this abduction 
 
 Under the hope of returning to avenge her lover ; 
 
 But instead of tasting these gross baits. 
 
 Her virtue redoubled its energies by being attacked. 
 
 She read into my heart. You know the rest. 
 
 And it would be superfluous for me to recite it to you. 
 
 You see the success of my base stratagem. 
 
 If, however, some thanks are due my information. 
 
 Cause Euphorbe to perish in the midst of torture, 
 
 And suffer me to die before the eyes of these lovers. 
 
CINNA. 219 
 
 I have betrayed my friend, my lover, my master. 
 
 My glory, my country, by the advice of this traitor ; "' ' 
 
 And yet I will think my good fortune infinite, 
 
 If I can punish myself for it after having punished him. 
 
 Augvste. 
 
 Is it enough, O heaven ! and to injure me 
 Has fate any other of my intimates whom it wishes to seduce? 
 Let it join to its eiforts the help of Hades ; 
 f I am master of myself as well as of the worldjj 
 I am, I will to be. O centuries ! O memory ! 
 Preserve forever my last victory ; 
 I triumph to-day over the most righteous wrath 
 Whose remembrance can go down to you. 
 Let us be friends, Cinna, it is I who invite thee : 
 I have given thee life as to my enemy ; 
 And, in spite of the fury of thy base design, 
 I give it to thee again as to my assassin. 
 Let us begin a combat that shall show by the issue 
 Which of us has done better, I in giving or thou in receiving it. 
 Thou didst betray my favors, I wish to redouble them ; 
 I had loaded you with them, I wish to overwhelm you with 
 
 them: 
 With this beautiful woman whom I had given thee 
 Eeceive the consulate for the next year. 
 Love Cinna, my daughter, in this illustrious station ; 
 Prefer its purple to that of my blood ; 
 Learn by my example to conquer thy anger : 
 By giving thee back a husband, I give thee back more than a 
 
 father. 
 
220 A STUDY IN COENEILLE. 
 
 Emilie. 
 
 I yield, my lord, to these noble kindnesses ; 
 
 I recover my vision by their light : 
 
 I recognize my fault which seemed to me justice ; 
 
 And, what the terror of punishment could not have caused, 
 
 I feel arise in my soul a strong repentance. 
 
 And my heart in secret tells me that it consents to it. 
 
 Heaven has ordained your supreme greatness ; 
 
 And for proof, my lord, I need only myself. 
 
 I dare with vanity take to myself this honor. 
 
 That since heaven changes my heart, it wishes to change the 
 
 state. 
 My hate, which I thought immortal, is going to die ; 
 It is dead, and this heart becomes a faithful subject ; 
 And as it conceives henceforth a horror for this hate, 
 The ardor of serving you succeeds its fury. 
 
 Oinna. 
 
 My lord, what shall I say to you, after our offences 
 Instead of punishments find rewards ? 
 O, virtue without example I O, clemency, which renders 
 Your power juster, and my crime greater. 
 
 Auguste. 
 
 Cease to delay a magnanimous forgetfulness of it ; 
 And do both of you with me render thanks to Maxime : 
 He has betrayed us all ; but what he has done 
 Preserves you innocent, and gives me back my friends. 
 
CINNA. 221 
 
 (to Maxime) 
 Resume thy wonted place near me ; 
 Enter again into ihj power and into thy renown ; 
 Let Euphorbe from all three have pardon in his turn, 
 And to-morrow let marriage crown their love. 
 If thou lovest her still, that shall be thy punishment. 
 
 Maxime. 
 
 I do not murmur at it, it has too much justice ; 
 And I am more confused, my lord, by your kindness 
 Than I am jealous of the boon that you take from me. 
 
 Suffer my virtue, called back into my heart, 
 
 To consecrate to you a faith basely violated, 
 
 But so firm now, so far from wavering 
 
 That the fall of the skies could not shake it. 
 
 May the great author of noble destinies, — 
 
 Cut short our years in order to prolong your days ; 
 
 And may I by a good fortune_of_which each one shall be jealous 
 
 Lose for you a hundred times what I receive from you . 
 
 Idvie. 
 
 That is not all, my lord ; a celestial_flaffie 
 
 With a prophetic ray illumines my soul. 
 
 Hear what the gods make known to yaa through me ; 
 
 It is the immutable law of your happy destiny. 
 
 After this action youTIiave nothing to fear ; 
 
222 A STUDY IN COENBILLE. 
 
 The state will bear the yoke henceforth without complaining ; 
 
 And the most untractable, abandoning their projects, 
 
 Will find all their glory in dying your subjects; 
 
 No base design, no ungrateful envy 
 
 Will attack the course of so noble a life ; 
 
 Never any more assassins nor conspirators : 
 
 You have found the art of being master of hearts. 
 
 Rome, with a joy both keen and deep, 
 
 Resigns into your hands the empire of the world ; 
 
 Your kingly virtues will teach her too well 
 
 That her happiness consists in causing you to reign : 
 
 From so long an error fully freed. 
 
 She no longer has any prayers save for the monarchy, 
 
 Already is preparing for you temples and altars, 
 
 And heaven is preparing for you a place among the immortals ; 
 
 And posterity in every nation 
 
 Will give your example to the noblest princes. 
 
 Av^vste. 
 
 I accept the prophecy and I dare hope it : 
 Thus always may the gods deign to inspire you ! 
 To-morrow let the happy sacrifices be doubled 
 Which we shall offer them under better auspices, 
 And let your fellow conspirators hear it proclaimed 
 That Auguste has learned all, and wishes to forget all. 
 
 So ends this great play. Its chief defect as a 
 drama is that it has too little action and too much 
 
CINNA. 223 
 
 debate. This, however, does not mar the beauty of 
 the piece as a poem. Statesmen have always admired 
 the historic insight and the knowledge of state-craft 
 shown by Corneille in the political discussions. 
 Voltaire tells us that of all the great poet's trage- 
 dies Cinna was the favorite of the court. It is easy 
 to discover the reason. ■ The play contained the 
 idealized expression of the dominant political beliefs 
 of the time. Corneille's characters said in magnifi- 
 cent rhetoric what the spectators believed and felt. 
 Then there was that grand closing scene. 
 
 As Auguste pronounced his immortal " Soyons 
 amis, Cinna," the old nobility of France felt the 
 finest chords of their hearts thrown into sympa- 
 thetic vibration ; the great Cond6 wept manly tears ; 
 and the whole assemblage were lifted out of them- 
 selves and raised to the empyreal heights of gener- 
 ous sentiment. 
 
 Nor was the piece destined to lose its power to 
 move the hearts of men. Succeeding generations 
 have yielded their sincere tribute to the genius of 
 our poet. Louis XV is reported as saying, after a 
 representation of Cinna, that he was so affected by 
 the passage to which reference was just made that. 
 
224 A STUDY IN COENEILLB. 
 
 if any one had at that moment demanded from him 
 the pardon of Cardinal Rohan, he could not have 
 refused. Corneille was, indeed, worthy to be called 
 the ^breviaryLofkings. 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 
 The Great Dramatist at the Meridian of 
 His Glory: Polyeucte. 
 
 rnHE next creation of our author's genius was 
 Polyeucte. One evening in the year 1640, 
 Corneille read the new piece before the cultured 
 coterie who were wout to gather at the H6tel de 
 Eanibouillet. The literary men of the period enter- 
 tained the highest respect for this tribunal. Few 
 ventured to dispute its verdict upon any question 
 of taste. So powerful was the influence exerted 
 upon French letters by the Hdtel, that we must 
 pause long enough to say a word as to its history 
 and function. 
 
 On the 26th of January, 1600, Charles d'Angennes, 
 a high-born nobleman, then vidame du Mans, after- 
 wards Marquis de Rambouillet, married Catherine 
 de Vivonne, daughter of Jean de Vivonne, sieur de 
 Saint-Gohard, afterwards first Marquis de Pisani, 
 20 225 
 
226 A STUDY IN COENEILLE. 
 
 and Julia Savelli, widow of Luis des Ursins and 
 herself descended from the noble Italian family of 
 the Strozzi. Both the Marquis and the Marquise 
 de Rambouillet were thus of illustrious lineage. 
 
 When they came to live at Paris, the refined 
 nature of the Marquise, who was as good as she 
 was beautiful, was shocked at the frivolity, gross- 
 ness and immorality which then characterized the 
 court. Withdrawing from an atmosphere so un- 
 wholesome, she rebuilt the H6tel de Rambouillet, 
 and on its completion in 1617 opened her doors to 
 a select circle of friends and acquaintances. 
 
 In a little while she had gathered around her a 
 bright galaxy of virtue, beauty and wit, established 
 a literary Salon, and so introduced a new element 
 into the fashionable life of the capital. 
 
 The distinguished company who frequented the 
 H6tel devoted themselves enthusiastically to the 
 great tasks of purifying the morals, polishing the 
 manners, refining the language and elevating the 
 literature of the time. The Italian and the Spanisii 
 influences of which I have previously spoken met 
 and mingled here. Conversation was cultivated as 
 a fine art, the proprieties of life were autlioritatively 
 
POLYEFCTE. 227 
 
 promulgated, and polite society sprang into exist- 
 ence. 
 
 The necessity for female education was eloquently 
 set forth, especially by Mile, de Scud6ry. With unan- 
 swerable logic she maintained that woman must be 
 fitted for companionship with her husband, that her 
 individuality must be developed, and that she must 
 be permitted to stand upon the same social plane. 
 
 Thus every noble ideal found earnest champions 
 in the company who were drawn to the H6tel de 
 Rambouillet, as by a potent centripetal force. 
 
 Of course the society had its failings. Over- 
 refinement sometimes ran into affectation. Platonic 
 attachments took the place of love. The cultivated 
 lady became a " Blue-Stocking." The purist pre- 
 pared the way for the pr&cieuse. 
 
 In 1 640, however, the H6tel de Rambouillet, then 
 in its greatest brilliancy, was the Sanhedrim of society, 
 literature and art. Corneille, therefore, was naturally 
 anxious to obtain the judgment of this critical audi- 
 ence before allowing his play to be put upon the 
 stage. He was listened to with profound attention, 
 and applauded as politeness required, but the real 
 opinion of the assembly was adverse to the piece. 
 
228 A STUDY IN COENBILLE. 
 
 This became evident a few days afterward when 
 Voiture, who had been commissioned by his asso- 
 ciate critics to perform that disagreeable duty, deli- 
 cately intimated to Corneille that Polyeucte in the 
 judgment of the H6tel was not altogether a success, 
 and that his attempt to introduce religion into the 
 drama had been especially censured. 
 
 Corneille was utterly dismayed. He knew that 
 . the verdict of the critics of the H6tel de Rambouillet, 
 where he was held in high esteem, was entirely 
 sincere. He saw no resource, therefore, but to 
 withdraw the play from the liauds of the actors 
 who were already committing it to memory. He 
 had decided upon this course, when he was dis- 
 suaded from it by the earnest protests of one of the 
 company of actors — a man of such inferior talents 
 that he had not for that reason been included in 
 tlie caste for the play. Posterity reversing the 
 decision of the Hotel de Rambouillet has endorsed 
 the opinion of the obscure actor. 
 
 As we proceed in our study of the play, we shall 
 find new reasons for adding our parts to that monu- 
 ment of praise, aere perennius, which each succes- 
 
POLYEUGTE. 229 
 
 sive generation is building higher and higher to the 
 memory of the great Corneille. 
 
 The tragedy was suggested by a passage in the 
 historian Surius. The substance of this passage is 
 that in Armenia, during the reign of Decius who, 
 it will be remembered, subjected the Christians to a 
 rigorous persecution, an Armenian named Polyeuctes 
 having by the persuasion of his friend Nearchus 
 become a Christian and being fired with a convert's 
 enthusiasm, tore into shreds the edicts published 
 against his sect, snatched the idols from the hands 
 of those in the temple who were holding them up 
 to be worshipped, and dashed them to pieces, for 
 which, after his wife Paulina had vainly tried to 
 win him from his new faith by the power of her 
 tears, he was executed by order of his father-in-law 
 Felix, the officer commissioned by the Emperor to 
 enforce his cruel decrees. 
 
 Corneille took these dry bones of fact, articulated 
 them into the skeleton of a drama, clothed them 
 with the proper connective tissue, and breathed into 
 the organism the breath of life. 
 
 Being thus based upon the story of a Saint, 
 Polyeude is really a miracle-play cast in the classic 
 20* 
 
230 A STUDY IN COENEILLB. 
 
 mould. But there was in this noble work of genius 
 none of the barbarism of the mediaeval drama. 
 Never since " the lofty, grave tragedians " of Greece 
 preached their solemn sermons on divine predestina- 
 tion, had religious emotion been so worthily por- 
 trayed upon the stage. 
 
 The scene of the piece is laid at Melitene, the 
 capital of Armenia, in the palace of F6lix, whom 
 Corneilie represents as governor of the province. 
 The play opens with a dialogue between Polyeucte 
 and N6arque. Polyeucte is fully determined to 
 embrace Christianity, and earnestly desires to be 
 baptized without another hour's delay, but Pauline 
 who, though she knows nothing of her husband's 
 design, has been visited during the preceding night 
 by a dream of dire portent, has tearfully besought 
 him not to leave the palace for any purpose what- 
 ever to-day, and he, while attaching no importance 
 to the dream, is loth to disregard her entreaties. 
 N^arque exhorts him not to postpone for so slight a 
 reason the performance of a solemn duty, points out 
 to him how liable procrastination is to lead to luke- 
 warmness or even cold indifference, and warns him 
 against allowing himself to be ensnared iu this way 
 
POiLYEUCTE. 231 
 
 by the wiles of "the enemy of the human race." 
 Polyeucte, after defen(3ing for some minutes his 
 proposal for delay, yields at last to the arguments of 
 Nearque and cries out : " Let me flee, since I must." 
 Just then Pauline, accompanied by her confidant 
 Stratonice, comes upon the stage. Polyeucte, bid- 
 ding his sweet young bride good-bye, and assuring 
 her that he will return in an hour at the latest, 
 hastens away with N6arque in spite of the springing 
 tears in Pauline's eyes. Left alone with Stratonice, 
 the troubled wife is moved by a very natural impulse 
 to talk about the matter which fills her heart with 
 foreboding. Stratonice encourages her to do so. 
 
 " In telling one's troubles," says the confidant, " one often finds 
 solace for them.'' 
 
 To better explain the ominous nature of her dream, 
 Pauline relates the story of the attachment which 
 before her marriage with Polyeucte she had cherished 
 for S6v§re, a young Roman knight* At the men- 
 tion of this name, Stratonice interrupts her to inquire 
 whether this is the same gallant warrior who, in a 
 recent battle with the Persians, after rescuing his 
 Emperor from the enemy and turning a Eoman 
 
232 A STUDY IN CORNEILLE. 
 
 defeat into a victory, had fallen on the field of his 
 fame among the corpses of so many foes that his 
 comrades had not been able to recover his body, 
 though his memory had been appropriately honored 
 by Decius. 
 
 "Alas! 'twas he himself," cries Pauline, "and never has our 
 Kome 
 Produced a greater heart nor seen a more honorahle man." 
 
 Continuing her story, she says that she and S6v6re 
 both freely expressed the passion which each felt for 
 the other. But, as S6vfere was poor, her father for- 
 bade their marriage, and she bowed to his paternal 
 authority, though her obedience tore out by the 
 roots from her bleeding heart the fairest flower of 
 hope. When F61ix was made governor of Armenia, 
 she accompanied him to his province. S6vSre in 
 despair joined the army. Thus the separation of 
 the two lovers was complete. 
 
 Scarcely had F6lix and Pauline become acquainted 
 in Armenia, when a new suitor for her hand appeared. 
 This was Polyeucte. F6lix was delighted. Poly- 
 eucte was the leader of the Armenian nobility. Such 
 an alliance would immensely strengthen the governor 
 
POLYBUCTB. 233 
 
 politically. He, therefore, compelled his daughter 
 to marry the influential nobleman. Whether she 
 loved him or not was in the sight of the sordid 
 F^lix a matter of little importance. 
 
 Thus cruelly constrained for a second time by 
 her father, Pauline nevertheless again obeyed him 
 meekly, and has even succeeded in developing a 
 real affection for her husband. With these words 
 of introduction, she then relates her dream. 
 
 " I saw him this night," says she, " this unfortunate Severe, 
 
 Vengeance in his hand, his eye burning with anger : 
 
 He was not covered with those miserable rags 
 
 Which a sorrowful shade bears forth from the tomb ; 
 
 He was not pierced by those glorious wounds 
 
 Which, cutting off his life, assure his fame ; 
 
 He seemed triumphant, and like our Caesar 
 
 When he enters Rome victorious upon his chariot. 
 
 After a little terror that the sight of him inspired in me, 
 
 ' Bestow upon whom you wish the affection which is due to me, 
 
 Ingrate,' said he to me, ' and when this day has expired, 
 
 Weep at thy leisure for the husband whom thou hast preferred 
 
 to me.' 
 At these words I shuddered, my soul became troubled ; 
 Then an impious assembly of the Christians, 
 To hasten the accomplishment of this fatal speech. 
 Threw Polyeuote at the feet of his rival. 
 
234 A STUDY IN COENEILLE. 
 
 Suddenly I called my father to his help. 
 
 Alas ! of the whole dream this is what plunges me into despair. 
 
 I saw my father himself, a dagger in his hand, 
 
 Enter with his arm raised to pierce his breast : 
 
 There my excessive grief mixed these images ; 
 
 The hlood of Polyeucte satisfied their rage. 
 
 I know not how or when they killed him, 
 
 But I know that all contributed to his death. 
 
 Behold, that is my dream.'' 
 
 Stratonice, while acknowledging that the vision 
 is horrible enough in itself, seeks with sensible 
 words to quiet Pauline's apprehensions. Can she 
 fear a dead man ? asks the confidant. Can she fear 
 a father ? Especially when he is bound to Polyeucte 
 by so many ties of interest ? 
 
 Pauline says that her father laughingly tells her 
 the same thing. Still she is not satisfied. She 
 is haunted by the fear that the Christians, enraged 
 by the bloody persecutions of her father, will 
 wreak vengeance for their wrongs upon Polyeucte. 
 Stratonice tries to dispel this idea also. The Chris- 
 tians, she says, attack only the gods, and not men. 
 
 A moment later F6lix enters, followed by Albin, 
 his confidant. F61ix is greatly perturbed. 
 
POLYEUCTE. 235 
 
 My daughter," he exclaims, " into what strange terrors 
 Does thy dream plunge me as well as thee ! 
 How I fear its results which seem to approach ! " 
 
 Pauline. 
 What sudden alarm can thus dismay you ? 
 
 Felix. 
 Siv^re is not dead. 
 
 Pauline. 
 What harm does his life do us? 
 
 Here we see the touch of the master. " 8i,vhre is 
 not dead." What emotions these words awaken in 
 the heart of Pauline ! Does that short sentence, 
 like a flash of lightning, illuminate for a moment 
 the profoundest depths of her soul, and show her 
 that she loves S§v6re still ? Is she seized with a 
 shiver of dread lest her dream be beginning to be 
 realized ? Notice the naive response that she makes 
 to her father's statement. " What harm does his life 
 do us f " Is this love, springing forward spontane- 
 ously to champion the loved one's cause? To his 
 daughter's last question, F^lix answers that SSv&re 
 has become the favorite of the Emperor. Pauline 
 thinks that this is no more than right. 
 
236 A STUDY IN COKNEILLE. 
 
 " Destiny," she adds, " so often unpropitious to great souls, 
 Sometimes resolves to do them justice.'' 
 
 Felix. 
 He is coming here himself. 
 
 Paidiiie. 
 
 He is coming 1 
 
 FHix. 
 
 Thou art going to see him. 
 
 PavliTie. 
 That is too much ; but how can you know it? 
 
 F6lix refers, to Albin as his authority, and requests 
 him to tell Pauline what he knows. Thereupon 
 Albin, passing quickly over the points already 
 familiar to Pauline tells how Severe, who was 
 apparently dead, was carried off the field of battle 
 by order of the Persian king, nursed back to life 
 and strength, offered every inducement to espouse 
 the cause of Rome's enemies, and at length, after 
 declining all these overtures, permitted by exchange 
 to return to the camp of Decius. 
 
 Soon another combat occurs, continues Albin ; the 
 Romans are surprised ; their ranks thrown into dis- 
 
POLYEUCTE. 237 
 
 order ; disastrous rout seems inevitable. But S6vSre 
 rallies the panic-stricken troops, leads them with 
 dauntless courage against the foe, and gains such 
 an overwhelming victory that the Persian monarch 
 is compelled humbly to sue for peace. This great 
 exploit lends new lustre to the young hero's already 
 brilliant fame. The Emperor treats him with the 
 greatest affection. Thus it happens that, decorated 
 with honors by his prince and idolized by the army, 
 S6vSre is now coming to bring into Armenia the 
 glorious news of the war and to offer there a sacri- 
 fice to the gods for their timely succor. 
 
 When Albin has concluded, F^lix expresses to 
 his daughter the apprehensions which rack his 
 mind. This sacrifice to the gods, he says, is only 
 a pretext. The real reason of the coming of Severe 
 is a desire to urge again his suit for the hand of 
 Pauline, of whose marriage he is still ignorant. 
 When he discovers the bitter truth, will he not 
 give rein to his resentment ; will he not, by em- 
 ploying his great influence with Decius, work their 
 irreparable ruin ? 
 
 Pauline declares that S6v6re is too noble for that, 
 but her words utterly fail to allay her father's fears, 
 21 
 
238 'a stud-^' in coMeille. 
 
 and he begs her to save him by exerting the sover- 
 eign power which she possesses over S6v6re. Pauline 
 shrinks from meeting her former lover. She is con- 
 scious that in spite of herself she still feels affection 
 for him, she remembers that hers is a woman's heart, 
 and she is frightened at the thought of the desperate 
 war of emotions that would probably arise in her 
 soul, if she should consent to see S6v6re. She is 
 not fearful lest she may fail in wifely duty ; not at 
 all ; she is simply prudent ; she does not wish to 
 walk with open eyes into temptation. 
 
 F6lix, however, will not listen to reason, so 
 Pauline reluctantly promises to comply with his 
 request, and the first act comes to a close. 
 
 The opening scene of the second act is a conver- 
 sation between S6vere and Fabian, his servant. 
 S6v6re is impatient to see Pauline. He acknowl- 
 edges that love of her, and not the desire to offer 
 sacrifice, has brought him to Armenia. Through 
 Fabian he has already sent her a message request- 
 'ing her to grant him an interview. He is anxious 
 now to learn her reply to this message. Fabian 
 has, of course, been told by Pauline of her mar- 
 riage. He wishes, however, to break the terrible 
 
POLYETJCTE. 239 
 
 news as gently as possible to his master. Hence 
 when S6v&i'e eagerly asks whether he will be able 
 to see her, Fabian merely answers, 
 
 " You shall see her, my lord." 
 
 Severe, in his joy, suspects nothing from the 
 gravity of his servant's tone nor from the brevity 
 of his reply. The ardent lover thinks only of his 
 prospects of success. 
 
 Does Pauline still love him ? he asks. Does 
 mention of his coming bring the conscious blushes 
 to her cheek? .Dare he hope a blissful future from 
 this interview ? 
 
 " You shall see her,'' says Fabian again, " that is all I can 
 tell you." 
 
 Then it is. that S6v5re begins to suspect that all 
 is not well. 
 
 " Does she no longer love me ? " he cries, " clear up this point 
 for me." 
 
 Avoiding a direct reply, Fabian urges his master 
 to conquer his passion for Pauline, and seek among 
 the grand ladies of Rome a companion better suited 
 
240 A STUDY IN COENEILLE. 
 
 to his own exalted position. But the loyal heart of 
 S6v§re scorns a proposition so base. Wealth, rank, 
 glory — these all he prizes only as bright flowers 
 which he may weave into a bridal wreath for the 
 lady of his love. Again Fabian urges him to give 
 Pauline up, and again S6vere repels the proposal, 
 and demands to be told whether her heart has grown 
 cold toward him. Fabian can now no longer con- 
 ceal the terrible truth. 
 
 Fabian. 
 I tremble to tell you ; she is ... . 
 
 Sevire. 
 
 What? 
 
 Fabian. 
 
 Married. 
 
 S6vSre is stunned by the cruel blow. " Married ! 
 Married ! " The word is the death knell of his 
 hopes. The bright morning of his life is overcast 
 by storm-clouds of misfortune. Before him, like a 
 wintry waste in drear Siberia, stretches the bleak 
 and dismal future. " Weary, stale, flat and un- 
 profitable " seem to him " all the uses of this 
 
POLYBUCTE. 241 
 
 world." He prays the gods to let him die. Bat, 
 even when his heart is thus swept as by a tornado 
 of passion, he still is able to be just. On being told 
 whom Pauline has wedded, he acknowledges that she 
 has made a good choice, and when Fabian advises 
 him not to see her lest he should forget himself and 
 give vent to some unseemly reproach, he replies that 
 he has no reproaches to make, that she has but done 
 her duty, that her father in vetoing his suit only 
 showed a proper concern for her welfare, and that 
 his own ill-fortune has been the cause of all his 
 misery. 
 
 Fairness like this under circumstances so trying 
 is the mark of a truly noble character. Relieved 
 to see his master in such an equitable frame of mind, 
 Fabian says that he will take the reassuring news 
 to Pauline, who like himself had feared that on 
 meeting her S^v^re would be betrayed by his emo- 
 tions into some distressing outbreak. 
 
 But at that moment Pauline herself appears, 
 Stratonice, as usual, accompanying her. 
 
 " Fabian, I see her," exclaims S^v6re. 
 
 Fabian. 
 
 My lord, remember .... 
 21* 
 
242 A STUDY IN COKNEILLB. 
 
 Sevire. 
 Alas ! she loves another ! another is her husband ! 
 
 The conversation which follows between the two 
 former lovers is full of pathetic interest. There 
 could hardly be a more delicate situation. These 
 two people love ; they must not love ; they can not 
 help but love. 
 
 Corneille has admirably managed the meeting. 
 Pauline is perfectly frank. She informs S6v6re 
 in the beginning that the report of his death had 
 not influenced her to marry. Then she tells him 
 how deep an affection she had cherished for him. 
 If the gods, she says, had given her the right to 
 choose for herself, she would have preferred him to 
 the greatest of monarchs. But her father bade her 
 wed another, and she obeyed, for a father's will is 
 always a Roman maiden's duty. She would have 
 done the same thing whoever had been the husband 
 selected for her — yes, even though she had hated 
 him. In that case she would by an exercise of her 
 sovereign reason have suppressed her love for Severe 
 and have eradicated from her heart all dislike for 
 her husband. 
 
POLYEUCTB. 243 
 
 These words, as one may imagine, grate harshly 
 upon the ear of Severe. We can readily pardon the 
 sarcastic tone of his reply. Pauline's course seems 
 very strange to him. He can not understand how 
 a passion lilje love can be thus reduced into absolute 
 subjection to reason. His words have in them, there- 
 fore, a sharp metallic ring of reproach. He feels, 
 and he expresses, something very like contempt for 
 an affection so tractable as Pauline's. 
 
 " O too lovable object," he exclaims, in conclusion, " O too 
 lovable object, who too much have charmed me ! 
 Is that how one loves, and have you loved me ? " 
 
 Pauline's answer is admirable. With touching 
 candor, she tells him just what her feelings toward 
 him are. She has loved him, she loves him still, 
 and this very hour the battle is raging fiercely in 
 her heart between her passionate affection for him 
 and her dutiful affection for Polyeucte. There is, 
 indeed, no doubt as to which will be victorious. 
 Her virtue, is more than equal to every assault of 
 passion. But her heart is, nevertheless, torn and 
 harrowed and scarred by contending emotions. 
 
244 A STUDY IN COENEILLE. 
 
 This frank avowal at once disarms the chivalric 
 Severe. He begs Pauline to pardon the " blind grief" 
 which made him stigmatize as inconstancy what he 
 now sees was really a noble obedience to duty. 
 
 Aftsr the two have thus reached an understanding 
 of each other's feelings, Pauline entreats S6v6re, as 
 he values her spotless reputation and peace of mind, 
 to seek no more interviews with her. Such meet- 
 ings, she says, only cause them both acuter pain. 
 
 Hard, indeed, does it seem to SSv^re to be thus 
 shut out forever from the presence of her whom he 
 has so fondly loved, but Pauline is firm, and he is 
 compelled to bid her a sad good-bye, telling her 
 that he is going to seek, a warrior's death as the 
 only solace for his bitter sorrow. 
 
 The last few lines in the . Scene, spoken while 
 S6v6re and Pauline still linger for a moment longer 
 in each other's company, are strikingly beautiful. 
 Pauline has just told S6v6re that while he is at the 
 sacrifice she is going to pray secretly to the gods in 
 his behalf. 
 
 " May just heaven," he responds, " content with my ruin. 
 Crown with good fortune and length of days Polyeucte and 
 Pauline." 
 
POLYECrOTE. 245 
 
 Pauline. 
 
 After so mucli misfortune may S^v6re find 
 A happiness worthy of his valor I 
 
 He found it in you. 
 
 Shire. 
 
 Pauline. 
 
 I was dependent upon a father. 
 
 Sevire. 
 
 O duty wliich ruins me and which plunges me in despair ! 
 Farewell, too virtuous object, and too charming. 
 
 Pauline. 
 Farewell, too unfortunate and too perfect lover. 
 
 What a pity that the last two execrable lines 
 should have been added to mar the beauty of the 
 others. Here, again, we see the shadow of the 
 affected gallantry of the times falling even upon 
 the bright page of Corneille. 
 
 S6v6re and Fabian now withdraw and Pauline is 
 left alone with Stratonice. The confidant, who feels 
 a sincere compassion for the woebegone young wife 
 tries to console her with the reflection that at least 
 her dream has been proved false, since, though S6v^re 
 
246 A STUDY IN COENEILLE. 
 
 has indeed appeared, he evidently cherishes no thought 
 of vengeance. But Pauline is not thus to be com- 
 forted. The awful picture of the horrors which she 
 saw in her dream is continually rising up before her 
 mind. It is in vain that she remembers the gener- 
 ous words of S6v§re. Bleeding Polyeucte is ever 
 appearing to her view. She can not but feel anxious 
 as long as S6v6re remains in the vicinity. 
 
 "To whatever his virtue may dispose him," she exclaims, 
 " He is powerful, he loves me, and comes to marry me." 
 
 At this moment Polyeucte and N6arque enter. 
 Polyeucte, finding Pauline in tears, and erroneously 
 supposing that they are caused by the apprehensions 
 to which her dream has given rise, bids her dry her 
 eyes and dismiss her fears, for despite the ominous 
 vision, he has returned to her safe and sound. 
 Pauline reminds him that the day is yet far from 
 being over, and declares that her dream has already 
 come true in part, since S§v6re, whom she believed 
 dead, has suddenly made his appearance in their city. 
 
 Polyeucte replies that he is aware of this, but it 
 causes him no concern. He is in Melitene ; F61ix 
 is governor of the province ; and Polyeucte himself 
 
POLYEUCTE. 247 
 
 is a leading citizen. Why should he feel at all dis- 
 mayed ? Moreover, S6v&re would never stoop to take 
 such a base revenge. His soul is too noble for that. 
 Polyeucte adds that he came to pay his respects to 
 S6v6re who, he had been told, was making a visit to 
 Pauline. 
 
 " He has just left me very sad and troubled," Pauline answers, 
 " But I have persuaded him to see me no more." 
 
 Polyeucle. 
 What 1 you suspect me already of some distrust ? 
 
 Pauline. 
 I should offer to all three too grievous an affront. 
 
 After making this admirable response, Pauline 
 gives the reason which did move her to banish 
 S6v6re from her sight. We have already heard her 
 express similar ideas. She is entirely confident of 
 her power to withstand all temptation ; she fears no 
 stain upon the immaculate robe of virtue in which 
 she is clad; but she wisely wishes to avoid the 
 throes of combat. 
 
 Polyeucte is expressing his admiration for his 
 wife's beautiful character, when he receives from 
 
248 A STUDY IN COENEILLE. 
 
 F61ix through Cl^on, the servant of the governor, a 
 summons to repair at once to the temple, as the sacri- 
 fice is now ready to begin. Without delay Polyeuote 
 and N6arque set out for the scene of the ceremony, 
 while Pauline remains in the palace. 
 
 Astonished at first that Polyeucte should go near 
 a temple where pagan worship was being offered, 
 N6arque expresses his own abhorrence of false 
 gods, and earnestly advises his friend to flee from 
 their altars. 
 
 Then Polyeucte reveals his purpose in going to 
 the sacrifice. He is determined to brave paganism 
 in its citadel ; he will assail the false gods in the 
 temple itself; he will break their images before the 
 very eyes of the worshippers ; he will deal idolatry 
 once for all a crushing blow. Such fierce enthusiasm 
 staggers even the fervid N6arque himself. 
 
 "This zeal," he remonstrates, "is too ardent, suffer it to 
 moderate." 
 
 Polyeucte. 
 
 One can not have too much for the God whom one reveres. 
 
 Niarque. 
 You will meet death. 
 
POLYEUCTE. 249 
 
 Polyeiiele, 
 
 I seek it for Him. 
 
 Nearque. 
 And if this courage fail ? 
 
 Polyeucle. 
 
 He will be my support. 
 
 Nearque. 
 
 He does not command that one should rush precipitately to 
 death. 
 
 Polyeiicte. 
 
 The more voluntary it is, the more it merits. 
 
 Nearque. 
 It is sufficient, without seeking it, to await .nnd to sufler it. 
 
 Polyeiicte. 
 One suffers with regret when one dares not offer himself. 
 
 Nearque. 
 But in short, death is certain in this temple. 
 
 Polyeucte. 
 But in the skies already the palm is prepared. 
 2'2 
 
250 A STUDY IN COENEILLE. 
 
 Niarque. 
 It is necessary to merit it by a holy life. 
 
 Polyeuete. 
 
 My crimes during life might take it away from me. 
 
 Why subject to chance what death assures ? 
 
 When it opens heaven, can it seem hard ? 
 
 I am a Christian, Ndarque, and am one to the core ; 
 
 The faith that I have aspires to its consummation. 
 
 He who flees believes as a coward, and has only a dead faith. 
 
 Nearqiie. 
 
 Take care of yonr life ; it is important to God himself ; 
 Live to protect the Christians in these places. 
 
 Polyeuete. 
 The example of my death will fortify them better. 
 
 I^Sarque. 
 You wish then to die? 
 
 Polyeucie. 
 
 You love then to live ? 
 
 Nearque. 
 
 I can not disguise the fact that it is hard for me to follow you. 
 I fear lest I may succumb imder the horror of the tortures. 
 
POLYBUCTE. 251 
 
 Polyeucte. 
 
 He who walks surely has no fear of falling : 
 
 God bestows in time of need His infinite strength. 
 
 He who fears lest he may deny Him, in his soul does deny Him ; 
 
 He believes that He is able to succor, and doubts His faithfulness. 
 
 Nearque. 
 He who fears nothing presumes too much upon himself. 
 
 Polyeiicte. 
 
 I look for everything from His grace and nothing from my 
 
 weakness. 
 But far from urging me, it is necessary that I urge you ! 
 Whence comes this coldness? 
 
 Nearque. 
 
 God himself feared death. 
 
 He offered himself, nevertheless; let us imitate this holy effort ; 
 
 Let us raise altars to Him upon heaps of idols. 
 
 It is necessary, I remember still your words. 
 
 To neglect, in order to please Him, wife and goods and rank ; 
 
 To expose and shed for His glory all one's blood. 
 
 Alas ! what have you done with that perfect love 
 
 Which you wished for me, and which 1 wish for you ? 
 
 If some of it remains in you still, are you not jealous 
 
252 A STUDY IN CORNEILLB. 
 
 That, though I have just become a Christian, I show more of 
 it than you? 
 
 Emotion- is contagious. The flaming zeal of 
 Polyeucte lea|)s fortii from iiis heart, enwraps the 
 soul of N6arqne, and in a moment both are glowing 
 with the most intense religious fervor. The modera- 
 tion of !N6arque has melted entirely away before this 
 fiery enthusiasm. Forgotten now are all his fears 
 of death. He feels within him a hero's eagerness 
 to do and die. Completely possessed by such pas- 
 sionate ardor, the two friends hasten on to the 
 temple. Thus we reach the end of the second act. 
 
 We must now return to Pauline. She is not yet 
 able to banish from her mind the feeling of appre- 
 hension inspired by her dreadful dream. In the 
 first scene of act third she expresses her fears in a 
 long soliloquy which is rather cold because it con- 
 tains too much reasoning and too little^ passion. 
 Pauline is afraid now that when Polyeucte and 
 S^v§re meet at the temple a fatal quarrel may, in 
 spite of their chivalrous attitude toward each other, 
 be precipitated between them. It needs but a word, 
 she I'easons, to put rivals at daggers' points. Should 
 
POLYBUCTE. 253 
 
 siioh a quarrel occur, what could save Polyeucte from 
 destruction ? Owing to his powerful influence with 
 Decius, Severe could crush his adversary like a 
 moth. F6lix would never dare to interfere. He 
 might not even wish to do so. Such are the fears 
 that torment the mind of Pauline. As she con- 
 cludes her soliloquy, Stratonice enters. 
 
 Pauline eagerly asks for news of the sacrifice. 
 Alas ! her dark forebodings are now to be fully justi- 
 fied. With vehement indignation Stratonice tells 
 her how Polyeucte has become a Christian ; how he 
 and N^arque have just outraged the religious senti- 
 ment of the city ; how they have insulted the deities 
 in the temple, proclaiming that there is but one God, 
 the God of the Christians, dashing to the floor the 
 holy sacrificial vases, and throwing down the statue 
 of Jupiter himself; how these fanatical acts, com- 
 mitted in defiance of the authority of F61ix, have 
 set the congregation in an uproar ; and how, fearing 
 the wrath of the gods, the people have finally fled 
 from the temple with loud cries of horror and rage. 
 
 Pauline, of course, is greatly shocked at hearing 
 this recital. But in spite of her husband's sacri- / 
 legions conduct, as she regards it, she decides that 
 22* 
 
254 A STUDY IN COENEILLB. 
 
 duty requires her still to cleave to him with wifely 
 affection. Truer heart than hers never beat in the 
 breast of woman. 
 
 After relating the above facts in graphic style, 
 Stratonice is about to tell what action F6lix has 
 taken, when the governor himself appears upon the 
 scene. He is very angry. N6arque, he declares, 
 shall die. As for Polyeucte, F6lix says that he 
 still feels a fatherly affection for him in spite of 
 his atrocious behavior. He will, therefore, be given 
 opportunity to recant his profession of the hated 
 faith. F6lix hopes that the execution of N6arque, 
 which Polyeucte will be compelled to witness, will 
 so shatter this young enthusiast's nerves that he will 
 be glad to yield in order to save himself from a 
 similar fate. 
 
 Pauline knows her husband better. She is cer- 
 tain that he will stand as firm as a Doric pillar for 
 what he believes is right. Death, she is well aware, 
 has no terrors for the Christian. Polyeucte will 
 meet martyrdom with joyous fortitude. She, there- 
 fore, beseeches her father not to make the forgiveness 
 of her husband conditional upon his recantation, since 
 this is a condition which can never be fulfilled — but 
 
POLYEUCTE. 255 
 
 to pardon him absolutely. All her pleading, how- 
 ever, is in vain. F^lix is obdurate. If Polyeucte 
 persists in his course, his blood be on his head. 
 
 Pauline is still engaged in her fruitless attempt 
 to move her father to mercy, when Albin enters 
 with important news. N^arque, he says, has been 
 put to death. But the execution has been very far 
 from having the desired effect upon Polyeucte. 
 Instead of being terrified by the awful spectacle, he 
 seems to be burning with the desire to follow his 
 friend to death. This is precisely what Pauline 
 expected. Again she implores her father to revoke 
 his stern decree, urging upon him that Polyeucte is 
 the husband whom he himself chose for her, remind- 
 ing him that at his command she had smothered 
 her love for S^vfere, and modestly pleading her 
 whole life of filial obedience. But it is all of no 
 avail. F6lix still denies her prayer, becomes irri- 
 tated at her persistency, and at last requests her to 
 leave him alone with Albin. 
 
 The conversation which ensues between the two 
 men after Pauline and her confidant have with- 
 drawn reveals how large is the quantity and how 
 base is tbe quality of the alloy in the character of 
 
256 A STUDY IN COENBILLE. 
 
 F61ix. His mind is sorely vexed. Affection for 
 Polyeucte, a desire to save his life, anger at seeing 
 him develop into a fanatical Christian, dread of the 
 wrath of the gods if his gross insult to their divinity 
 be not avenged, fear of the displeasure of Decius if 
 his strict orders to punish the hated sect be not 
 carried out, all these emotions are ebbing and flow- 
 ing in the heart of the perplexed governor. Albin 
 advises him to write to the Emperor and request 
 him to pardon Polyeucte. 
 
 The reply of F6lix, though in character, is greatly 
 lacking in plausibility. He says that he fears that, 
 if he should do this, S6v6re enraged at the escape of 
 Polyeucte, the rival who had won over him the 
 woman of his love, would use his tremendous influ- 
 ence with Decius to work the ruin of F^lix himself 
 by way of revenge. Perhaps, continues the gov- 
 ernor, Severe intends when Polyeucte shall have 
 been executed to sue again for the hand of Pauline. 
 If this be true, how terribly angry the young 
 warrior would be, should F6lix thwart him a second 
 time in his hopes by saving his rival. 
 
 The next moment the governor shocks us by an 
 exhibition of moral turpitude. From the deepest 
 
POLYEUCTE. 257 
 
 and darkest abysm of his soul comes the infamous 
 thought that he would be greatly advanced in his 
 political career, if Polyeucte should be put to death 
 and S6v&re should wed Pauline. This Satanic 
 suggestion, he confesses, awakes in his heart "a 
 malign joy." He condemns such thoughts as base, 
 however, and expresses the wish that heaven's light- 
 ning may smite him rather than that he should 
 yield to them. 
 
 " Your heart is too good," says the honest Albin, " and your 
 soul too lofty." 
 
 Too good and too lofty, he means, to succumb to 
 such a temptation. 
 
 In reply to a question by the confidant, F6lix 
 declares that he is unable to decide as yet what he 
 will do if his son-in-law continues obstinate. Albin 
 then says that the people of the city are rising up 
 in revolt to protest against the punishment of 
 Polyeucte, and that there is danger lest the prison 
 may be forced. F6lix answers that it will be 
 necessary then to bring the prisoner to the palace. 
 Accordingly they go out forthwith to take this pre- 
 caution. Thus the act ends. 
 
258 A STUDY IN COENEII^LE. 
 
 We are now nearing those sublime passages which 
 entitle Polyeucte to a place forever among the most 
 glorious productions of the literary genius of man. 
 All that we have as yet examined is but the golden 
 setting for the clustered jewels whose dazzling sheen 
 is soon to enchant our eyes. 
 
 I As the curtain rises on the first scene of act fourth, 
 we behold Polyeucte confined in the palace under 
 the surveillance of C16on and three other guards. 
 Cl6on informs the prisoner that Pauline desires to 
 see him. Polyeucte realizes full well how severe a 
 trial it will be for him to meet his wife. 
 
 "O presence !" he cries, " O combat that I dread above all! " 
 
 He begins immediately, however, to prepare for 
 this new ordeal. Uttering a quick prayer for divine 
 succor, and calling also upon the departed spirit 
 of his beloved N6arque to aid him, he dispatches 
 Cl6on with a message to S6v6re, requesting him to 
 come at once to see the doomed Polyeucte as he 
 wishes before dying to tell him an important secret. 
 
 The other guards then turn aside and stand aloof, 
 while Polyeucte nerves his soul for the meeting with 
 Pauline by singing a song in which he renounces 
 
POLYEUCTB. 259 
 
 the vanities of earth, prophesies the downfall of 
 Decius, bids defiance to the fury of F6lix, extols the 
 joys of the Christian faith, and expresses a firm 
 confidence of victory over the seductions of human 
 affection in the painful interview now about to 
 take place. 
 
 Here we reach one of tliose famous passages of 
 which we spoke a moment since. Pauline enters. 
 She has come to try ujwn the resolute Polyeucte all 
 the power of her tender persuasion. A Venus in 
 beauty, she stands lacrimis ooulos suffusa nitentefi, 
 and pleads her cause with pathetic eloquence. 
 
 What a scene is this ! Love of Pauline and love 
 of God rend the heart of Polyeucte in their desperatej 
 combat. The power of earth is pitted against thei 
 power of heaven. The battle must needs be sub-f 
 lime. Such themes are admirably suited to the 
 genius of our author. 
 
 Corneille is the Thor of the French Asgard. The 
 tempestuous sublime is his element. Girding his 
 belt of strength about him, putting on his iron 
 gauntlets and grasping his mighty hammer, he 
 knits his brows into storm-clouds, and flashes forth 
 lightnings from his eyes and wakes the sleeping 
 
260 A STUDY IN GOENEILLE. 
 
 thunders as he drives his loud rumbling chariot 
 over tlie loftiest peaks of human passion. Here we 
 have him at his best. The scene is so supremely 
 grand that we give it entire. 
 
 Polyeucte. 
 
 Madam, what design makes you ask for me? 
 Is it to oppose me, or to aid me ? 
 Does this noble effort of your perfect love 
 Come to help me or does it come to defeat me ? 
 Do you bring hither hatred or friendship. 
 As my enemy, or the loved half of my heart? 
 
 Pauline. 
 
 You have here no enemy but yourself; 
 
 You alone hate yourself when everybody loves you ; 
 
 You alone bring to pass all that I have dreamed : 
 
 Will not to destroy yourself, and you are saved. 
 
 To whatever extremity your crime may go, 
 
 You are innocent if you pardon yourself. 
 
 Deign to consider the blood from which you are descended, 
 
 Your great exploits, your rare qualities ; 
 
 Beloved by all the people, esteemed by the prince. 
 
 Son-in-law of the governor of all the province, 
 
 I do not reckon the title of my husband as anything to you : 
 
 That is a happiness for me which is not great for you ; 
 
 But in view of your exploits, in view of your birth. 
 
 In view of your power, behold how crushed is our hope ; 
 
POLYEUCTE. 261 
 
 And abandon not to tlie hand of the executioner 
 
 What promises to our reasonable desire so noble a career. 
 
 Polyeucie. 
 
 I consider more ; I know my advantages, 
 
 And the hope that great spirits base upon them. 
 
 They aspire in short only to fleeting blessings, 
 
 Which cares disturb, which dangers follow ; 
 
 Death snatches them from us, fortune sports with them ; 
 
 To-day on the throne, to-morrow in the mire ; 
 
 And their highest splendor makes so many malcontents, 
 
 That few of your Caesars have enjoyed them long. 
 
 I have ambition, but nobler and more beautiful : 
 
 This grandeur perishes, I wish an immortal one, 
 
 A happiness assured, without measure and without end. 
 
 Above envy, above fate. 
 
 Is it too much to buy it with a sad life. 
 
 Which soon, which suddenly, may be snatched from me : 
 
 Which gives me to enjoy only a fleeting moment. 
 
 And is not able to assure to me the one that follows it? 
 
 Pauline. 
 
 Behold the ridiculous fancies of your Christians ; 
 
 Behold to what degree their falsehoods charm you : 
 
 All your blood is little for a happiness so sweet ! 
 
 But is this blood yours to dispose of? 
 
 You have not life just as an heritage ; 
 
 The day which gives it to you in the same time engages it : 
 
 You owe it to the prince, to the public, to the State. 
 
 23 
 
262 A STUDY IN COENEILLE. 
 
 Polyeucte. 
 
 I would wish to lose it for them in a battle ; 
 
 I know what is the blessing of it and what is the glory of it. 
 
 They boast the memory of the ancestors of Decius; 
 
 And this name, precious still' fe your Komans, 
 
 At the end of six hundred years puts the empire in his hands. 
 
 I owe my life to the people, to the prince, to his crown ; 
 
 But I owe it much more to the God who gives it to me. 
 
 If to die for one's prince is a glorious fate. 
 
 When one dies for his God, what a death will that be ! 
 
 Pauline. 
 
 What a God 
 
 Folymcte. 
 
 Gently, Pauline ; He hears your words ; 
 
 And He is not a God like your frivolous gods, 
 
 Senseless and deaf, powerless, mutilated, 
 
 Of wood, of marble, or of gold, as you wish them : 
 
 He is the God of the Christians, He is mine. He is yours ; 
 
 And the earth and heaven know no other. 
 
 Paidine. 
 Adore Him in your soul, and give no sign of it. 
 
 Polyemcte. 
 
 That I should be, all at the same time, an idolater and a Chris- 
 tian! 
 
POLYEUCTE. 263 
 
 Pauline. 
 
 Dissimulate only a moment : let Sdvfere depart, 
 And give the favor of my father opportunity to act. 
 
 PolyeuRte. 
 
 The favor of my God is much more to he cherished ; 
 
 He rescues me from perils that I might have incurred, 
 
 And without leaving me opportunity to turn back. 
 
 His favor crowns me on entering the race ; 
 
 With the first gust of wind he brings me into port, 
 
 And when I come forth from baptism he sends me to death. 
 
 If you could comprehend both how little is life. 
 
 And by what pleasures this death is followed 
 
 But what avails it to speak of these hidden treasures 
 To minds which God has not yet touched ? 
 
 Pauline. 
 
 Cruel one ! for it is time that my grief break forth, 
 
 And that a just reproach overwhelm an ungrateful soul ! 
 
 Is that thy beautiful passion ? are those thy vows ? 
 
 Dost thou show the least affection for me? 
 
 I did not speak of the deplorable state 
 
 In which thy death will leave thy inconsolable wife ; 
 
 I believed that love would speak of it enough to thee. 
 
 And I did not desire forced sentiments. 
 
 But that love so firm and so well merited 
 
 Which thou hadst promised me and which I have brought thee. 
 
 When thou wishest to leave me, when thou makest me die. 
 
264 A STUDY IN COENETLLEr. 
 
 Can it draw from thee one tear, one Righ ? 
 Thou leavest me, ingrate, and thou dost so with joy; 
 Thou dost not conceal it, thou wishest me to see it ; 
 And thy heart, insensible to these sad attractions. 
 Imagines to itself a happiness where I shall not be ! 
 That is then the surfeit that marriage brings ? 
 I am odious to thee after having given myself ! 
 
 Polyeucte. 
 
 Alas! 
 
 Pauline. 
 
 How much trouble that " alas " has to come out ! 
 Yet, if it were the beginning of a happy repentance. 
 How many charms I would find in it, all forced as it is ! 
 But courage, he is moved, I see tears flowing. 
 
 Polyeucle. 
 
 I shed some, and would lo God that by means of shedding them 
 
 This too hardened heart might at least be pierced ! 
 
 The deplorable state in which I leave you 
 
 Is very worthy of the tears which my love gives you ; 
 
 And if one can feel any sorrows in heaven, 
 
 I will weep for you there over the excess of your misfortimes ; 
 
 But if, in that abode of glory and of light. 
 
 That God altogether just and good can suffer my prayer ; 
 
 If He deigns there to listen to a conjugal love. 
 
 Upon your blindness He will shed the light of day. 
 
 O Lord, from thy goodness I must obtain her; 
 
POLYEFCTE. 265 
 
 She has too many virtues not to be a Christian : 
 It pleased thee to form her with too much merit 
 Not to know thee and not to love thee, 
 To live the unfortunate slave of hell, 
 And die as she was bom under its sad yoke. 
 
 Pauline. 
 What dost thou say, unhappy man ? what dost thou dare wish ? 
 
 PolyeMcte. 
 What I would wish to buy with all my blood. 
 
 Eather may 
 
 PavUne. 
 
 Polyeucle. 
 
 It is vain that one seeks to defend oneself: 
 
 This God touches hearts when one least thinks of it. 
 
 This happy moment has not yet come ; 
 
 It will come ; but the time of it is not known to me. 
 
 Pauline. 
 Give up this chimera, and love me. 
 
 Polyeucte. 
 
 I love you, 
 Much less than my God, but much more than myself, 
 23* 
 
266 A STUDY IN COENBILLB. 
 
 Pauline. 
 In the name of this love, abandon me not. 
 
 Polyeucte. 
 In the name of this love, deign to follow my steps. 
 
 PavMne. 
 It is little to leave me, thou wishest then to beguile me ? 
 
 Polyeucte. 
 It is little to go to heaven, I wish to lead thee thither. 
 
 Pauline. 
 Fancies ! 
 
 PolyeMcte. 
 Celestial verities ! 
 
 Pauline. 
 
 Strange blindness ! 
 
 Polyeucte. 
 
 Eternal brightness ! 
 
 Pauline. 
 Thou preferrest death to the love of Pauline ! 
 
POLYEUOTE. 267 
 
 Polyeiwte. 
 You prefer the world to divine favor ! 
 
 Patdine. 
 Go, cruel one, go die ; thou never lovedst me. 
 
 Polyeiiete. 
 Live happy in the world, and leave me in peace. 
 
 Pauline. 
 
 Yes, I am going to leave thee in peace ; trouble thyself no more 
 
 about it ; 
 I am going 
 
 But at that moment S6v&re enters. Fabian, as 
 usual, accompanies him. Supposing that he has 
 coKP to gloat over the downfall of her husband, 
 Pauline turns upon S§vSre with a sharp reproach. 
 Polyeucte, however, at once undeceives her by ex- 
 plaining that he has himself requested Severe to 
 visit him. He then makes a most extraordinary 
 proposition. This is nothing less than that Severe 
 shall after the execution marry Pauline. A husband, 
 about to die, bequeaths his wife to his rival ! Surely 
 this is the ultima Thule of altruism. Is such a propo- 
 
268 A STUDY nsr cx)eneillb. 
 
 sition in character? I think so. Polyeucte by a 
 mighty effort has subdued conjugal affection. All 
 his desire is for death. His eyes already catch the 
 brightness of the martyr's crown. His soul is in an 
 ecstasy of enthusiasm. How natural that he should 
 come to regard as an act of lofty Christian generosity 
 this relinquishment of his wife to the man who loved 
 her and whom she loved ! 
 
 The renunciation serves, moreover, an important 
 purpose in the action of the piece by preparing the 
 way for the exquisite scene which follows. 
 
 When Polyeucte has concluded his astonishing 
 speech, he and his guards withdraw, leaving S6vSre, 
 Pauline and Fabian together. S6v§re after express- 
 ing his amazement at the course of Polyeucte, bursts 
 forth in the following passion-touched words : 
 
 " As for me, if my destiny, a little sooner propitious. 
 
 Had honored my devotion by marriage witli you, 
 
 I should have adored only the splendor of your eyes ; 
 
 Of them would I have made my kings, of them would I have 
 
 made my gods ; 
 Sooner would I have been reduced to dust, sooner would I have 
 
 been reduced to ashes. 
 Than " 
 
POLYETJCTE. 269 
 
 But here Pauline checks this warm torrent of 
 emotion which, like a geyser's stream, comes gushing 
 up from his fervent heart. 
 
 " Let us break off there," she cries ; " I fear lest I may hear too 
 
 much, 
 And lest this warmth, which recalls your first fires, 
 May force on some sequel unworthy of us both. 
 S^vfire, understand Pauline perfectly : 
 My Polyeucte touches on his last hour ; 
 He has only a moment more before he dies ; 
 You are the cause of it, though innocently. 
 I know not if your heart, open to your desires. 
 May have dared base any hope upon his destruction : 
 But know that there are no deaths so cruel 
 That to them I would not with firm brow wend my way. 
 That in hell there are no horrors that I would not endure, 
 Eather than soU a glory so pure. 
 Rather than espouse, after his sad fate, a man 
 Who was in any way the cause of his death ! 
 And, if you believe me of a heart so little sound. 
 The love that I had for you would all turn to hate. 
 You are generous ; be so even to the end. 
 My father is in a state to grant you everything. 
 He fears you ; and I risk this word further, 
 That, if he destroys my husband, it is to you that he sacrifices 
 
 him. 
 Save this unfortunate, employ your influence in his behalf; 
 
270 A STUDY IN CORNEILLB. 
 
 Exert yourself to serve him as a support. 
 
 I know that this is much that I ask ; 
 
 But the greater the effort, the greater is the glory from it. 
 
 To rescue a rival of whom you are jealous, 
 
 That is a trait of virtue that belongs only to you ; 
 
 And if your renown be not motive enough. 
 
 It is much that a woman, once so much beloved, 
 
 Should owe to your great heart what she has most dear : 
 
 Remember in short that you are S^v6re. 
 
 Farewell. Determine alone what you ought to do ; 
 
 If you are not such as I dare hope, 
 
 I wish not to know it that I may esteem you stiU." 
 
 What could be nobler than this reply? The 
 words are exhaled from Pauline's pure soul, like 
 sweet perfume from a spotless lily. 
 
 Not in all the dramatic literature of France shall 
 we find a more beautiful character than this faithful 
 wife. Pauline is worthy to claim sisterhood with 
 Alcestis and Dido and Desdemona and Imogen. 
 
 Nor is S6v6re less noble. He does not disappoint 
 Pauline's hope. The next scene is an interview 
 between him and his servant Fabian. S6v6re, con- 
 quering his rebellious heart, determines to do his 
 utmost to save his rival. Fabian warns his master 
 against pursuing a course so full of peril. 
 
P0LYET7CTE. 271 
 
 "That advice," S^vSre answers, "might be good for some com- 
 mon soul. 
 Though he (Decius) holds in his hands my life and my fortune, 
 I am yet S^v6re ; and all this great power 
 Is powerless over my glory and powerless over my duty. 
 Here honor constrains me, and I will satisfy it ; 
 Let fate afterwards show itself propitious or contrary, 
 As its nature is always inconstant, 
 Perishing glorious, T shall perish content. 
 I will tell thee much more, but under confidence, 
 The sect of the Christians is not what it is thought to be. 
 They are hated ; the reason I know not ; 
 And I see Decius unjust only in this regard. 
 From curiosity I have wished to become acquainted with them : 
 They are taken for sorcerers whose teacher is hell ; 
 And in this belief the punishment of death is visited 
 Upon secret mysteries that we do not understand. 
 But Eleusinian Ceres, and the good goddess, 
 Have like them their secrets at Rome and in Greece ; 
 Still we freely suffer in all places. 
 Their God alone excepted, every kind of god : 
 All the monsters of Egypt have their temples in Eome ; 
 Our ancestors at their will made a god of a man ; 
 And, their blood preserving their errors among us. 
 We fill heaven with all our Emperors : 
 But, to speak without disguise of so many apotheoses, 
 The efiect of these metamorphoses is doubtful indeed. 
 The Christians have only one God, absolute master of all. 
 Whose mere will does all that he resolves : 
 
272 A STUDY IN COENBII.LE. 
 
 But, if I dare say between us what seems to me true, 
 
 Our gods very often agree ill together ; 
 
 And, were their wrath to crush me before your eyes. 
 
 We have a great many of them for them to be true gods. 
 
 Finally among the Christians morals are pure, 
 
 Vices are detested, virtues flourish ; 
 
 They offer prayers for us who persecute them ; 
 
 And during all the time since we have tormented them, 
 
 Has one seen them mutinous? has one seen them rebellious? 
 
 Have our princes had any more faithful soldiers ? 
 
 Furious in war, they yield themselves up to our executioners. 
 
 And lions in combat, they die like lambs. 
 
 I have too much compassion for them not to defend them. 
 
 Come, let us find Fdlix ; let us begin with his son-in-law ; 
 
 And let us thus by a single action gratify 
 
 Pauline and my glory and my compassion." 
 
 What a broad, tolerant, judicial mind has S6v6re. 
 Had he lived some centuries later, he would have 
 been an eloquent advocate of " soul liberty." He 
 is just such a high heroic character as the noble 
 Corneille loved to create. The glorious light that 
 illuminates the features of S6v6re emanates from the 
 poet's own lofty mind. S6v6re is admirable because 
 Sfivfere is Corneille. 
 
 But we must hasten on to the conclusion of the 
 drama. With the speech which we have just quoted. 
 
tOLYETJCTE. 273 
 
 the fourth act closes. We are standing now in the 
 shadow of the tragedy. The fifth act begins with a 
 conversation between F6lix and Albin. C16on also 
 is present but says nothing. S6v&re has just been 
 interceding with the governor in behalf of Polyeucte. 
 F6lix, however, suspects the generous young Roman 
 of a treacherous design. This is not surprising. 
 Base himself, F61ix is quick to attribute baseness 
 to others. S6vSre, he thinks, hates him, disdains 
 Pauline, and only intercedes for Polyeucte in order 
 first to inveigle the luckless governor into a fatal 
 error and then utterly crush him by bringing down 
 upon him the Emperor's heavy displeasure. But 
 F6lix declares that he will thwart this deep laid plot. 
 He will give S6v6re himself a lesson in court intrigue. 
 The governor seems to think that he is a master of 
 Machiavellian politics. 
 
 But here again the consummate art of Corneille 
 is clearly apparent. Like the scorpion, the crafty 
 F6lix girt by the fires of a false suspicion stings 
 only himself Nothing that Albin can say is able 
 to dislodge this suspicion from his mind. He is 
 intent on escaping the snare which he supposes that 
 S6v6re has set for him. He will not disobey the 
 24 
 
274 A STUDY IN COENEILLE. 
 
 Emperor by pardoning Polyeucte — not he. He is 
 too shrewd for that. If Polyeucte still reuses to 
 recant, then he shall die. 
 
 In the next scene F61ix holds another colloquy 
 with his son-in-law whom he has ordered to be 
 brought before him again. The wily old courtier 
 pretends to be secretly anxious to become a Christian 
 himself, begs Polyeucte not to abandon him at a 
 time in which he needs him so much as a guide, and 
 earnestly urges him to dissimulate until S6v6re shall 
 have departed, when all will be well. 
 
 Polyeucte, however, at once detects the false ring 
 
 in all this, and rebukes F6lix for his deceitfulness. 
 
 Nevertheless the governor still persists in his plea 
 
 for guidance. Polyeucte in reply promises that on 
 
 reaching heaven he will entreat the Lord, when thus 
 
 face to face with Him, to bsstow upon Felix the 
 
 gift of faith. 
 
 FUix. 
 
 Thy loss, however, is going to plunge me into despair. 
 
 Polyeucte. 
 
 You have in your hands the wherewithal to repair it ; 
 In taking from you one son-in-law, they give you another 
 Whose rank corresponds better with your own; 
 My loss is only an advantageous change for you. 
 
POLYBUCTE. 275 
 
 F6Iix is enraged at " this insolence " as he calls 
 it. Throwing off all disguise, he angrily bids 
 Polyeucte choose between a return to paganism on 
 the one hand and death on the other. 
 
 At this juncture Pauline enters. The scene which 
 follows is highly interesting. Pauline tries once 
 more to shake the purpose of her husband. But 
 her tearful pleading is all in vain. Polyeucte is 
 immovable. Then she turns to her father and 
 makes a passionate appeal to his paternal love. 
 F6lix is deeply affected. 
 
 "Unhappy Polyeucte," he cries, "art thou alone insensible ? 
 And dost thou wish alone to render thy crime unpardonable ? 
 Canst thou see so many tears with an eye so careless ? 
 Canst thou see so much love without being touched by it?" 
 
 It is with a tone of scorn that Polyeucte begins 
 his reply. He is evidently quite disgusted with the 
 shifts of F61 ix. The young Christian in the attempts 
 to dissuade him from his purpose sees so many " ruses 
 of hell." This is natural. The man is rapt to the 
 highest pitch of religious enthusiasm. The rest of 
 the scene is so sublime that we can not refrain from 
 giving it all. After a momentary indignant out- 
 burst, Polyeucte continues thus : 
 
276 A STUDY IN COKNBILLE. 
 
 " I adore one God, the master of the universe, 
 
 Under whom heaven, earth and hell tremble ; 
 
 A God who, loving us with an infinite love, 
 
 Wished to die for us with ignominy. 
 
 And who by an efibrt of this excess of love. 
 
 Wishes to be offered as a victim for us each day. 
 
 But 1 am wrong to speak of Him to one who can not under- 
 stand me. 
 
 Behold the blind error that you dare defend: 
 
 You stain aU your gods with the blackest crimes ; 
 
 You do not punish one of them which has not its teacher in 
 the skies ; 
 
 Prostitution, adultery, incest, 
 
 Theft, assassination, and all that one detests. 
 
 That is the example that your immortals offer men to follow. 
 
 I have profaned their temple and broken their altars ; 
 
 I would do it again, if I had it to do. 
 
 Even before the eyes of F^lix, even before the eyes of S^v6re, 
 
 Even before the eyes of the Senate, before the eyes of the 
 Emperor." 
 
 Faix. 
 
 At last my goodness yields to my just fury : 
 Worship them, or die. 
 
 Polyeucte. 
 
 I am a Christian. 
 
 Felix. 
 
 Impious wretch ! 
 Worship them, I tell thee, or renounce life. 
 
POLYEUCTE. 277 
 
 Polyeucte. 
 
 I am a Christian. 
 
 Felix. 
 
 Thou art ! O too obstinate lieart ! 
 Soldiers, execute the order that I have given. 
 
 Pauline. 
 Whither are you leading him? 
 
 Felix. 
 
 To death. 
 
 Polyeiicte. 
 
 To glory. 
 Good-bye, dear Pauline ; preserve my memory. 
 
 Paidirie, 
 I will follow thee everywhere, and I will die if thou diest. 
 
 Follow not my steps, or give up your errors. 
 
 FMix. 
 Let him be taken out of my sight, and let my command be 
 
 obeyed. 
 Since he desires to perish, I consent that he perish. 
 
 24* 
 
278 A STPDY IN COKNEILLE. 
 
 In this scene Corneille completes the character of 
 Polyeucte. The statue is now finished " ad unguem." 
 What a grand figure this Christian martyr makes ! 
 We forgive and forget his fanatical actions in the 
 temple. We overlook his morbid asceticism. We 
 think only of his present heroic attitude. He is 
 about to die, willingly, proudly, joyfully, for his 
 faith. Could the Christian's passionate love to God 
 be more worthily represented ? Polyeucte at once 
 satisfies our minds, touches our hearts and com- 
 mands our admiration. The dialogue at the end of 
 the above scene is considered very fine by all critics. 
 
 " Ce mot, je suis chr6tien, deux fois r6p6t6, 6gale," 
 says Chateaubriand, " les plus beaux mots des Hor- 
 aces." 
 
 Another inimitable stroke of genius is met a 
 moment after in the following passage : 
 
 Pavline, 
 Oil le conduisez-vous ? 
 
 Felac. 
 
 A la mort. 
 
 Polymeie. 
 
 A la gloire. 
 
tOLYEUOTB. 279 
 
 No Frenchman has ever mastered like Corneille 
 this short-hand of emotion. The play is now nearly 
 ended. The rest of the story may be told in a few 
 words. Polyeucte is executed. Pauline, profoundly 
 affected by her husband's sublime courage and cruel 
 death, is suddenly converted to Christianity herself, 
 and calls upon her father to kill her too. This 
 change in the stricken widow, which is certainly 
 fraught with pathetic interest, affords, we think, no 
 ground for hostile criticism. Pauline is an unusu- 
 ally intelligent woman ; it must have been next to 
 impossible for her to exercise any real, vital faith in 
 the pagan gods ; the majestic divinity of her hus- 
 band's words had doubtless impressed her deeply ; 
 her heart is melted by a great sorrow ; what more 
 favorable time could be found for the exercise of the 
 enlightening, converting and vivifying power of the 
 Holy Spirit. Both the psychology and the theology 
 of the poet seem to be entirely correct. 
 
 We can not say the same about the conversion of 
 F6lix which occurs a few moments later. S6vSre, 
 shocked at the governor's cruelty, has just showered 
 some very bitter reproaches upon him, and threatened 
 him with heavy retribution. F§lix is then instan- 
 
280 A STUDY IN COENEILLE. 
 
 taneously converted. Can we greatly blame the 
 skeptical Voltaire for laughing at this ? Is not Cor- 
 neille piling Pelion upon Ossa in a rather unwar- 
 rantable fashion ? 
 
 However, the dutiful heart of Pauline is charmed 
 at the change in her father ; S6v6re, with his usual 
 magnanimity, at once makes peace with the gov- 
 ernor ; and the black folds of the cloud that over- 
 hangs the death scene of the martyr are touched with 
 the silvery light of promise. So ends " Polyeucte." 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Final Estimate of Corneille: Fall of 
 
 Classicism and Rise of Romanticism : 
 
 Latest Developments. 
 
 TN this brochure we have said but little about the 
 biography of Corneille. And this for the best of 
 reasons. The great tragedist's life is written in his 
 plays. His noble personality has been photographed 
 upon his page by the sunlight of his genius. A few 
 facts, however, should here be mentioned. 
 
 About 1640 Corneille married Marie de Lam- 
 p6ri6re, daughter of the Lieutenant-General of 
 Andely ; in 1647 the poet was elected to the 
 Acad6mie Franpaisej in 1653 he stopped writing 
 for the stage ; in 1659, influenced by the persua- 
 sions of Fouquet, the Minister of Finance, he re- 
 sumed dramatic composition ; in 1663 the king 
 granted him a pension ; in 1674 he finally gave 
 up the occupation of playwright ; and in 1684, after 
 
 281 
 
282 A STUDY IN COKNEILLE. 
 
 he had survived his faculties for a year, the curtain 
 fell upon the last scene in the fifth act of the drama 
 of his earthly life. 
 
 The following is a list of his plays with the date 
 of each : M6lite (1629), Clitandre (1632), La Veuve 
 (1633), La Galerie du Palais (1634), La Suivaiite 
 (1634), La Place Eoyale (1635), M6d6e (1635), 
 L'lllusion Comique (1636), Le Cid (1636), Horace 
 (1639), Cinna (1639), Polyeucte (1640), La Mort 
 de Pompge (1642), Le Menteur (1642), LaTSuite 
 du Menteur (1644), Rodogune (1644), Theodore 
 (1645), Heraclius (1647), Androm^de (1650), Don 
 Sanche d'Aragon (1650), Nicom6de (1651), Per- 
 tharite (1653),_Oedipe (1659), La Toison d'Or 
 (1660), Sertorius (1662), Sophonisbe (1663), Othon 
 (1664), Ag&ilas (1666), Attila (1667), Tite et 
 B6r6nice (1670), Pulch6rie (1672), Sur6na (1674). 
 Psyche (1671) was the joint production of Moli&re, 
 Corneille and Quinault. 
 
 We may obtain a good idea of how our poet 
 looked from the interesting description of him which 
 is given by Fontenelle. " M. Corneille," says he, 
 " was quite large and quite full, very simple and 
 common in appearance, always negligent and paying 
 
LATEST DEVELOPMENTS. 283 
 
 little attention to his exterior. He had quite an 
 agreeable countenance, a large nose, a pretty mouth, 
 eyes full of fire, an animated physiognomy and very 
 marked features, well adapted to be transmitted to 
 posterity by a medallion or a bust. His pronuncia- 
 tion was not altogether clear; he read his verses 
 with force, but without grace." 
 
 His disposition was melancholy. His manners 
 were brusque; sometimes he even appeared rude. 
 But in reality few men have had kinder or more 
 generous hearts. 
 
 He was, to quote Fontenelle again, "a good 
 father, a good husband, a good relative, tender and 
 full of friendship." 
 
 1 His conversation. La Bruy^re declares, was "tire- 
 some." Corneille was not skilled in the use of the 
 light simitar of repartee ; his weapon was the 
 broadsword of lofty dialectics. 
 
 He is far from being the only great author defi- 
 cient in conversational powers. A number of famous 
 names will at once occur to the reader — Vergil, 
 Descartes, La Fontaine, Addison, Di-yden, and that 
 other delightful author. Goldsmith, 
 
 " who wrote like an angel and talked like poor Poll." 
 
284 A STUDY IN COENEILLE. 
 
 When Corneille's friends censured him for not 
 remedying this defect, he replied with a smile : 
 
 " I am not the less Pierre Corneille." 
 
 In matters of business the poet was a mere child, 
 utterly unpractical and entirely incapable of taking 
 care of the money which he earned by his pen. 
 This is the prime cause of his poverty in his old 
 age. 
 
 One other trait of his character deserves esJDecial 
 notice. He was a sincere Christian. The great 
 poet whose works, like a vein of gold in a bed of 
 quartz, shall endure as long as the language in 
 which they are written, bowed with a humility that 
 degraded not, before the Judge of all the earth. 
 
 If it be asked what was the historic function that 
 Corneille performed, we may answer that he banished 
 bad taste from the theatre, that he quickened with 
 the touch of life the chaotic theatrical materials which 
 he found at his coming, that he divined, developed 
 and determined the classical drama, and that he 
 peopled the French stage with heroic characters 
 whom he idealized from real life, bestowing true 
 passions upon them and causing them to give to the 
 
LATEST t)EVELOI>MENTS. 285 
 
 age object lessons in ethical science. He exerted a 
 powerful influence upon both departments of dra- 
 matic art. 
 
 By writing "Le Cid," he created the true classical 
 tragedy; by writing "Le Menteur" he created the 
 comedy of manners and gave the cue which brought 
 upon the stage an author worthy to stand with 
 covered head as an equal in the presence of such 
 masters of the comedian's art as Aristophanes and 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 MoIiSre himself freely acknowledged his great 
 debt to Corneille. Speaking, in a letter to Boileau, 
 of " Le Menteur," the great comedian said : " When 
 it was first performed, I had already a wish to write, 
 but was in doubt as to what it should be. My ideas 
 were still confused, but this piece determined them. 
 In short, but for the appearance of ' Le Menteur,' 
 though I should no doubt have written comedies 
 of intrigue, like I'Mourdi or le Dipit amour eux, 
 I should perhaps never have written le Misan- 
 thrope." 
 
 This frank acknowledgment does as much honor 
 tt) MoliSre as to Corneille. Only a truly great heart 
 would be so generous. 
 25 
 
286 A STUDY IN COENEILLE. 
 
 The style of Corneille is remarkable for its 
 inequality. This peculiarity has never been more 
 happily indicated than by MoliSre. "My friend 
 Corneille," said he, "has a familiar who inspires 
 him with the finest verses in the world. But some- 
 times the familiar leaves him to shift for himself 
 and then he fares very badly." Nothing could be 
 more delicate or more apt. 
 
 Corneille was a great admirer of Lucan, whose 
 Pharsalia he had, when a young man, translated in 
 whole or in part. His careful study of that poem 
 has left an indelible impress upon his own works. 
 He was undoubtedly attracted to the Roman bard 
 by the subtle affinity of similar genius. So marked 
 are the resemblances between the styles of the two 
 authors that many of the adjectives employed in a 
 brief enumeration of the qualities of one must be 
 used in epitomizing the qualities of the other. 
 
 Does Quintilian speak of Lucan as "ardens et 
 concitatus et sententiis clarissimus ? " We can say 
 the same of Corneille. Is Lucan unequal, declama- 
 tory, sometimes bombastic? So is Corneille. Is the 
 critical reader of Pharsalia offended at the Roman 
 poet's evident straining after effect? Examples of 
 
LATEST DEVELOPMENTS. 287 
 
 the same overwrought rhetoric may be found in 
 La Mart de Pompie. The writer of this sketch 
 hopes to find the time at some future day to draw 
 up a somewhat elaborate comparison of the two 
 poets, illustrating it by copious citations from each. 
 For our present purpose, however, the above passing 
 reference will suffice. 
 
 Corneille's genius was a limited genius — limited 
 in its innate po^yers, limited by the clanking chains • 
 of the unities, and limited by the poet's own action 
 in choosing all his subjects from one small segment 
 in the great circle of human passions. He loved to 
 represent upon the stage not the weak and yielding 
 elements of our nature, but the strong, the firm, the 
 resisting elements. Hence he is always appealing 
 to the sentiment of admiration. Is this a proper 
 principle on which to base a tragedy ? Boileau says 
 not. Critics, in plenty, after Boileau say not. But 
 it is, perhaps, quite sufficient in reply to them all to 
 say that admiration in the form of hero-worship has 
 time and time again proved itself a powerful factor 
 in the history of the world ; that the roots of this 
 hero-worship are entwined with our strongest pas- 
 sions ; and that the sentiment of admiration aroused 
 
288 A STUDY IN COENEILLE. 
 
 by the perusal of biographies of the world's great 
 has kindled in the hearts of the young in every land 
 and every age an intense desire to imitate the high 
 exploits of which they have read. It would seem 
 that the excitation of such an emotion was well 
 adapted to produce the noblest effects of tragedy. 
 At any rate these heroic themes were exactly suited 
 to the genius of Corneille. He belongs by nature 
 to the ideal school of dramatists. He has abstracted 
 from human nature, as concreted in the actual, all 
 those noble qualities that glorify our race, and has, 
 by the exercise of his creative imagination, reeom- 
 bined them into sublime characters whose colossal 
 figures tower above all the weakness and wickedness 
 and weariness of real life. His writings are thus in 
 the highest degree wholesome. We can not conceive 
 how an intelligent person can attentively peruse one 
 of our poet's masterpieces without experiencing 
 emotions' which themselves exert an influence at 
 once purifying and fructifying upon the moral 
 nature. 
 
 The majestic personality of Corneille pervades 
 his works. In them we find a sublime man uttering 
 his sublime thoughts in sublime words. The ner- 
 
LATEST DEVELOPMENTS. 289 
 
 vous vigor of his descriptions is worthy of the 
 highest praise. He intuitively selects the essential 
 elements of a scene, transfers them to his canvas 
 with a few rapid strokes of his brush, and in a 
 moment the whole is pictured before us with a 
 fidelity to nature, a clearness of outline, and a vivid- 
 ness of color that bespeak the master. 
 
 Yet Corneille had his defects. There is some- 
 times too much of the hyper-heroic, too much of 
 the super-human in his characters. They would be 
 a good deal greater, if they were not quite so great. 
 They are like Dante's tower which 
 
 " firmly set, 
 Shakes not its top for any blast that blows." 
 
 Perhaps we should like them better, if they resembled 
 more the giant oak which bends and groans, but 
 breaks not beneath the wild power of the tempest. 
 Often, also, these characters are too self-conscious. 
 They have a full appreciation of their own bravery, 
 magnanimity and virtue. Their frequent assertion 
 of their various excellencies jars upon the reader 
 like a sharp discord in a soul-stirring symphony. 
 Excessive self-consciousness is manifested in another 
 25* 
 
290 A STUDY IN CORNEILLE. 
 
 way by Corneille's characters. In moments when 
 we should expect to see them convulsed and con- 
 torted with passion, we find them in comparative 
 calmness dissecting and defining their emotions 
 according to the introspective method of the rational 
 psychologists and with the precision of trained 
 logicians. Thus long sections of conscious decla- 
 mation frequently usurp the place that should be 
 occupied by the "disjecta membra" of passionate 
 speech. The declamatory passages, it is true, are 
 of the finest quality, " Sed nunc non erat his locus." 
 Instead of these critical analyses of emotion, the 
 poet should have given us the concussion and con- 
 flagration of emotion in synthesis. 
 
 We shall mention only one other fault of our 
 author. He never succeeded in completely purging 
 his writings of the affected gallantry, the fantastic 
 euphuism, the "faux brillant" of his times. As 
 we behold him struggling to burst the earthy 
 bondage of bad taste, it makes us think of Milton's 
 lion, " pawing to get free." The spectacle is one to 
 excite admiring sympathy rather than contemptuous 
 criticism. 
 
LATEST DEVELOPMENTS. 291 
 
 Often the question is asked, which was the greater 
 dramatist, Corneille or Racine ? One may answer 
 in metaphor. As we cast our eyes over the famous 
 iields of French literature, we see yonder a silvery 
 winding river, reflecting in its crystal flood the fleecy 
 clouds, and singing a love song to the flowers on its 
 banks, as it glides onward. And over there we see 
 a majestic mountain towering up above all things 
 near, rugged ; sublime ; with deep precipices and 
 jagged peaks ; girt round anon with storm-clouds 
 in which the lightnings flash and the thunders crash 
 and roll; but bearing aloft, above the storm, his 
 kingly head with its jewelled diadem which glitters 
 and glows in heaven's own light. The winding 
 river is Jean Racine ; the majestic mountain is Le 
 Grand Corneille. And so we take our leave of 
 him. 
 
 A few brief words in explanation of the high 
 excellence attained by the French in the drama, a 
 hurried recapitulation of some of the reasons why 
 Classicism became dominant in the seventeenth cen- 
 tury, a meagre sketch of the development of Roman- 
 ticism, and we shall have reached the limit which 
 we have set for ourselves in this book. 
 
292 A STUDY IN COKNBILLB. 
 
 The French drama is the consummate flower of 
 French literature. Upon this point all critics are 
 agreed, whether they belong to that too numerous 
 band of carping censors who, looking- through the 
 deeply colored spectacles of national prejudice and 
 national antipathy upon a master-piece of Corneille 
 or Racine, vent themselves in vitriolic sarcasm 
 because its brightness then seems dimmed and its 
 beauty blurred, or whether they be members of 
 that other extreme and extravagant class who 
 esteem the stage of Paris above that of Athens 
 itself, and hail Victor Hugo as a Scion of the 
 lineage of Shakspeare. 
 
 It is no very difficult task to name some, at least, 
 of the causes which have concurred to make the 
 drama the highest expression of the literary genius 
 of France. 
 
 The typical Frenchman has an instinctive knowl- 
 edge of scenic effect born in him as the natural con- 
 comitant of his Celtic blood; that quick, keen, 
 flashing wit which we call P esprit Gaulois is another 
 of his birthrights ; the Latin logic wrought into the 
 mental tissue of his ancestors has been transmitted 
 by heredity to him ; the forces of his nature are so 
 
LATEST DEVELOPMENTS. 293 
 
 closely correlated that the white light of thought 
 can, in a moment, be converted into electric emo- 
 tion; he has a passion for proportion, an artist's 
 reverence for perfect form, and a courtier's regard 
 for decorum ; he worships glory ; he will fight for 
 an idea ; in short liis whole being is saturated with 
 the very essence of drama. It is for this reason 
 that French history, from first to last, is a thrilling 
 tragedy, a piquant comedy, or a roaring farce. What 
 wonder that the authors of such a nation should 
 achieve their most brilliant triumphs in the domain 
 of dramatic composition ? 
 
 Since each successive age is the outgrowth and 
 resultant of all the ages past, bound to them by a 
 connection at once necessary, natural and organic, 
 determined by their character and dowered with 
 their wealth, we must study schools of literature in 
 their history, in their origin and evolution, and in 
 their logical and psychological relations to preced- 
 ing schools. 
 
 Especially is this true of a literature which pre- 
 sents such a striking continuity of development as 
 does the French. From the time of the trouvfires, 
 who in their chansons de geste celebrated high-souled 
 
294 A STUDY IN COENEILLE. 
 
 heroes' daring deeds and mingled love's melodious 
 music with the horrid din of war, to the days of 
 those " literary brigands " with long hair and grotes- 
 que costume who fought under the standard that 
 Hugo raised, there have been in French literature no 
 real stoppages in the cyclical movement of progress, 
 no breaks in the curve of change, no gaps in the 
 order of succession. 
 
 Revolutions, indeed, there have been, but each 
 revolution was merely a stage of a larger evolution. 
 One must, therefore, examine the French theatre 
 according to tlie scientific method, seeking to dis- 
 cover the sources of the drama and to trace its 
 development, bearing ever in mind the chai-acteris- 
 tics of the French people, studying the environment 
 physical, political and ethical by which they have 
 been surrounded, and noting carefully the creative, 
 formative, dominant spirit of the epochs investigated. 
 
 We have seen how the different varieties of drama 
 succeeded one another ujion the French stage; let us 
 now try to account for the prevalence of Classicism 
 in the seventeenth century. The central figure in 
 the literary history of France during the early part 
 of that century is the poet Malherbe, the tyrant of 
 
LATEST DEVELOPMENTS. 295 
 
 words and syllables. He is the lapidary on whose 
 wheel French words, like precious gems, were cut 
 and polished until they were ready to be set in the 
 crowns of the kingly company of authors now about 
 to appear. He strenuously insists upon a pure dic- 
 tion, a simple style and a finished versification. He 
 is the prophet of good taste. 
 
 Next to him should be named the letter-writer 
 and essayist, Balzac, who did for prose what Mal- 
 herbe had done for poetry. Balzac's style is digni- 
 fied, harmonious and periodic. He set the standard 
 of elegant prose composition. These writers were 
 the two cotyledons of Classicism. 
 
 Against the school of literary reform founded by 
 Malherbe and Balzac, were arrayed two powerful 
 influences imported into France from abroad. 
 
 The first of these came from Italy. In 1615, the 
 Italian poet Marino, upon the invitation of the min- 
 ister of Marie de Medici, visited Paris, reestablished 
 there a troupe of Italian comedians, and introduced 
 into France that affected style which corresponds to 
 the Euphuism of Lilly in the history of English 
 letters. The influence of Marino and his disciples 
 was immense both on literature and life. 
 
296 A STUDY IN COENEILLE. 
 
 The other foreign influence came from the land 
 of Don Quixote. Of the efl^ect of the introduction 
 of this Spanish element into French society and 
 French letters, we have already spoken. The Italian 
 and the Spanish influences met and mingled in the 
 H6tel de Rambouillet. The cultured company who 
 met here did much to mould the style of the drama. 
 Their potent influence was exerted on the side of 
 Classicism whose rigid propriety fitted in exactly 
 with their ideas of social form. Another power 
 in literature was the French Academy, created by 
 Eichelieu about 1629.' 
 
 The seventeenth century had received from the 
 sixteenth a decided bent in the direction of classical 
 culture. The momentum acquired in the preceding 
 two hundred years was augmented by the imtiring 
 labors of the scholars of the seventeenth century. 
 The great past continued to be regarded with pro- 
 foundest reverence. During the second quarter of 
 the century the canons of classical literature were 
 
 ' The Academy was not founded by law until some years later. 
 The king granted letters patent early in 1635 ; but it was getting 
 on toward the autumn of 1637 before the Parliament would give 
 its consent to the establishment of the new society. 
 
LATEST DEVELOPMENTS. 297 
 
 established as the supreme law to which every 
 French writer must yield obedience. It was the 
 function of the Academy to formulate, expound and 
 vindicate these canons. How thoroughly it did its 
 work, is known to all students of French history. 
 
 Nor should we forget the profound effect produced 
 upon literature by the philosophy of the age. Ideal- 
 ism awakened men to a vivid consciousness of their 
 relations to God, taught Claude Gelee to paint "the 
 light that never was on sea or land," and touched 
 the eye of poetry with a wonderful ointment which 
 disclosed untold treasures to her view. The influ- 
 ence of Descartes, the day-star of modern philoso- 
 phy, permeated the intellectual activities of the 
 period. 
 
 It was during the latter half of the century that 
 literature attained its most perfect development. 
 All causes cooperated to strengthen the ascendency 
 of Classicism in the drama. 
 
 Unity was the characteristic of the age. Protest- 
 antism had been silenced. All religious authority 
 was wielded by one supreme pontiff. The power 
 of the nobility had been broken. All political 
 26 
 
298 A STUDY IN COENEILLE. 
 
 authority was vested in the king. " Vitat, <^est 
 moi" is the key-note of the reign of Louis XIV. 
 
 The forms of etiquette were observed with the 
 utmost strictness. Everything must be done accord- 
 ing to rule. Fashion was a goddess to whom every 
 knee must bend. Decorum was the first thought in 
 the minds of all the fine lords and ladies who, 
 bedecked in perrukes and powder and fuss and 
 feathers, sat listening to the great plays of Corneille, 
 Racine and MoliSre. An instinct for regularity 
 was everywhere apparent. Now this unity, this 
 decorum, this regularity are the salient features in 
 the classic drama. Very naturally, then, that style 
 of drama came into undisputed possession of the 
 stage. 
 
 We can not tarry to sketch even in vagUest out- 
 line the glories of the theatre in the Age of Louis 
 Quatorze. Adequately to do so would require a 
 treatise in itself. We must instead hasten on to our 
 only lemaining task, that of indicating the reasons for 
 the decline of Classicism and the rise of Romanticism. 
 
 The eighteenth century in French letters was the 
 trough between two silver-crested billows, the seven- 
 teenth century on the one hand and the nineteenth 
 
LATEST DEVELOPMENTS. 299 
 
 on the other. The drama sank far below the lofty 
 height to which it had risen in the works of the 
 immortal trio of the preceding age. Racine had 
 imitated the Greeks. Voltaire imitated Racine. 
 A whole spawn of dullards imitated Voltaire. Art 
 became artifice ; skilfully drawn characters glowing 
 with the warmth of human passion gave place to 
 pale abstractions declaiming the dogmas of encyclo- 
 paedism ; imagination was imprisoned behind the 
 iron bars of form ; dramatists were threshing over 
 and over the straw of a long past harvest ; all was 
 as inane as it was urbane. The theatre of Racine 
 is a flower-garden ; the theatre of Voltaire is a 
 brilliant display of cut flowers in antique vases ; the 
 theatre of Briifaut is an herbarium. 
 
 If we look closely at the eighteenth century we 
 can see, wise prophets after the event as we are, a 
 number of forces all working together to produce 
 the literary revolution of the next age. A sensa- 
 tional psychology, deep-rooted in the fertile and 
 friendly soil of the French mind, is about to bear 
 its full and bitter fruitage of atheism in philosophy, 
 utilitarianism in morals, conventionalism in art and 
 corruption in life. Encyclopaedism is striving to 
 
300 A STUDY IN COKNEILLE. 
 
 tear oif the Pope's tiara, and shatter the sceptre of 
 the king. It is a period of reaction, a period of 
 transition, a period of fire-producing friction. Gross 
 materialism murders all the fine instincts of the soul. 
 Our poor clay body with its frailties, its appetites 
 and its passions is mistaken for the whole of man, 
 indulged with every sensual pleasure, and fed upon 
 all varieties of forbidden fruit. Then comes the 
 great Revolution with those bloody orgies at which 
 all Europe trembled and turned pale. Crime holds 
 high carnival in Paris. Men become wonted to the 
 sight of the most horrible physical suffering. Death 
 slays his prey in every street. The gleam of the 
 guillotine's knife, the terrified, distorted features of 
 the victim, the prayers, the shrieks, the spurting 
 flow of crimson, are all familiar to every citizen. 
 We can well understand how a nation whose natures 
 have been thus accustomed to turmoil and turbulence 
 and massacre, whose nerves have been steeled in the 
 atrocities of civil strife, and whose sensibilities have 
 been deadened by dreadful sights and sounds, should 
 soon demand sensational dramas on the stage. 
 
 When we examine the literary activities of the 
 eighteenth century we find three other influences 
 
LATEST DEVELOPMENTS. 301 
 
 which were important factors in the preparation 
 for Eomanticism. Scholars are giving themselves 
 with sympathetic enthusiasm to the study of the 
 Middle Ages. Shakspeare, though not yet recog- 
 nized as the Igdrasil of literature, is translated by 
 Letourneur and Ducis and begins to find admirers 
 not a few. Rousseau, falling passionately in love 
 with nature and tinting his prose with the rainbow 
 hues of poetry, introduces into literature the new 
 element of sentimentality. His disciple, St. Pierre, 
 burns incense upon the same altar. Beautiful land- 
 scapes, scenes of Arcadian innocence and the delights 
 of idyllic life are described by him with splendid 
 eloquence. Thus arose a literary cult for the wor- 
 ship of nature. Early in the nineteenth century 
 the tide of tendency toward Romanticism becomes 
 much stronger. 
 
 Two sets of influences are clearly discernible, the 
 one foreign, the other domestic. German literature 
 begins to be read in translations. The weird imag- 
 ination of Hoffmann, the full-orbed genius of Goethe 
 and the dramatic power of Schiller fired French 
 writers with a longing for "something better than the 
 insipid commonplaces of effete Classicism. 
 26* 
 
302 A STUDY IN COENEILLE. 
 
 This taste for German letters was greatly stimu- 
 lated by the writings of Mme. de Stael. Banished 
 from Napoleon's court, she had been cordially wel- 
 comed into the inner circles of literary, artistic 
 and philosophical life. She interprets Germany to 
 France. Her De I'AUemagne is an aqua regin, 
 holding in solution the golden thoughts of the 
 German romanticists. The fifteenth chapter, De 
 Part dramatique, deserves to be especially noted 
 because of its great reformatory effect upon French 
 tragedy. So much for German influence. 
 
 From England came another literary inunda- 
 tion. The world-wide, heaven-high, ocean-deep 
 Shakspeare was studied with increasing apprecia- 
 tion. Scott, who had reconstructed the Middle Ages 
 and pictured feudalism in all its splendor, became 
 exceedingly popular. Byron, misanthropic, pes- 
 simistic and despairing, captured the fancy of all 
 France by the vivid coloring of his " Satanic " 
 poems, as they were then called, and produced a 
 profound impression especially upon the rising 
 generation. 
 
 Our country, too, contributed some motive force 
 to the revolution. The fresh, virile, thrilling novels 
 
LATEST DEVELOPMENTS. 303 
 
 of Cooper, whose style is racy of the soil, fascinated 
 by their fine descriptions both ignorant and learned. 
 
 As the commingled waters of these three invad- 
 ing floods recede, they overlay the fields of French 
 literature with a rich loam of genius which lies at 
 the roots of the gorgeous, if somewhat rank efiio- 
 rescence of Romanticism. 
 
 Look now for a moment at the domestic influences. 
 Andr& Chenier, a brave young poet guillotined by 
 Robespierre in 1794, had been dead a quarter of a 
 century when above his grave his poetry first un- 
 closed its clustered buds and stood revealed in all 
 the freshness and richness and lustre of its Greek 
 beauty. Classic in form, he was romantic in spirit, 
 and his works enchanted young France. 
 
 Much more potent is the influence of Chdteau- 
 briand, the leader of the great Catholic reaction, 
 the defender of Christianity as the ahfia mater of 
 the fine arts, the literary Midas at whose magic 
 touch the Middle Ages turn to golden splendor, the 
 eloquent interpreter of Gothic architecture and the 
 prose poet of nature, who was for many years the 
 Zeus of the French Parnassus. From him more 
 than from any other one man in the beginning did 
 
304 A STUDY IN CORNEILLE. 
 
 Romanticism receive its kinetic energy. Chateau- 
 briand is the sponsor of Hugo. 
 
 The only other writer who thus, without being a 
 member of the Romantic school, exerted a formative 
 influence upon it was Lamartine. He rejects all 
 the machinery of Classicism, places his aeolian lyre 
 at the open window of his soul, and seeks to make 
 the wandering winds of thought and passion and 
 reverie utter themselves in mellifluous music. He 
 renders into words the vague emotions that arise 
 within us when we muse on nature, infinitude and 
 the spirit world. He is Christian, he is modern, 
 he is sentimental. His descriptions are exceedingly 
 faithful. In the limpid depth of his verse the 
 features of nature are as clearly reflected as were 
 the rocks and firs and argent moon in the lake of 
 which he sings. He is the link of transition between 
 the old and the new poetry. 
 
 Let us now take a hasty glance at the condition 
 of things in the domain of thought. For the first 
 few years of the century the sensationalism of 
 Condillac continues to dominate philosophy. Then 
 three powerful knights, Royer-CoUard, Maine de 
 Biran and Victor Cousin, displaying on their lances 
 
LATEST DEVELOPMENTS. 305 
 
 the colors of spiritualisme, enter the lists to do battle 
 as champions of a nobler creed. Though thus 
 vigorously attacked, the defenders of materialism are, 
 however, making a stubborn resistance. Encyclo- 
 paedism has infiltrated the French mind. It is not 
 surprising that from this sensational philosophy 
 should issue a sensational drama. The methods 
 and results of science were perverted to the propa- 
 gation of " the gospel of dirt." Men ever working 
 in matter, ever studying the properties of matter, 
 never looking above matter, easily become material- 
 ists. They forget that physical science is not all 
 science ; they demand that everything shall be 
 demonstrated to the senses ; they turn a deaf ear 
 to intuition ; they repudiate God and worship the 
 golden calf of utilitarianism. We must especially 
 note that the quest of science, whether she be investi- 
 gating the tiniest organism or the largest planet, 
 is from first to last emphatically a quest for fact. 
 It is proved fact that forms the foundation of the 
 positive philosophy already adumbrated in the early 
 lectures of Comte. The realism of ihe Romantic 
 school is the projection of this same scientific method 
 upon the line of literary art. 
 
306 A STUDY IN CORNEILLE. 
 
 In political affairs after 1824 there is a deal of 
 fermentation. Monarchism is wrestling with repub- 
 licanism. The grandfathers of this generation had 
 fought for the rights of man : the grandsons, inherit- 
 ing a hatred of tyranny, could ill brook the high- 
 handed course of Charles X. The third estate has 
 now "become something." Civilization has hewn 
 broad the path for the onward march of democracy. 
 Political economists are weaving socialistic theories 
 for the relief of the "toiling masses* A king sits 
 upon the throne, but the love of freedom reigns in 
 the nation's heart. 
 
 What could be more natural than that such a 
 generation, ready to revolt against the despotism of 
 the Bourbons, should be equally ready to revolt 
 against the despotism of the classics ? What more 
 natural than that liberalism in politics should go 
 hand in hand with liberalism in letters ? 
 
 This period was distinguished, also, for a wide- 
 spread passion for history. The Middle Ages were 
 invested with a glamour of romance, Gothic archi- 
 tecture became the fashion, and antique furniture 
 was sought after with an earnestness somewhat 
 ludicrous. The effect of such enthusiasm for the 
 
I.ATEST DEVELOPMENTS. S07 
 
 past was felt in all departments of literature, and 
 is seen in the large number of plays which the 
 romanticists produced in their effort to portray 
 famous characters of history precisely as they 
 were and amid all the lights and shades of local 
 color. 
 
 Nor must we forget the great enlargement of the 
 reading public consequent upon the rise of the 
 bourgeoisie, the transference of power to the third 
 estate and the successful struggle of the working 
 classes for political rights. Democracy in letters 
 followed in the wake of democracy in the state. A 
 dramatist addressed no longer, as in former ages, 
 a select circle of aristocrats, courtiers and punctilious 
 devotees of fashion. He had to appeal to the great 
 assemblage of the people where culture indeed was 
 to be found, but where deplorable ignorance far 
 more abounded, where the esthetic tastes of the 
 many were comparatively low, and where the im- 
 portunity of the senses too often stifled the aspira- 
 tions of the spirit. The masses who could not 
 appreciate the chaste beauty of a classic masterpiece, 
 but who were delighted with the coarse emotions 
 of the circus, welcomed with applause the highly 
 
308 A STUDY IN CORNEILLfi. 
 
 seasoned plays of the romanticists, which were often 
 melodramatic, gross and immoral. 
 
 Having thus briefly reviewed the causes that led 
 to Romanticism, we may now ask what, in the light 
 of history, were the distinctive characteristics of this 
 movement ? Nor is the question difficult to answer. 
 Romanticism according to the professions of its par- 
 tisans was to be a battle for liberty in literature ; a 
 struggle of the modern concept of the discordant 
 dualism of man's nature against the ancient concept 
 of the harmonious synergy of all his faculties ; an 
 attempt to substitute the poetry of Teutonic melan- 
 choly, with its ever present suggestions of the 
 life immortal, for the poetry of Greek joyousness 
 with its sublimated sensualism ; and, finally, an 
 eflbrt to vitalize art by infusing into it new blood, 
 to lead genius forth into wider fields, and to repre- 
 sent life with such minute accuracy as should make 
 one hear the ventre Saint gris of Henri IV and see 
 the very wart on Cromwell's rugged face. 
 
 The writers of the new school are to translate the 
 "varied language" that nature speaks. Melpomene 
 is to seek inspiration from the scroll of Cli». The 
 Middle Ages whose sublime architecture is " frozen 
 
LATEST DEVELOPMENTS. 309 
 
 music," poetry in stone and Christianity in symbol, 
 are to be carefully studied, appreciated at their full 
 value, and restored to the mind's eye by the pen of 
 the novelist and the playwright. The romanticists 
 are to give expression to the infinite aspirations of 
 the Christian faith, re-echo the noble sentiments of 
 chivalry and put themselves in touch with trouba- 
 dour and trouvSre. 
 
 As a matter of fact, however, the productions of 
 the new school in France fail to exhibit any such 
 excellence as one might naturally look for after so 
 stirring a manifesto. We shall reach a better under- 
 standing of the net results in the drama by contrast- 
 ing the classic and the romantic styles. Each has 
 its peculiar merits, each its peculiar defects. The 
 classic drama is statuesque ; the romantic drama is 
 picturesque ; the former presents us with beauty of 
 contour, the latter with beauty of color ; the one is 
 idealistic, soaring to the true above us, the other is 
 realistic seeking rather the true about us ; the great 
 dramatists of the seventeenth century never mingle 
 sorrow and mirth in the same piece, the playwrights 
 of the nineteenth century have married the comic to 
 the serious and the grotesque to the sublime ; the 
 27 
 
310 A stuDY In coenEilli;. 
 
 verse of the classicists flows along with an unbroken 
 murmur of monotonous music, the verse of the 
 romanticists breaks into discordant yet not unpleas- 
 ing ripples round reefs of enjambement ; the classic 
 drama emphasizes the psychological side of passion, 
 the romantic drama emphasizes the physiological 
 side ; the school of Corneille bow before the three 
 unities as the Greeks before the three fates, the 
 school of Hugo are iconoclastic, breaking without 
 compunction the fetiches of the past; the classic 
 poet dips his patera " heavy with gems and gold " 
 into the sparkling waters of Aganippe, the romantic 
 poet drinks with his horn which is golden, too, long 
 draughts from Mimer's fountain. 
 
 Let us notice now the decline of the two schools. 
 Classicism, oast down from the sun-kissed domicile 
 of genius into the Mamertine dungeon of imitation, 
 became the mere emaciated and emasculated skeleton 
 of its former self. But, though it sank low and yet 
 lower, it never outraged the proprieties. Its slavish 
 decorum was its bane. Upon play after play we 
 may write our verdict : " faultily faultless, icily regu- 
 lar, splendidly null." Romanticism, on the contrary, 
 scoffing at rules and seeking the unusual, the strik- 
 
LATEST DEVELOPMENTS. 311 
 
 ing, the fantastic, the monstrous in nature, soon 
 earned the title of "La littgrature extravagante.'' 
 Good morals were scandalized and good taste was 
 shocked by plays in which sensuality with brazer 
 assurance stalked upon the stage, and in which vul- 
 garity was thinly veneered with wit, and mortal sins 
 plated with, tinsel poetry. " Whatever we paint,'' 
 cried the romanticists, "we will paint not as ii 
 ought to be, but as it is, and we will paint every- 
 thing that is in nature." " Uart pour Part " is the 
 countersign of their camp. 
 
 From this embryonic germ, by the most natural 
 process in the world was developed French Realism 
 — a variety of literature very different from that 
 American type which goes under the same title and 
 which describes for us the courtship and marriage 
 of Miss Mediocrity and Mister Everyday, both resi- 
 dents of the town of Humdrum. American Realism 
 is generally harmless, if insipid ; French Realism 
 too often, alas, too often hides the serpent of sin 
 beneath a bank of flowers. Real life is, it may be. 
 portrayed, but what sort of real life? Seldom, 
 indeed, the life of virtue, honor and duty. The 
 realist scarcely ever makes any attempt to depici 
 
312 A STUDY IN COENEILLE. 
 
 the " sweetness and light " that fill the homes of so 
 many millions of men. He prefers to uncover the 
 worm in the rose, the cancer in the bosom of society 
 and the evil passions seething in the caldron of the 
 desperately wicked heart. 
 
 Realism dyed some shades darker becomes Natu- 
 ralism. For the writers of this school there is no 
 good, there is no bad, there is only the true. The 
 playwright is a scientist. He invents nothing. 
 He merely observes, experiments and draws up his 
 report of what he has seen, analyzed and explained. 
 He practices a sort of psychological vivisection ; he 
 is learned in the anatomy of motive ; he has a pas- 
 sion for the pathology of crime. The horrible, the 
 diabolical, the uncanny fascinate him. Note-book 
 in hand he visits the hospital, jail and morgue, gath- 
 ering documentary evidence upon which to base his 
 scientific demonstration showing how the character 
 of this or that personage is the resultant of the 
 coaction or counteraction of heredity and environ- 
 ment. This, then, is the final development of 
 Romanticism; this the nadir of its degradation. 
 The clammy fingers of Empiricism are choking the 
 soul out of art. 
 
LATEST DEVELOPMENTS. 311 
 
 Oh, France, beautiful France, dear sister republic 
 who now art bravely bearing aloft the torch o 
 Freedom in the world beyond the seas, rear n( 
 longer the apples of Sodom in thy garden of litera 
 ture ; dash to earth that poisoned chalice which ai 
 irreligious art is holding to thy lips ; turn awa^ 
 from the men with muck rakes ; lift thine eyes ti 
 the glorious orbs that glitter in thy firmament o 
 intellect ; feast thy soul upon the grandeur of Cor 
 neille, the beauty of Racine, the wit of Moli&re 
 strive for the ideal ; let thy art become a ladde 
 which shall reach from earth to heaven and oi 
 which thou shalt see the angels of God descendinj 
 and ascending. Thus shalt thou take in literatun 
 thy rightful rank as a leader among the nations 
 guiding them onward toward the True and upwar( 
 toward the Good ! 
 
 " May these things be ! " 
 THE END. 
 
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