Part 29

It would appear that Racine was happy while at Port Royal. He was loved by his masters: his gentle amiable nature led him to listen docilely to their lessons; and the tenderness of his disposition was akin to that piety which they sedulously sought to inculcate. The peculiar tenets of the Port Royal, which fixed the foundations of all religion in the love of God, found an echo in his heart; but how deeply is it be regretted, that he imbibed that narrow spirit along with it that restricted the adoration of the Creator to the abstract idea of himself, rather than a warm diffusive love of the creation. Poetry was the very essence of Racine's mind--the poetry of sentiment and the passions; but poetry was forbidden by the jansenists, except on religious subjects, and Racine could only indulge his tastes by stealth. His French verses, composed at the Port Royal, are not good; for his native language, singularly ill-adapted to verse, had not yet received that spirit of harmony with which he was destined to inspire her.[98] His biographers have preserved some specimens of his Latin verses, which have more merit. They want originality and force, but they are smooth and pleasing, and show the command he had of the language.

At the age of nineteen he left the Port Royal to follow his studies in the college of Harcour, at Paris. The logic of the schools pleased him little: his heart was still set on verse; and his letters, at this period, to a youthful friend, show the playfulness of his mind, and his desire to distinguish himself as a writer. An occasion presented itself. [Sidenote: 1660. Ætat. 21.] The marriage of Louis XIV. caused every versifier in France to bring his tribute of rhymes. Racine was then unknown. He had, indeed, written a sonnet to his aunt, Madame Vitart, to compliment her on the birth of a child, which sonnet, becoming known at Port Royal, awoke a holy horror throughout the community. His aunt, Agnes de Sainte Thecle Racine, then abbess, who had been his instructress, wrote him letter after letter, "excommunication after excommunication," he calls it, to turn his heart from such profane works. But the suggestions of the demon were too strong; and Racine wrote an ode, entitled "Nymphes de la Seine," to celebrate his sovereign's nuptials. His uncle, M. Vitart, showed it to M. Chapelain, at that time ruler of the French Parnassus. Chapelain thought the ode showed promise, and suggested a few judicious alterations. "The ode has been shown to M. Chapelain," Racine writes to a friend: "he pointed out several alterations I ought to make, which I have executed, fearful at the same time that these changes would have to be changed. I knew not to whom to apply for advice. I was ready to have recourse, like Malherbe, to an old servant, had I not discovered that she, like her master, was a jansenist, and might betray me, which would ruin me utterly, considering that I every day receive letters on letters, or rather excommunication on excommunication, on account of my unlucky sonnet."

The ode, however, and its alterations, found favour in the sight of Chapelain. It deserves the praise at least of being promising--it is neither bombastic nor tedious, if it be neither original nor sublime. The versification is harmonious, and, as a whole, it is unaffected and pleasing. Chapelain carried his approbation so far as to recommend the young poet and his ode to his patron, M. Colbert, who sent him a hundred louis from the king, and soon after bestowed on him a pension of six hundred livres, in his quality of man of letters.

Still, as time crept on, both Racine and his friends deemed it necessary to take some decision with regard to his future career. His uncle, M. V; tart, intendant of Chevreux, gave him employment to overlook some repairs at that place: he did not like the occupation, and considered Chevreux a sort of prison. His friends at Port Royal wished him to apply to the law; and, when he testified his disinclination, were eager to obtain for him some petty place which would just have maintained him. Racine appears to have been animated by no mighty ambition. His son, indeed, tells us that, when young, he had an ardent desire for glory, suppressed afterwards by feelings of religion. But these aspirations probably awoke in their full force afterwards, when success opened the path to renown. There are no expressions in his early letters that denote a thirst for fame: probably his actual necessities pressed too hardly on him: he thought, perhaps, more of escape from distasteful studies than attaining a literary reputation, and thought that he might indulge his poetical dreams in the inaction of a clerical life. Whatever his motives were, he showed no great dislike to become in some sort a member of the church; and, when an opening presented itself, did not turn away.

He had an uncle, father Sconin, canon of St. Geneviève at Paris, and at one time general of that community. He was of a restless, meddling disposition; so that at last his superiors, getting tired of the broils in which he involved them, sent him into a sort of honourable banishment at Uzès, where he possessed some ecclesiastical preferments. He wished to resign his benefice to his nephew. Racine did not much like the prospect; but he thought it best, in the first place, to accept his uncle's invitation, and to visit him.

Uzès is in Provence. Racine repaired to Lyons, and then down the Rhone to his destination. In the spirit of a true Parisian, he gives no token of delight at the beauties of nature: he talks of high mountains and precipitous rocks with a carelessness ill-befitting a poet; and shows at once that, though he could adorn passion and sentiment with the colours of poetry, he had not that higher power of the imagination which allies the emotions of the heart with the glories of the visible creation, and creates, as it were, "palaces of nature" for the habitation of the sublimer passions. We have several of his letters written at this period. They display vivacity, good humour, and a well-regulated mind: scraps of verses intersperse them; but these are merely _à propos_ of familiar or diverting events. There is no token of the elevated nor the fanciful--nothing, in short, of the poet who, if he did not, like his masters the Greeks, put a soul into rocks, streams, flowers, and the winds of heaven, yet afterwards showed a spirit true to the touch of human feeling, and capable of giving an harmonious voice to sorrow and to love. One of his chief annoyances during this visit was the patois of the people. He was eager to acquire a pure and elegant diction; and he feared that his ear would be corrupted by the jargon to which he was forced to listen. "I have as much need of an interpreter here," he writes, "as a Muscovite in Paris. However, as I begin to perceive that the dialect is a medley of Spanish mixed with Italian, and as I understand these two languages, I sometimes have recourse to them; yet often I lose my pains, asking for one thing and getting another. I sent a servant for a hundred small nails, and he brought me three boxes of _allumettes_." "This is a most tiresome town," he writes, in another letter: "the inhabitants amuse themselves by killing each other, and getting hanged. There are always lawsuits going on, wherefore I have refused all acquaintance; for if I made one friend I should draw down a hundred enemies. I have often been asked, unworthy as I am, to frequent the society of the place; for my ode having been seen at the house of a lady, every one came to visit the author: but it is to no purpose--_mens immota manet_. I never believed myself capable of enduring so much solitude, nor could you have ever hoped so much from my virtue. I pass all my time with my uncle, with St. Thomas, and Virgil. I make many notes on theology, and sometimes on poetry. My uncle has all sorts of kind schemes for me--but none are yet certain: however, he makes me dress in black from head to foot, and hopes to get something for me; when I shall pay my debts, if I can; for I cannot before. I ought to think on all the dunning you suffer on my account--I blush as I write; _erubuit puer; salva res est._"

Obstacles, however, continued to present themselves to the execution of any of his uncle's plans. Racine, as he grew hopeless of advancement, turned his thoughts more entirely to composition. He wrote a poem called "The Bath of Venus," and began a play on the subject of Theagines and Chariclea, the beloved romance of his boyhood. After three months' residence at Uzès he returned to Paris.

He returned disappointed and uncertain. Poetry--even the drama--occupied his thoughts; but the opposition of his friends, and the little confidence in himself which marked his disposition, might have made him tremble to embark in a literary career, had not a circumstance occurred which may be called an accident[99], but which was, indeed, one of those slight threads which form the web of our lives, and compose the machinery by which Providence directs it. Molière, having established a comic company in Paris, grew jealous of the actors of the Hôtel de Bourgogne, who prided themselves on the tragic dignity of their representations. Having heard that a new piece was about to be represented at that theatre, he was desirous of bringing out one himself, on the same day, in rivalship. A new tragedy, secure of success, was not easy to acquire. Racine had, on his return from Provence, sent his "Theagines and Chariclea" to Molière. The latter saw the defects of the piece, but, penetrating the talent of the author, gave him general encouragement to proceed. At this crisis he remembered him. Molière had a design of the "Frères Ennemis" in his portfolio, which he felt incapable of filling up: he resolved to devolve the task on Racine, but knew not where to find him. With some difficulty he hunted him out, and besought him to write, if possible, an act a week; and they even worked together, that greater speed might be attained. Well acquainted as Molière was with the conduct of a drama, and the trickery of actors, no doubt his instructions and aid were invaluable to the young author. The piece was brought out, and succeeded--its faults were pardoned on the score of its being a first production. When it was afterwards published, Racine altered and corrected it materially. It cannot be said, indeed, that, as some authors have done, he surprised the world at first with a _chef d'œuvre_; elegance and harmony of versification being his characteristics, he continued to improve to the end, and his first piece may be considered as a _coup d'essai_. [Sidenote: 1664. Ætat. 25.] The subject was not suited to him, whose merit lay in the struggle of passion, and the gushing overflowings of tenderness. However, it went through fifteen representations. It was speedily followed by his "Alexandre." Neither in this play did he make any great progress, or give the stamp of excellence which his dramas afterwards received. [Sidenote: 1665. Ætat. 26.] It is said that he read his tragedy to Corneille, who praised it coldly, and advised the author to give up writing for the stage. The mediocrity of "Alexandre" prevents any suspicion that the great tragedian was influenced by envy; and as Racine, in this play, again attempted a subject requiring an energy and strength of virile passion of which he was incapable, and in which Corneille so much excelled, we may believe that the old master of the art felt impatient of the feebleness and inefficiency of him who afterwards became a successful rival.

When we regard these first essays of Racine, we at once perceive the origin of his defects, while we feel aware that a contrary system would have raised him far higher as a dramatist. He was, of course, familiar with Corneille's master-pieces; and he founded his ideas of the conduct of a tragedy partly on these, and partly on the Greek. He did not read Spanish nor English, and was ignorant of the original and bold conceptions of the poets of those nations; and was hampered by an observance of the unities, which had become a law on the French stage, and was recognised and confirmed by himself. He felt that the Greek drama is not adapted to modern times: he did not feel that the Greeks, in taking national subjects, warmed the hearts of their audience; and that the religion, the scenery, the poetry, the allusions--all Greek, and all, therefore, full of living interest to Greeks, ought to serve as a model whereby modern authors might form their own national history and traditions into a dramatic form, not as ground-works for cold imitations. Racine, from the first, fell into those deplorable mistakes which render most of his plays--beautiful and graceful as they are, and full of tenderness and passion--more like copies in fainter colours of his sublime masters, than productions conceived by original genius, in a spirit akin to the age and nation to which he belonged. Another misfortune attended the composition of his tragedies, as it had also on those of his predecessor. The Greek drama was held solemn and sacred--the stage a temple: the English and Spanish theatres, wild, as they might be termed, were yet magnificent in their errors. An evil custom in France crushed every possibility of external pomp waiting on the majesty of action. The nobles, the _petit maîtres_, all the men of what is called the best society in Paris, were accustomed to sit on the stage, and crowded it so as not to allow the author room to produce more than two persons at a time before the scene. All possibility, therefore, of reforming the dull undramatic expedient of the whole action passing in narration between a chief personage and a confidant was taken away; and thus plays assumed the form rather of narrative poems in dialogue than the native guise of a moving, stirring picture of life, such as it is with us--while the assembly of _dandy_ critics, ever on the look-out for ridicule, allowed no step beyond conventional rules, and termed the torpor of their imaginations, good taste. We only wonder that, under such circumstances, tragedies of merit were produced. But to return to Racine's "Alexandre."

This tragedy was the cause of the quarrel between Racine and Molière. It was brought out at the theatre of the Palais Royal--it was unsuccessful; and the author, attributing his ill success to the actors, withdrew it, and caused it to be performed at the Hôtel de Bourgogne: to this defalcation he added the greater injury of inducing Champmélé, the best tragic actress of the time, to quit Molière's company for that of the rival theatre. Molière never forgave him; and they ceased to associate together. Madame de Sévigné alludes in her letters to the attachment of Racine for Champmélé, but his son denies that such existed; and the mention which Racine makes in his letters of this actress; when she was dying, betray no trace of tender recollection; yet, as these were addressed to his son, he might carefully suppress the expressions of his regret. He taught Champmélé to recite; and she owed her reputation to his instructions.

The criticism freely poured on his two tragedies were of use to the author. He was keenly alive to censure, and deeply pained by it; but, when accompanied by such praise as showed that correction and improvement were expected, he readily gave ear to the suggestions of his fault-finders. Boileau boasted that he taught Racine to rhyme with difficulty--easy verses, he said, are not those written most easily. Racine, as he went on, also began to feel the true bent of his genius, while his desire to write parts suited to Champmélé induced him to give that preponderance to the chief female part that produced, in the sequel, his best plays.

While he was employing himself on "Andromaque" he sustained an attack, which roused him to some resentment. Nicole, in a letter he published against a new sect of religionists, asserted that "a romance writer and a theatrical poet are public poisoners--not of bodies, but of souls--and that they ought to look on themselves as the occasion of an infinity of spiritual homicides, of which they are, or might be, the cause." Racine felt this censure the more bitterly from his having been excluded from visiting the Port Royal on account of his tragedies[100]; and he answered it by a letter, addressed "To the author of imaginary reveries." This letter is written with a good deal of wit and pleasantry: we miss the high tone of eloquent feeling that it might be supposed that an author, warmed with the dignity of his calling, would have expressed. His letter was answered, and he was excited to write a reply, which he showed to Boileau. The satirist persuaded him to suppress it; telling him that it would do no honour to his heart, since he attacked, in attacking the Port Royal, men of the highest integrity, to whom he was under obligations. Racine yielded, declaring that his letter should never see light; which it did not till after his death, when a stray copy was found and printed. The conduct of the poets was honourable. It is probable that Racine did not, in his heart, believe in the goodness of his cause; for he was deeply imbued with the prejudices instilled by the jansenists in his early youth. He was piqued by the attack, but his conscience sided with his censurers; and the degraded state to which clerical influence brought French actors in those days might well cause a devout catholic to doubt the innocence of the drama. A higher tone of feeling would have caused Racine to perceive that the fault lay with the persecutors, not the persecuted; but though an amiable and upright man, and a man of genius, he was in nothing beyond his age.

As Racine continued to write, he used his powers with more freedom and success. "Andromache," "Britannicus," and "Berenice" succeeded one to the other. The first, we are told, had a striking success; and it was said to have cost the life of Montfleuri, a celebrated actor, who put so much passion into the part of Orestes that he fell a victim to the excitement. "Berenice" was written at the desire of Henrietta of England, duchess of Orleans. It was called a duel, since she imposed the same subject, at the same time, on Corneille. Racine's was the better tragedy, and must always be read with deep interest; for to its own merit it adds the interest of commemorating the struggles of passion that Louis XIV. experienced, when, in his early days, he loved that charming princess. The subject, however, is too uniform, and the catastrophe not sufficiently tragic. Boileau felt its defects; and said that, had he been by, he would have prevented his friend's accepting the princess's challenge to write on such a subject. When Chapelle was asked what he thought of Berenice, he summed up the defects of the play in a few words. "What I think?" he said, "why, Marion weeps; Marion sobs; Marion wants to be married." That Racine should have excelled Corneille on this subject is not to be wondered; but Corneille had still many adherents who disdained, and tried to put down, his young rival. He had habituated the French audiences to a more heroic cast of thought than Racine could portray. The eager eloquence, the impetuous passions, and even the love of the elder poet were totally unlike the softness and tenderness of the younger. Racine, therefore encountered much criticism, which rendered him very unhappy. He told his son, in after years, that he suffered far more pain from the faults found with his productions than he ever experienced pleasure from their success. This avowal at once displays the innate weakness of the man.[101] Madame de Sévigné was among the partisans of Corneille; and her criticism shows the impression made on such by the new style of the young poet. "I send you "Bajazet," she writes to her daughter: "I wish I could also send you Champmélé to animate the piece. It contains agreeable passages, but nothing perfectly beautiful; nothing that carries one away; none of those tirades of Corneille that make one shudder. Racine can never be compared to him. Let us always remember the difference. The former will never go beyond "Andromache;" he writes parts for Champmélé, and not for future ages. When he is no longer young, and has ceased to be susceptible of love, he will cease to write as well as he now does." This opinion is at least false. The tragedies of Racine still live, or at least did so while Talma and the classic theatre survived in France. And "Athalie," written in his more advanced years, is the best of his works.

In the interval between "Andromaque" and "Britannicus" his comedy of "Les Plaideurs" appeared. A sort of lay benefice had been conferred on him, but he had scarcely obtained it when it was disputed by a priest; and then began a lawsuit, which, as he says, "neither he nor his judges understood." Tired out by law proceedings, weary of consulting advocates and soliciting judges, he abandoned his benefice, consoling himself meanwhile by writing the comedy of "Les Plaideurs," which was suggested by it. We have spoken, in the preceding pages, of the suppers where Racine, Boileau, Molière, and others met; in which they gave full play to their fancy, and gaiety and wit were the order of the day. At these suppers the plot of the projected comedy was talked over. One guest provided him with the proper legal terms. Boileau furnished the idea of the dispute between Chicaneau and the countess: he had witnessed a similar scene in the apartments of his brother, a scrivener, between a well-known lawyer and the countess de Crissé, who had passed her life, and dissipated her property, in lawsuits. The parliament of Paris, wearied by her pertinacious litigiousness, forbade her to carry on any suit without the consent of two advocates, who were named. She was furious at this sentence; and, after wearying judges, barristers, and attorneys by her repinings, she visited Boileau's brother, where she met the person in question. This man, a Paul Pry by inclination, was eager to advise her: she was at first delighted, till he said something to annoy her, and they quarrelled violently. This character being introduced into the comedy, the actress, who took the part, mimicked the poor countess to the life, even to the wearing a faded pink gown, such as she usually wore. Many other traits of this comedy were anecdotes actually in vogue; and the exordium of Intimé, who, when pleading about a capon, adopted the opening of Cicero's oration, "Pro Quintio,"--"Quæ res in civitate duæ plurimum possunt, hæ contra nos ambæ faciunt hoc tempore, summa gratia et eloquentia," had actually been put to use by an advocate in a petty cause between a baker and a pastrycook.