Joash. I feel myself ready, if he wishes it, to give to him my life.
Jehoiada. You have often heard read the history of our kings. Do you remember, my son, what strict laws a king worthy of the crown ought to impose upon himself?
Joash. A wise and good king, so hath God himself declared, puts not his reliance upon riches and gold; he fears the Lord his God, has ever before him his precepts, his laws, his judgments severe, and does not with unjust burdens overwhelm his brethren.
Fénelon had already been two years preceptor to the Duke of Burgundy when this tragedy was written. It is impossible not to feel that Racine must have had that prince in mind when he put into the mouth of young Joash sentiments so likely to have been instilled into the heart of his royal pupil, the great king’s grandson, by such a preceptor as Fénelon. How could the selfish old monarch of France contrive to avoid recognizing his own portrait suggested by contrast in that description of the good king from the lips of little Joash? Racine was here treading on treacherous ground. He will presently find his footing quite give way under him, to let him down into the “horrible pit” of disgrace with his king. This not, however, in the present play.
The tragedist has generously bestowed upon wicked Queen Athaliah a certain loftiness of spirit which, in its display in the final catastrophe, almost redeems her to admiration, if not to sympathy. There is nothing in the play more nearly sublime in declamation than the final speech in which Athaliah greets her own doom, and blasphemously forecasts, for young King Joash, a future of apostasy from God. With this admirable piece of rhetoric, resembling a burst of blasphemy from Satan in “Paradise Lost,” so far as French poetry may be allowed to resemble English, we conclude our representation of Racine. Athaliah has now just heard the announcement of things that assure her of the overthrow of her usurpation. She expresses herself in a speech, the first words of which were, no doubt, designed by the poet to recall the celebrated traditional exclamation of Julian the Apostate, uttered at a moment of irretrievable disaster to his impious hopes—“O Galilean, thou hast conquered!” as follows:
| God of the Jews, ’tis thou that dost prevail! Ay, it is Joash; all without avail Seek I to cheat myself with other thought: I know the wound my weapon on him wrought; I see his father Ahaziah’s face; Naught but brings back to me that hated race. David doth triumph, Ahab only fall— Unpitying God, thou only hast done all! ’Tis thou that, flattering me to hope in vain For easy vengeance, o’er and o’er again Hast with myself myself embroiled anew, Now pangs of conscience rousing, not a few, Now dazzling me with thy rich treasures rare, Which I to burn or pillage did not dare. Let him, then, reign, this son, thy care, thy toil, And, so to signalize his new-got spoil, Let him into my bosom plunge the knife, And take with filial hand his mother’s life. Hearken what wish for him she dying breathes— Wish? nay, what hope, assured hope, bequeaths— That, disobedient, proud, rebellious, he, Faithful to Ahab’s blood received from me, To his grandfather, to his father, like, Abhorrent heir of David, down may strike Thy worship and thy fane, avenger fell Of Athaliah, Ahab, Jezebel! |
With words thus rendered into such English verse as we could command for the purpose, Athaliah disappears from the stage. Her execution follows immediately. This is not exhibited, but is announced with brief, solemn comment from Jehoiada. And so the tragedy ends.
The interest of the piece, to the modern reader, is by no means equal to its fame. One reproaches one’s self, but one yawns in conscientiously perusing it. Still, one feels the work of the author to be irreproachably, nay, consummately, good. But fashions in taste change; and we cannot hold ourselves responsible for admiring, or, at any rate, for enjoying, according to the judgment of other races and of former generations. It is—so, with grave concurrence, we say—It is a great classic, worthy of the praise that it receives. We are glad that we have read it; and, let us be candid, equally glad that we have not to read it again.
As has already been intimated, Racine, after “Athaliah,” wrote tragedy no more. He ceased to interest himself in the fortune of his plays. His son “Louis,” in his Life of his father, testifies that he never heard his father speak in the family of the dramas that he had written. His theatrical triumphs seemed to afford him no pleasure. He repented of them rather than gloried in them.
While one need not doubt that this regret of Racine’s for the devotion of his powers to the production of tragedy was a sincere regret of his conscience, one may properly wish that the regret had been more heroic. The fact is, Racine was somewhat feminine in character as well as in genius. He could not beat up with stout heart undismayed against an adverse wind. And the wind blew adverse at length to Racine, from the principal quarter, the court of Versailles. From being a chief favorite with his sovereign, Racine fell into the position of an exile from the royal presence. The immediate occasion was one honorable rather than otherwise to the poet.