The tragedies that followed "Cinna" continued to sustain the reputation of the poet. "Polyeucte," which succeeded to it the following year, is, perhaps, the most delightful of all his plays. I know no other work of the imagination in which a woman, loving one man and marrying another, preserves at once dignity and sweetness. Pauline loves Severus with all the enthusiasm of a girl's first passion;—she fears to see him again, so well does she remember the power of that love; but, though she fears, she does not lament: we perceive that conjugal tenderness for a young and virtuous husband, a sense of duty, hallowed by purity of feeling and softened by affection, have gathered over the ruins of a former attachment for another, while the heroism and generosity of Severus adds dignity to the character of her who once loved him so fondly. The only fault that strikes at all forcibly in this piece is a sort of brusquerie, or want of keeping, in the character of the martyr. The tragedy opens with his wishing to defer the sacrament of baptism because his wife had had a bad dream; and, after this, we are not prepared for his sudden resolution to overthrow the altars of his country, and to devote himself on the instant to martyrdom. The poet meant that we should feel this increase of fervour as the effect of baptism; but he has somewhat failed, by not making us expect it: and to raise expectation, so that no event should appear startling, is the great art of dramatic writing. The real fault is in the senseless notion of unity of time: had the author given his personages space to breathe, all had been in harmony. It must not be omitted, that when Corneille read this play, before its representation, to an assembly of beaux esprits, at the hotel de Rambouillet, the learned conclave came to the decision that it would not succeed, and deputed Voiture to persuade the author to withdraw it, as Christianity introduced on the stage had offended many. Corneille, frightened at this sentence, endeavoured to get it out of the hands of the actors, but was persuaded by one among them to let it take its chance.[15] The fine people of Paris could not imagine that a Christian martyr would command the interest and sympathy of an audience. Where the scene, however, is founded on truth and nature, the hearts of the listeners are carried away; and Corneille could always command admiration for his heroes, through the power of the situations he conceived, and the elevation and beauty of his language.
Corneille again attempted a comedy. Voltaire justly observes, that the French owe their first tragedy and their first comedy of character to the Spanish. The "Menteur" of Corneille is taken from "El Verdad sospechosa" of Lope de Vega; and bears marks of its Spanish origin in the intricacy of its intrigue, and its love-making out of window, so usual in Spain, and unnatural elsewhere. This comedy had the greatest success; many of the verses passed into sayings—the very situations became proverbs. "The Liar" had just arrived from Poietiers; and it grew into a fashion, when any man told an incredible story, to ask whether he had come from Poietiers?
1646.
Ætat.
40.
"Rodogune," which succeeded, is (with the lamentable defect of the unlucky unity of time and place) more like a Spanish or an English play than any other of Corneille's, except the "Cid." The very intricacy and faults of the plot, founded, as it is, on some old forgotten tale, give it the same wild romantic interest. Corneille, indeed, says he took the story from Appian and other historical sources; but, as the tale existed, perhaps he saw that first, and then consulted the ancient authorities. Voltaire, in his remarks, scarcely knows what to say to it. It succeeded brilliantly, kept possession of the stage, and always ranks as one of Corneille's best tragedies. He is forced, therefore, to acknowledge its merit, although the fault in the conduct and story struck him forcibly. He repeats, perpetually, "The pit was pleased; so we must allow this play to have merit, though there is so much in it to shock an enlightened critic." Corneille himself favoured this tragedy with particular regard. "I have often been asked at court," he says, "which of my poems I preferred; and I found all those who questioned me so partial either to 'Cinna or the 'Cid,' that I never dared declare all the tenderness I felt for this one, to which I would willingly have given my suffrage, had I not feared to fail in some degree in the respect I owed to those who inclined the other way. My preference is, perhaps, the result of one of those blind partialities which fathers sometimes feel for one child rather than another: perhaps some self-love mingles with it, since this tragedy seems to me more entirely my own than any of its predecessors, on account of its surprising incidents, which are all my own invention, and which had never before been witnessed on the stage; and, finally, perhaps a little real merit renders this partiality not entirely unjust." Fontenelle mentions, as another cause for it, the labour he bestowed; since he spent a year in meditating the subject. There might be another reason, to which neither Corneille nor his biographer allude—that this play occasioned him a triumph over a rival. Gilbert brought out a tragedy on the same subject a few months before: as it is acknowledged that Corneille's was written first, he, perhaps, heard of the subject, and took the details from the novel in question. However that may be, Gilbert's play was never acted a second time; yet it met with powerful patrons in its fall, and was published, with a flourishing dedication to the king's brother; but nothing could preserve it from oblivion. The German critics are particularly severe on "Rodogune," and with some justice: there is want of nature in the situations and sentiments; we are attached to none of the characters; and the heroine herself is utterly insignificant.
Corneille had now reached the acme of his fame. Other plays succeeded, which did not deserve the name of tragedies, but ought, as Voltaire remarks, to be entitled heroic comedies.[16] These pieces were of unequal merit; having here and there traces of the great master's hand, but defective as wholes. Usually, he introduces one character of power and interest that elevates them, and which, when filled by a good actor, rendered them successful; but they were not hailed with the enthusiasm that attended his earlier plays. The great Condé looked cold on "Don Sancho," and it was heard of no more; while the fastidious taste of the French revolted from the subject of "Theodore." Worse overthrow was in store. "Pertharite," founded on a Lombard story, failed altogether; and its ill fortune, he tells us, so disgusted him as to induce him to retreat entirely from the theatre. He turned his thoughts to other works. He wrote his "Essays on the Theatre," which contain much acute and admirable criticism; though, like all French writers on that subject, he misses the real subject of discussion. He translated, also, the "Imitation of Jesus Christ" into French—being persuaded to this design by the jesuits. He fails, as our poets are apt to fail, when they versify the psalms; the dignified simplicity of the original being lost in the frippery of modern rhyme.
It had been happy for Corneille had he adhered to his resolves to write no more for the theatre. But M. Fouquet, the celebrated and unfortunate minister of finances to Louis XIV., caused him to break it. Fouquet begged him to dramatise one of three subjects which he mentioned. Corneille chose Œdipus, "Its success," he writes, "compensated to me for the failure of the other; since the king was sufficiently pleased to cause me to receive solid testimonials of his satisfaction; and I took his liberality as a tacit order to consecrate to the amusement of his majesty all the invention and power which age and former labours had spared." This was a melancholy resolve—his subsequent plays were not worthy of their predecessors. They contain fine scenes and eloquent passages; but a hard dry spirit crept over him, which caused him to mistake exaggerated sentiments for nobleness of soul. The plots, also, were bad; the conduct enfeebled by uninteresting episodes, or by the worse expedient of giving the hero himself some under amatory interest that lowered him entirely. Voltaire remarks, "Corneille's genius was still in force. He ought to have been severe on himself, or to have had severe friends. A man capable of writing fine scenes might have written a good play. It was a great misfortune that no one told him that he chose his subjects badly." It is sad to be obliged to make excuses for genius. No doubt Corneille failed in invention as he grew older. His former power of boldness and felicity of expression often shed rays of light upon his feebler works; but he could no longer conceive a whole, whose parts should be harmonious, whose entire effect should be sublime.
The bounty of the king in bestowing a pension on him, it is probable, was one cause of his establishing himself in Paris, and his brother's recent success as a dramatist a yet more urgent one. Hitherto Corneille had resided at Rouen, visiting the capital only at intervals, when he brought out any new play. In 1642 he had been elected member of the French academy; but that circumstance caused no change in his mode of life. He was not formed to shine at court, nor in the gay Parisian circles. Simple, almost rustic, in his manners and appearance, his genius was not discernible to the casual observer. "The first time I saw him," says a writer of the day, "I took him for a merchant of Rouen—his exterior gave no token of his talents, and he was slow, and even dull, in conversation." Corneille certainly neglected the refinements of society too much; or, rather, nature, who had been so liberal to him in rich gifts, had withheld minor ones. When his familiar friends, who desired to see him perfect, spoke to him of his defects, he replied with a smile, "I am not the less Pierre Corneille." La Bruyère bears the same testimony: "Simple and timid; tiresome in conversation—he uses one word for another—he knows not how to recite his own verses."[17]
In truth, Corneille's merit did not, as with many Frenchmen, lie on the surface. Conscious of his own desert, ambitious of glory, proud, yet shy, he shrunk from society where all excellence is despised that does not sparkle and amuse. We are inclined to believe from these considerations that his migration to Paris is attributable rather to his brother than to himself.
Thomas Corneille was twenty years the junior. The brothers had married two sisters of the name of De Lampériere, between whom existed the same difference of age. The family was united by all the bonds of affection and virtue. Their property, even, was in common; and it was not until after Corneille's death that the inheritance of their wives was divided, and that each sister received her share. The brothers were fondly attached, and lived under the same roof. We are told that Thomas wrote verses with much greater facility than Pierre, and he well might, considering what his verses are; and, when Pierre wanted a rhyme, he opened a trap door communicating with his brother's room, and asked him to give one. Nor was Pierre less attached to his sister, to whom he was accustomed to read his pieces when written. She had good taste and an enlightened judgment, and was worthy of her relationship to the poet.