Part 18

Thus the poet creates, and such is poetical genius. Events, and even positions, are not what he deems most important, or what he takes delight in inventing; his power aims at exercising itself otherwise than in searching after incidents of a more or less singular character, and adventures of a more or less touching nature; it manifests itself by the creation of man himself; and when it creates man, it creates him complete, armed at all points as he should be, to suffice for all the vicissitudes of life, and to present the aspect of reality in every sense of the word. Othello is something far more than a blind and jealous husband, urged to commit murder by his jealousy; this is only his position during the play, and his character goes far beyond his position. The sun-burned Moor, with ardent blood, and a keen and brutal imagination, credulous by the violence of his temperament as well as by the excess of his passion; the successful soldier, proud of his fortune and his glory, respectful and submissive to the power from which he holds his rank, never forgetting the duties of war in the blandishments of love, and bitterly regretting the joys of war when he loses all the happiness of love; the man whose life has been harsh and agitated, for whom gentle and tender pleasures are something novel which astonishes while it delights him, and which does not inspire him with a feeling of security, although his character is full of generosity and confidence; Othello, in a word, delineated, not only in those portions of himself which have a present and direct connection with the accidental position in which he is placed, but in the whole extent of his nature, and as he has been made by the entire course of his destiny; this is what Shakspeare enables us to see. In the same manner, Iago is not merely an irritated enemy desirous of revenge, or an ordinary rascal anxious to destroy a happiness which he can not contemplate with satisfaction; he is a cynical and reasoning wretch, who has made for himself a philosophy of egotism and a science of crime; who looks upon men merely as instruments or obstacles to his personal interests; who despises virtue as an absurdity, and yet hates it as an injury; who preserves entire independence of thought, while engaged in the most servile conduct; and who, at the very moment when his crimes are about to cost him his life, still enjoys, with ferocious pride, the evil which he has done, as if it were a proof of his superiority.

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Pass in review all the personages of the tragedy, from its heroes down to the least important characters--Desdemona, Cassio, Emilia, Bianca; we behold them appearing, not under vague aspects, and with those features only which correspond to their dramatic position, but with precise and complete forms, and all the elements which constitute personality. Cassio is not introduced merely to become the object of Othello's jealousy, and as a necessity of the drama; he has his own character, inclinations, qualities, and defects; and from what he is naturally flows the influence which he exercises upon what occurs to him. Emilia is not merely an attendant employed by the poet as an instrument either of the entanglement or of the discovery of the perfidies which lead to the catastrophe; she is the wife of Iago, whom she does not love, and whom she obeys because she fears him; but although she distrusts him, she has actually contracted, in the society of that man, somewhat of the immorality of his mind; nothing is pure either in her thoughts or in her words; and yet she is kind-hearted and attached to her mistress, and detests evil and deeds of darkness. Bianca herself has her own physiognomy, entirely independent of the little part which she plays in the action. Forget the events, set aside the drama, and all these personages will continue real, animated, and distinct; they possess inherent vitality, and their existence will not disappear with their position. In them is displayed the creative power of the poet, and the facts, to him, are only the stage upon which he bids his characters appear.

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Just as the novel of Giraldi Cinthio, in Shakspeare's hands, became "Othello," so, in the hands of Voltaire, "Othello" became "Zaire." I do not wish to compare the two works; such comparisons are almost always vain _jeux d'esprit_, which prove nothing, except the personal opinion of the judge himself. Voltaire also was a man of genius; the best proof of genius is the empire which it wields over men; wherever the power of interesting, moving, and charming a whole people is displayed, this fact alone answers every objection; genius is there, whatever fault may be found with the dramatic system or the poet. But it is curious to observe the infinite variety of the means by which genius manifests itself, and how many different forms the same ground-work of positions and feelings may receive from it.

Shakspeare borrowed facts from the Italian novelist; with the exception of the _dénouement_, he has rejected and invented none. Now facts are precisely what Voltaire has not borrowed from Shakspeare. The entire contexture of the drama, the places, incidents, and springs of action, are all new--all of his own creation. That which struck Voltaire, and which he desired to reproduce, was the passion, the jealousy--its blindness and violence; the conflict of love and duty, and its tragic results. The whole power of his imagination was brought to bear upon the development of this position. The fable, a free invention, was constructed with this sole end in view. Lusignan, Nerestan, the ransom of the prisoners--all the circumstances are intended to place Zaire between her love and the faith of her father, to explain the error of Orosmane, and thus to lead to the progressive manifestation of the feelings which the poet desired to delineate. {225} He has not impressed upon his personages an individual and complete character, independent of the circumstances in which they appear. They exist only by and for passion. Beyond their love and their misfortune, Orosmane and Zaire have nothing to distinguish them, to give them a physiognomy peculiarly their own, and to make them every where recognizable. They are not real individuals, in whom are revealed, in connection with one of the incidents of their life, the particular characteristics of their nature and the impress of their whole existence. They are in some sort general, and consequently, somewhat vague beings, in whom love, jealousy, and misfortune are momentarily personified, and who interest less on their own account, and by reason of their own character, than because they then become for a time the representatives of this portion of the feelings and possible destinies of human nature.

From this manner of conceiving the subject, Voltaire has derived admirable beauties. Grave defects and omissions have also resulted from it. The gravest of all is that romantic tint which, as it were, subjects the whole man to love, and thus limits the field of poetry, at the same time that it derogates from truth. I will quote only one example of the effects of this system; but it will suffice to indicate all.

The Senate of Venice has just assured Othello of the tranquil possession of Desdemona; he is happy, but he must depart; he must embark for Cyprus, and devote his attention to the expedition confided to his care; so he says,

"Come, Desdemona, I have but an hour Of love, of worldly matter and direction, To spend with thee: we must obey the time."

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These lines struck Voltaire, and he has imitated them; but, in imitating them, what does he put into the mouth of Orosmane, when equally happy and confident? Just the contrary of what Othello says:

"Je vais donner une heure aux soins de mon empire, Et le reste du jour sera a Zaire."

Thus Orosmane, the proud sultan, who, a moment before, was speaking of war and conquest, expressing his alarm for the fate of the Mussulmans, and blaming the sloth of his neighbors, now appears as neither sultan nor warrior; he forgets all else, and becomes only a lover. Assuredly, Othello is not less passionate than Orosmane, and his passion will be neither less credulous nor less violent; but he does not abdicate, in an instant, all the interests, and all the thoughts, of his past and future life. Love possesses his heart without invading his whole existence. The passion of Orosmane is that of a young man who has never done any thing, and never had any thing to do, and who is as yet ignorant of the necessities and labors of the real world. That of Othello takes root in a more complete, more experienced, and more serious character. I believe it to be less factitious, and in greater conformity to moral probabilities, as well as to positive truth. But, however this may be, the difference between the two systems is fully revealed in this feature alone. In one the passion and the position are all; from them the poet derives all his means. In the other he obtains his resources from individual characters and the whole of human nature; passion and a position are, for him, only an opportunity for bringing them on the stage with greater energy and interest.

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The action which constitutes the subject of "Othello" must be referred to the year 1570, the period of the principal attack of the Turks on the island of Cyprus, then under the rule of the Venetians. As for the date of the composition of the tragedy itself, Mr. Malone fixes it in the year 1611. Some critics doubt whether Shakspeare was acquainted with the original novel of Giraldi Cinthio, and suppose that he only had access to a French imitation of it, published at Paris in 1584, by Gabriel Chappuys. But the exactness with which Shakspeare has conformed to the Italian narrative, even in the slightest details, leads me to believe that he made use of some more literal English translation.

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Shakspeare's Othello,

And

Dramatic Art In France In 1830

By The Duke De Broglie. [Footnote 28]

[Footnote 28: Reprinted from the "Revue Franca se." January. 1830]

It was not in vain that some far-seeing, conservative, and especially wise spirits addressed themselves to the authorities in the year of grace 1829; and not without good reason did they call to their aid Cæsar and his legions--that is to say, his excellency the Minister of the Interior and the honorable gentlemen of the Chamber of Deputies, adjuring them to save the sanctuary of the Muses from ruin, and to repulse the onward advance of the barbarians. The danger was only too real; and this time, as in times gone by, as Cæsar paid no regard to it, their pathetic complaints, their _gemitus Britannorum_, having been dissolved into empty vapor, behold now the evil has become irremediable! The barbarians who knocked at the doors, emboldened by impunity, have forced their way through the first inclosure; they have made a breach in the body of the place; or rather, they have constrained the citadel itself to capitulate. The Théâtre Français has surrendered through want of timely succor, because the opportunity for infusing into it new vitality was neglected. Attila-Shakspeare has taken possession of it with arms and baggage, his banners are streaming, and the clang of a thousand trumpet-calls sound in wild confusion. {229} Alas! poor poets of the old school, what will become of you? Naught remains but that feeble souls should surrender at discretion, and sacrifice themselves on the altars of the false gods, and that true believers should cover their faces with their mantles.

Banter apart, the revolution which has for some time been going on in the taste of the public is a curious phenomenon, and one singularly worthy of attention. Never has a remarkable change been introduced in a more startling mode and with greater rapidity.

Scarcely twenty years have elapsed since M. Nepomucène Lemercier launched, on the stage of the Odeon, the vessel which conveyed Christopher Columbus and his genius from Spain to America. We know what was the actual reception which this attempt in the romantic style met with. However, the name of the author commanded respect, and his rare talent gave him at least a right to indulgence. In other respects he proved himself quite as hardy and prudent as his hero; he had, before hazarding his adventure, neglected nothing in order to disarm the prejudices of the pit. He only offered this foundling child as a caprice of his imagination--an unimportant freak; in decorating it, he had not scrupled to profane the consecrated regulations of tragedy, of comedy, yea, even of melodrama. His friends protested in favor of his profound regard for the triple unity; for the most sacred Aristotelian trinity; for the canonical precepts which had been consecrated in the poetic codes of Horace and Boileau, and illustrated in the learned glosses of Le Batteux and La Harpe, and in the "Rhetoric for Young Ladies." Useless precautions! In spite of the originality and unquestionable beauties which he displayed, his unfortunate "Columbus" was outrageously and repeatedly hissed. {230} Those who ventured to do him justice paid dearly for such audacity; they narrowly escaped being torn to pieces by the rest of the spectators, to such an excessive height was the popular indignation roused; there were, if we remember rightly, two who were almost knocked down on the spot--martyrs to a cause which had hardly sprung into life--the John Huss and Jerome of Prague, of a doctrine which was yet to have its Luther and its Melancthon.

At the present day, we behold at our theatres, with the greatest composure, the representation of pieces in which a duration of some twenty, thirty, or forty years, as the case may be, is condensed into an hour between eight and nine o'clock in the evening; pieces in which, literally speaking, the principal personage,

"Enfant au premier acte, est barbon au dernier;"

pieces which are not, in other respects, very much entitled to the indulgence which is thus shown to them. While seated serenely upon our benches, we follow, without the smallest compunction, King Louis XI. from Plessis-les-Tours to Péronne, only regretting that this trifling cruise is not for us entirely a pleasure-voyage.

Seven or eight years ago two or three English comedians, who happened to be in Paris, formed the scheme of giving us at the Theatre of the Porte Saint-Martin--the Theatre of the "Femme à deux Maris" and of the "Pied de Mouton"--a specimen of their skill. Forthwith a great stir arose. The capture of Calais and of Dunkirk by the troops of his Britannic majesty would not certainly have excited a more patriotic wrath. As the guardians of pure doctrines, and the depositaries of wholesome traditions in all matters of taste, the boulevard public took this matter in hand with a quite inconceivable violence, and had it not been for the intervention of the police, Heaven only knows whether the unfortunate gentlemen of the histrionic art from the other side of the Channel would not have been stoned.

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Who could then have foreseen that, three years later, the lions of Covent Garden and Drury Lane would continually cross and recross the Channel to minister to our gratification? that the most brilliant company of Paris would assiduously throng the most fashionable of our theatres in order to applaud them to the echo, and to lavish upon their system of declamation eulogies which (may we venture to say so?) were perhaps rather exaggerated?

Every one will recollect the murmurs which, on the occasion of the first representation of the "Cid d'Andalousie," interrupted that charming scene in which the hero of the piece, sitting tranquilly at the feet of his beloved--without purpose for the future, undisturbed by present cares, completely possessed with the idea of his approaching happiness, profoundly forgetful of the world, of men, and of all things--occupies her with the fond recital of the progress of their mutual love, and recalls to her, in verses full of delicacy and grace, the first stealthy indications of their unspoken attachment.

On this occasion, neither the talents of Talma nor those of Mademoiselle Mars could obtain any tolerance from the rigorous severity of the pit. The pit found that a beautiful scene was an appendage, that it interfered with the rapidity of the action; in one word, that it openly violated the rule, _Semper ad eventum festina;_ it was, therefore, inexorable.

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Enter into the Thèâtre Français on the following day there you will see Desdemona devoted to death by the stern Othello, yet half escaping from his sinister designs and terribly distorted misconceptions, on the point of crossing the threshold of that fatal chamber which was to become her sepulchre; you will see her, we say, pausing to detach, piece by piece, in the presence of the public, the ornaments with which she is decked, and to converse carelessly with her maid; you will see her interrupt your confidence in the reality of the distress which is harrowing her, by informing herself of the news brought from Venice by her young relative, the messenger of the Senate; then, all at once, recalling to her memory the days of her childhood, you will hear her murmur, in an under-tone, an old ballad no way indicating her position, except by the inexplicable sadness which is impressed upon her. You will see her at length terminate this conversation by gravely discussing the virtue and the frailty of women; by reproving with a modest and indulgent dignity the fickleness of Emilia, and humbly praying God to watch over her, and to keep her ever pure and discreet. And you will see the public justly delighted with this scene, and manifesting far more chagrin than impatience at its close.

It is right, nevertheless, to remark one thing; namely, that this remarkable revolution has been accomplished in respect to the taste of the public rather, or at least more decidedly, than with respect to its doctrines.

If a dramatic work be presented to the public, constructed according to the new ideas, it is received with a degree of eagerness--the public is pleased with it--it alone suffices to put them into good humor. The cup-and-ball and penny-trumpet playthings of the favorites of Henry III., more than any kind of merit that belongs to the piece, have sustained the position of M. Dumas's drama. [Footnote 29]

[Footnote 29: "Henri III. et sa Cour."]

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The delight of seeing Richard of England--deformed, crippled, and facetious--has redeemed whatever might be deemed repulsive in the subject of "Jane Shore." "Olga" owes its success to the singular circumstance of its having been played by comic actors; and "Marino Faliero" owes some little of its repute to the idea which it suggests of a false alliance between tragedy and melodrama.

But to tolerate, to connive, even to look with some satisfaction, is not entirely to approve. Should any one attempt to build too hastily on this foundation, if he were to rush to the conclusion that this same public has distinctly taken part in the controversy which has divided the literary world for fifteen or twenty years, he would very soon find himself considerably mistaken; in fact, there is often a very great difference between a man's actions and his principles, and many men who would gladly be libertines would not dare openly to declare themselves free-thinkers. Our public smiles at the attempts of the innovators, but can not escape feeling a few qualms of conscience; it is gratified at them, but it is not quite sure whether it has any good right and reason for its gratification. Success and applause you may obtain from them, and that even at a very cheap rate; provided, however, that this shall not be understood as furnishing any authoritative precedent. If, on the other hand, matters take a more serious turn; if you ask the public to commit itself by a definite profession of faith, and to give its sanction, by any reflective and irrevocable act, to any dogmas of dramatic reform, you will be surprised at finding this same public infinitely circumspect.

We need not go far in search of the proof of this; the manifestations which were made at the first representation of the "Moor of Venice" were such as to leave no doubts on this point.

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On this occasion, in fact, the attempt was made without disguise. In its reception, there was no possibility of giving a tacit recognition of the change, while refusing, under shallow pretexts, to avow it. It was no longer a question as to the amount of encouragement that might be bestowed on a young author; there could be no pretense of complacently shutting the eyes to this or that license, in consideration of the address and caution shown in the style of its presentation; and no motive for indulgence could be suggested either by the small importance of the work itself, or by the more or less fluctuating condition of the theatre. No! Now a real verdict had to be pronounced; either a dramatic system entirely opposed to our own must be inaugurated, before gods and men, or its establishment must be defeated; either William Shakspeare must be received, or rejected as a rival of the masters of our stage.

This event had been for a long time in preparation; and the result was awaited with some impatience. While announcing it with the most varying expectations, the majority of our public journals agreed in declaring that this would be a memorable day--a day on which the dispute between the classical and romantic schools would be fought out upon an open arena--a day which must decide either for the triumph or for the failure of the new doctrines in literature.