slain Curatii
Camilla-
ORATIUS -Lo, sister, the arm that hath brothers avenged!
Camilla-
ORATIUS -Lo, sister, the arm that hath brothers avenged!
Warner - World's Best Literature - v07 - Cic to Cuv
These four
plays are much like their predecessors in lack of action and super-
fluity of complimentary talk. The same may be said of Corneille's
collaboration on Richelieu's 'Comedy of The Tuileries' (1635). His
superiority to his colleagues at this time consisted mainly in his
poetic talent and common-sense.
In the season of 1634-35 he tried a tragedy, 'Medea,' patterned
after Seneca's Latin drama of that name. It shows an advance on
his previous efforts, yet did not come up to his high standard; and
he sought a diversion for his disappointment by eulogizing the theat-
rical profession in a play within a play, The Dramatic Illusion,›
which he gave to the actors of the Hôtel of Burgundy, probably
in 1635.
About this time Corneille's attention was drawn to the Spanish
drama, then at its highest point. The storied deeds of Spain's na-
tional hero especially appealed to his temperament, and he selected
Guillen de Castro's 'First Exploits of the Cid' as a model for his
imitation. A year or more he may have been busy in adapting its
complexity of scene and character to the orderly, simple require-
ments of the French stage. For it was not till the last days of 1636,
after unusual preparations in rehearsals and costuming, that Mon-
dory's company brought out The Cid. ' Its success was instantane-
ous. The theatre was crowded for many nights. The stage even
was filled in with seats for the nobility, to the great annoyance of
the actors and the detriment of the scenery. And sixteen years
later, Pellisson, the historian of the Academy, could still write:-
:- "It
is difficult to conceive the approbation with which this play was re-
ceived by the Court and public. People never tired of going to it;
you could hear nothing else talked about; everybody knew some part
of it by heart; children were made to learn it, and in several places
in France it gave rise to the proverb, That is as beautiful as The
Cid. '»
The history of modern French drama dates from the first perform-
ance of The Cid. ' The theme here selected became the typical one.
It shows the struggle between love and honor on the part of the
hero, love and duty on the part of the heroine. Jimena's father has
insulted Rodrigo's, enfeebled by his advanced years. He calls upon
his son to avenge his honor. In spite of his love for Jimena, Rodrigo
shows no hesitation. He challenges the Count and kills him. In the
lovers' interview which follows, Jimena is more distracted from her
duty by her love than Rodrigo was, but yet resolves on vengeance.
She demands a champion of the king, who objects that Rodrigo
## p. 4067 (#441) ###########################################
PIERRE CORNEILLE
4067
should be pardoned, having just saved the city from the invading
Moors. Jimena insists: a champion appears, is overthrown, and is
spared by Rodrigo, whereupon the king intervenes and orders the
betrothal of the lovers.
Since The Cid' ends happily, so far as the hero and heroine are
concerned, Corneille first called it a tragi-comedy, but later substi-
tuted the title of tragedy. Its general structure is the same as that
of his other plays,-five fairly equal acts, subdivided into scenes,
with rhymed Alexandrine couplets, excepting in a few lyric strophes.
The time of the action is limited to twenty-four hours, but the scene
of the action is restricted only by the boundaries of the town
(Seville), the different places being marked by a fixed scenery, which
presented several localities to the audience at the same time.
His dramatic form and stage properties Corneille had obtained
from his French predecessors of the classical school. The mediæval
Miracle Plays had practically fallen out of favor nearly a century
before 'Mélite,' and had been prohibited in Paris in 1548. But the
Fraternity of the Passion still occupied the only theatre in the city,
and had a monopoly of all the performances in the city and suburbs.
Into its theatre of the Hôtel of Burgundy it had put as much of its
old multiplex scenery as it could fit into the new and narrow stage.
And while it could no longer act the old Mysteries, still it clung to
dramatic stories which knew neither unity of time, place, nor even
action.
Outside of these playwrights, however, the Renaissance had created
a set of men who looked towards classical antiquity for their literary
standards. In 1552 Jodelle and his friends of the Pléiade had ap-
pealed to this class by acting in Boncourt College a tragedy modeled
on Seneca's Latin dramas. This example was subsequently followed
by many writers, who however rarely got their pieces acted, and
therefore fell into the way of writing without having the necessities
of stage effects in view. Consequently for nearly half a century the
best dramatists of France were strangers to the public of the Hôtel
of Burgundy, and were drifting more and more from a dramatic con-
ception of the theatre into a lyric one. Long declamatory mono-
logues, acts varying greatly in length and separated by elaborate
choruses, were the chief features of this school. Nothing happened
on the stage; all was told by messengers.
Yet these dramas, by their very lack of action and scenery, were
suited to the limited means of strolling companies of actors; and
modifications of them were being played more and more to provin-
cial audiences. Finally in 1599 one of these companies came to
Paris, leased the Hôtel of Burgundy from the Fraternity, now tired
of its avocation, and laid there the foundations of modern French
## p. 4068 (#442) ###########################################
4068
PIERRE CORNEILLE
drama. The purveyor to this troupe was Alexandre Hardy, a man of
some education, of considerable theatrical endowments, but lacking
in literary taste. True to his classical models so far as the unlettered
public of the Hôtel and its scenery would allow, he managed by
cutting down the monologues, equalizing the acts, restricting or
suppressing the choruses, and leading the dialogue to some climax
visible to his audience, to effect a compromise between the partisans
of the two schools and educate a new body of theatre-goers. His
scenery he could not change, and it still remained a constant temp-
tation to diversity of place and multiplication of episodes. Hardy
labored for more than thirty years. It is to his dramatic form,
audience, and stage that Corneille succeeded, continuing his work
while avoiding his excesses. And aided by the growing taste and
intelligence of his public, Corneille could further simplify and refine
the style of play in vogue.
Now De Castro's 'Cid' had enjoyed the freedom of the Miracle
Plays. It numbered three acts, divided into fifty-three scenes. Its
episodes, many of them purely digressive, occupied nearly two years
of time and were bounded in place only by the frontiers of Spain.
In order to reduce this epic exuberance to the severity of the classi-
cal mold, Corneille had to eliminate the digressive episodes, cut down
and combine the essential ones, connect the places where the action
took place, and lessen the time of its duration. In the French Cid,'
Rodrigo kills Jimena's father and is betrothed to her in less than
twenty-four hours.
This instance alone illustrates the effort Corneille made on him-
self. It caught also the eye of his rivals and critics. The Cid' was
fiercely assailed for its "inhumanity" and "improbability," and with
the connivance of Richelieu the newly organized Academy was called
upon to condemn it.
While the opinion of this body was not indeed
unfavorable, yet the dispute had so irritated Corneille that he retired
to Rouen and for a time renounced his art. When he reappeared, it
was as a dramatizer of classical subjects, that dealt with but one
episode to a play. But the romantic side still survived in the love
affair invariably interwoven with his nobler, sterner theme.
So 'Horace (1640) treated of the fight of the Horatii and the
Curatii, and the immolation of a woman's love to the Roman father-
land. 'Cinna (1640-41) narrated a conspiracy against Augustus,
which was undertaken through love for the heroine, but was par-
doned by the Emperor's magnanimity. Polyeuctus (1643) showed
how a steadfast Christian husband could preserve his wife's fidelity
against the memory of a first love, and how his martyrdom could
result in her conversion. Pompey (1643-44) recited the death of
that leader and the devotion of Cornelia, his wife, to his memory.
## p. 4069 (#443) ###########################################
PIERRE CORNEILLE
4069
These four plays, tragedies all, represent in their eloquence, their
diction, nobility of thought, and lofty aspiration, the highest develop-
ment of Corneille's dramatic genius.
After this period of serious composition Corneille sought relaxa-
tion in comedy, and produced from Spanish models The Liar'
(1644) and The Sequel to the Liar' (1645). Both are superior in
dialogue, action, and verse to his earlier plays, and the first re-
mained the best comedy of the new school up to the appearance of
Molière. Towards the end of 1645 'Rodogune' was acted, a tragedy
to which Corneille was ever partial on account of its highly wrought,
exciting solution. Théodore' (1646), the fate of another Christian
martyr, and 'Heraclius' (1646-47), preceded their author's election to
the Academy (January 22d, 1647). The Fronde then intervened, and
it was not till 1649 that Corneille's best tragi-comedy, 'Don San-
cho,' was performed.
(
A spectacular play or opera, Andromeda'
(1650), closely followed it. 'Nicomedes' (1651) was a successful
tragedy, 'Pertharite' (1652) a failure. Consequently for the next few
years Corneille devoted himself to religious poetry and a verse
translation of the 'Imitation of Christ. '
་
But the visit of Molière's company to Rouen in 1658 incited him
to write again for the stage. Edipus' (1659), Sertorius' (1662),
'Sophonisba (1663), 'Otho' (1664), 'Agesilas' (1666), and 'Attila '
(1667), all tragedies, were the result. Some were successful, but
others were not. Molière was now in full career, and Racine was
beginning. Corneille's defects were growing. His plays were too
much alike, and gallant talk supplied in them the place of deeds.
In 1660 a second spectacular drama, 'The Golden Fleece,' had been
performed; and the same year he had edited a general edition of his
plays, with a critical preface to each play and three essays on the
laws and theories of the drama. All this time he had not neglected
society and religious verse, and probably in 1662 he had moved from
Rouen to Paris.
>
A retirement of three years followed 'Attila. ' Then in 1670 Cor-
neille reappeared with the tragedy Titus and Berenice,' neglected.
by the public for Racine's 'Berenice. ' In 1671 he collaborated with
Molière and Quinault on a comedy-ballet, Psyche. ' In 1672 he wrote
'Pulcheria, a tragi-comedy, and in 1674 gave his last play, the
tragedy of Surena,' to the stage. Henceforth only supplicatory
poems addressed to the King reminded the Parisians of Corneille's
existence. In 1682 he published the final revision of his dramas, and
in 1684. on the night of September 30th, he passed away. He had
married in 1641. Four children survived him.
Corneille's contemporaries complain of his slovenliness, his timidity,
quick temper, and wearying conversation. He could never read his
## p. 4070 (#444) ###########################################
4070
PIERRE CORNEILLE.
own plays successfully, and is even said to have spoken French
incorrectly. He was reputed avaricious, but was continually lament-
ing his poverty, and seems to have died in want. He was quite
tall, well set, with large eyes and strongly marked features.
Besides his services to French comedy, Corneille may be said to
have established the higher comedy in verse, with its decent man-
ners and self-respecting characters. In this departure he undoubtedly
owed much to Plautus and Terence, but probably more to Hardy's
tragi-comedies and lighter plays. The chief merit of his style was
fine diction, eloquence, and harmony of phrase. His thought was
high and noble. As a dramatist he excelled in the invention and
variety of his situations. His defects were the reverse of these
qualities: rhetoric, subtle sentiment, stiff characters.
The best complete edition of Corneille is Marty-Laveaux's in the
Hachette series of 'Les Grands Écrivains de la France' (Great
Writers of France), 12 volumes, 1862-68. This edition contains a bio-
graphical notice. The most complete bibliography is E. Picot's
'Bibliographie Cornélienne' (Paris, 1865). J. Taschereau's 'Histoire
de la Vie et des Euvres de Corneille' (History of the Life and
Works of Corneille) is the best biography (published Paris, 1829: 3d
edition, 1869). F. Guizot's Corneille and His Times' is the only life
that has been translated into English (London, 1857). Of the separate
plays, The Cid,' 'Horace,' and 'Polyeuctus' have been rendered
into English blank verse by W. F. Nokes (Hachette and Company),
and these three, together with 'Cinna,' have been literally translated
by R. Mongan and D. McRae (London: 1878-86. )
L. M Warren.
THE LOVERS
From The Cid'
The scene is an apartment in the house of Chimène's father in Seville.
Chimène and Elvire are conversing, after Chimène has learned
that her father, the Count de Gormas, has lost his life in a
duel with Don Rodrigue, the son of an aged nobleman insulted by
De Gormas.
CH
HIMÈNE At stake is my honor; revenge must be mine;
Whate'er the desire love may flattering stir,
To the soul nobly born all excuse is disgrace.
## p. 4071 (#445) ###########################################
PIERRE CORNEILLE
4071
Elvire-
Thou lov'st Don Rodrigue; he can never offend.
Chimène-
I admit it.
Elvire-
Chimène-
Admitting it, how canst thou act?
-
By sustaining my honor, by casting my care-
Pursue him, destroy him, and after him — die.
Don Rodrigue [entering as she speaks the last words] —
'Tis well! Without taking the pains of pursuit,
Be secure in the pleasure of ending my days.
Chimène
―
Elvire, oh where are we? What, what do I see?
Rodrigue in this house! Before me, Rodrigue!
Don Rodrigue-
Oh, spare not my blood; unresisted, pray taste
Of my ruin the sweetness, of vengeance the joy.
Chimène-
Alas!
--
Chimène
Don Rodrigue-Hear me, lady!
Chimène
Don Rodrigue-
Chimène
-
Go, I say; let me die!
Don Rodrigue-
Chimène
--
Ah, vouchsafe me a word!
And once I have spoke, make reply with—this sword.
――――――
―――――
Chimène-
What! The sword e'en now red with the blood of my sire!
Don Rodrigue-
Chimène, my Chimène!
―
Hide that hideous steel,
That rebuketh my eyes for thy crime and thy life.
Don Rodrigue-
Chimène-
I die!
-
But one word
Nay, rather behold it, thy hate to excite,
Thy wrath to increase — and my doom so to speed.
-
It is tinged with my blood.
Don Rodrigue-
Plunge it then into mine,
That so it may lose the dread tint of thy veins.
Ah, fate all too cruel! that slays in one day
The father by steel, and the daughter by sight!
Take away, as I bid, what I cannot endure;
Thou will'st that I hearken -and kill'st me meantime!
## p. 4072 (#446) ###########################################
PIERRE CORNEILLE
4072
Don Rodrigue-
What thou wishest I do; but with no less desire
That my life, now deplorable, ends by your hand;
For expect not, I beg, from my passion itself
A coward's repentance of deed so deserved.
From thy father's rash hand came a blow-past recall;
It dishonored my sire in his honored old age.
What are blows to a man of due honor thou knowest.
In the shame I had part, and its author must seek;
Him I saw-both my father and honor I 'venged;
I would do it again, if I had it to do.
Yet think not 'gainst duty to father and self
My love for thee, lady, no contest has made;
Of thy power in this moment do thou be the judge.
Too well might I doubt if such vengeance I dared.
Bound to please thee, Chimène, or to suffer affront,
Too rash seemed my arm - I would fain hold it back;
With a deed all too violent blamed I myself:
Thy beauty had weighed down the balance at last,
Had I not, to thy charms, countervailing, opposed
That a man lost to honor could not thee deserve;
That once having loved me when blameless I lived,
She who cared for me stainless must hate me disgraced;
That to hearken to love, to obey its soft voice,
Was to find myself shameful- thy favor to stain.
Again do I tell thee-and while I shall breathe
Unchanged shall I think and unchanging will say -
I have done thee offense, but I could not halt back,
A disgrace to remove and thyself to deserve.
But now, quits with honor, and quits toward my sire,
'Tis thee, thee alone, I would fain satisfy;
'Tis to proffer my blood that thou seest me here.
I have done what I should what is left I would do.
Well I know that thy father's death arms thee toward mine;
Not thee have I wished of thy victim to cheat.
Boldly immolate, now, the blood he has spilled –
The being who glories that such was his deed.
――――
Chimène-
Ah, Rodrigue! True it is that though hostile I am,
No blame can I speak that disgrace thou hast fled;
Howe'er from my lips this my dolor break forth,
I dare not accuse thee-I weep for my woes.
I know that thy honor, on insult so deep,
Demanded of ardor a valorous proof.
## p. 4073 (#447) ###########################################
PIERRE CORNEILLE
Thou hast done but the duty enjoined on the brave:
Yet more, in its doing 'tis mine thou hast taught.
By thy courage funest, and thy conquest, I'm schooled;
Thy father avenged and thine honor upheld,
Like care, see, is mine; for to load me with grief,
I must father avenge, I must honor uphold!
Alas, 'tis thy part here that brings me despair.
Had aught other misfortune bereft me of sire,
My heart in the joy of beholding thyself
The sole solace that heart could receive would have found
Against my affliction a charm would be strong,
My tears would be dried by the dearest of hands.
But lo! I must lose thee, my father a loss;
And the more that my soul may in torment be thrown,
My star has decreed that I compass thy end.
Expect not, in turn, from the passion I own,
That my hand I shall stay from thy punishment meet;
Thy direful offense makes thee worthy of me;
By thy death I shall show myself worthy of thee.
Unrhymed literal version in the metre of the original, by E. Irenæus
Stevenson.
4073
DON RODRIGUE DESCRIBES TO KING FERNANDO HIS VICTORY
OVER THE MOORS
From The Cid>
NDER me, then, the troop made advance,
With soldierly confidence marked on each brow.
Five hundred we started, but soon reinforced,
Three thousand we were when the port we had reached;
So much did mere sight of our numbers, our mien,
New courage revive in all timorous hearts.
Two-thirds did I ambush, as soon as arrived,
U
In the vessels in harbor, that ready were found;
But the others, whose numbers each hour did increase,
With impatience on fire, all about me encamped,
Stretched out on the earth passed the beauteous night.
In the harbor, I order the guards to like watch;
Their concealment my stratagem further assists;—
I dared to declare, Sire, as thine the command
That I so followed out, and enjoined upon all.
In the radiance pallid that fell from the stars,
At last, with the flood-tide we spy thirty sails;
## p. 4074 (#448) ###########################################
4074
PIERRE CORNEILLE
Beneath swells the wave, and in movement therewith,
The sea and the Moors into harbor advance.
We permit them a passage-to them all seemed calm,
Our soldiers unseen, and the walls without ward.
Our silence profound well deluded their wit;
No longer they doubt our surprise is achieved;
Without fear they draw nearer - they anchor-they land—
They run to the hands that are waiting to strike.
Then rise we together, and all in a breath
Utter clamorous shoutings that heavenward rise.
From the ships to such signal our troops make response;
They stand forth in arms, and the Moors are dismayed;
By dread they are seized when but half-disembarked;
Ere the battle's begun they have deemed themselves lost.
They have come but to pillage - 'tis fight that they meet.
We assail them on sea, we assail them on land;
On the ground runs the blood we set flowing in streams
Ere a soul can resistor fly back to his post.
But soon in our spite the chiefs rallied their host,
Their courage awoke, and their fear was o'ercome:
The shame of their dying without having fought,
Their disorder arrests, and their valor restores.
A firm stand they take, and their swords are unsheathed;
The land and the stream, ay, the fleet and the port,
Are a field where, triumphant o'er carnage, is death.
Oh, many the deeds, the exploits worthy fame,
In that horror of darkness are buried for aye,
When each, the sole witness of blows that he struck,
Could not guess whither Fortune the conflict would steer!
I flew to all sides to encourage our force,
Here to push into action, and there to restrain,
To enrank the newcoming, to spur them in turn,
Yet naught could I know till the breaking of day.
But with dawn and the light, our advantage was plain;
The Moors saw their ruin; their courage declined;
And beholding new succor approach to our side,
Changed their ardor for battle to sheer dread of death.
Their vessels they seek,-every cable is cut;
For farewells to our ears are sent up their wild cries;
Their retreat is a tumult-no man ever heeds
If their princes and kings have made good their escape.
Even duty itself yields to fear so extreme.
On the flood-tide they came, the ebb bears them away;
Meantime their two Kings with our host still engaged,
## p. 4075 (#449) ###########################################
PIERRE CORNEILLE
'Mid a handful of followers, slashed by our blows,
In valiance contending, are selling life dear.
In vain to surrender I beg them- entreat,
With the cimeter gripped, not a word will they hear:
But at sight of their troops falling dead at their feet,
The brave who alone make so vain a defense,
Our chief they demand; and to me they submit.
To you, O my Sire, have I sent them, each one—
And the combatants lacking, the combat was done.
THE WRATH OF CAMILLA
From the 'Horace'
Horatius, the only survivor of the combat, advances to meet his sister
Camilla with Proculus at his side, bearing the swords of the three
one of whom was Camilla's betrothed. Camilla sur-
veys him with horror and disdain as he advances.
slain Curatii
Camilla-
ORATIUS -Lo, sister, the arm that hath brothers avenged! -
H
The arm that our fate so contrary has checked,
The arm that makes Alba our own; and to-day
By one deed the lot of two nations hath fixed.
See these tokens of honor-my glory's attest.
Do thou pay the tribute now due to my fame.
Receive then my tears: for my tears are thy due.
after action so bold.
the combat's dark fate,
Nay, Rome likes them not,
Our brothers, both slain by
Are avenged by this blood no more weeping demand.
If a loss be so paid, then the loss is no more.
Horatius-
Camilla
Horatius-
Camilla
-
―
Horatius
Since thou deemest my brothers by blood so appeased,
I will cease to show sign of my grief for their death;
But who shall avenge me my lover's death, say?
And make me forget in one moment such loss?
What sayest thou, unhappy?
――――――
O beloved Curiace!
4075
O boldness disgraceful, from sister disgraced!
The name on thy lips and the love in thy heart
Of the foe of our people, whose conquest is mine!
## p. 4076 (#450) ###########################################
4076
PIERRE CORNEILLE
Thy criminal flame to such vengeance aspires!
Thou darest to utter such thought of thy heart!
Follow passion the less, better rule thy desire:
Make me not so to blush that thy sighs are not hid;
From this moment thou owest to smother thy flame,
Free thy heart from them- dwell on these trophies instead,
And make them from this hour thy sole pleasure in life.
Camilla
―――
Nay, first give me, cruel, a heart hard as thine,
And if thou wilt seek all my spirit to read,
Give me back Curiace, or my passion let glow.
My joy and my grief of his lot are a part;
Him living I loved him in death I deplore.
No more find me sister-deserted by thee!
Behold in me only a woman outraged,
Who like to some Fury pursuing thy steps-
Unceasing shall charge thee with trespass so great!
O tiger, blood-gorged, who forbiddest my tears,
Who would see me find joy in this death thou hast wrought,
Who vauntest to Heaven itself such a deed,
Shall I by approval bring death to him—twice?
Misfortunes so dire, may they follow thy life
That thou fallest to envying even my own!
Oh, soon by some cowardice mayest thou blot
This glory thy brutal soul reckons so dear!
Horatius-
O heavens! hath any an equal rage seen?
Dost thou think I could brook, all unmoved, such offense ?
That race could endure a dishonor so deep?
Love, love thou the death which means good to thy State,
Prefer to thy passion and thoughts of this man
The sentiment due to a daughter of Rome!
Camilla-
Rome! Object supreme of the wrath that I feel!
This Rome, to whose aid came thy arm-and my loss;
Rome, city that bore thee-by thee so adored!
Rome, hated the more for its honoring thee!
O may each of her neighbors together in league
Sap every foundation, as yet so unsure!
Nay, if Italy be not enough to the fall,
Let the East and the West for her ruin unite;
Let peoples conjoined from the four winds of heaven,
Be met to her downfall; let hills aid, and seas;
O'erthrown on her walls may she prostrate be cast,
## p. 4077 (#451) ###########################################
PIERRE CORNEILLE
4077
Torn out by her own hands, her entrails be strewn!
May the anger of Heaven, here kindled by me,
Rain down on her dwellings a deluge of fire!
O grant that mine own eyes such thunderbolt see! -
See her mansions in ashes, her laurels in dust,
See the latest of Romans yielding his last breath,
I cause of it all- I dying of joy!
[With the last words Camilla rushes from the apartment. Horace snatches
his sword and pursues her, exclaiming:—]
Oh too much! Even reason to passion gives place.
Go, weep thou thy lost Curiace in the shades!
[After an instant is heard behind the scenes the shriek of the wounded
Camilla:-]
Ah, traitor!
Horace [returning to the stage]-
S
――――
Receive thou quick chastisement, due
Whomsoever shall dare Roman foe to lament.
EVERUS
Unrhymed literal version in the metre of the original, by E. Irenæus
Stevenson.
Paulina
.
PAULINA'S APPEAL TO SEVERUS
From Polyeucte
I stand agaze,
Rooted, confounded, in sheer wonderment.
Such blind resolve is so unparalleled,
I scarce may trust the witness of mine ears.
A heart that loves you-and what heart so poor
That knowing, loves you not? —one loved of you,
To leave regretless so much bliss just won!
Nay, more - as though it were a fatal prize —
To his corrival straight to yield it up!
Truly, or wondrous manias Christians have,
Or their self-happiness must be sans bourn,
Since to attain it they will cast away
What others at an empire's cost would win.
For me, had fate, a little sooner kind,
--
Blessed my true service with your hand's reward,
The glory of your eyes had been my worship;
My twin kings had they reigned-kings? nay, my gods!
To dust, to powder, had I grinded been
E'er I had-
Hold! let me not hear too much;
Let not the smoldering embers of old time
## p. 4078 (#452) ###########################################
4078
PIERRE CORNEILLE
Relume to speech unworthy of us both.
Severus, know Paulina utterly:
His latest hour my Polyeuctus nears;
Nay, scarce a minute has he yet to live.
You all unwittingly have been the cause
Of this his death. I know not if your thoughts,
Their portals opening to your wish's knock,
Have dared to some wild hope give harboring,
Based upon his undoing; but know well,
No death so cruel I would not boldly front,
Hell hath no tortures I would not endure,
Or e'er my stainless honor I would spot,
My hand bestowing upon any man
Who anywise were his death's instrument.
And could you for such madness deem me apt,
Hate would replace my erstwhile tender love.
You're generous still be so, to the end:
My father fears you; is in mood to grant
All you might ask; ay, I e'en dare aver
That if my husband he do sacrifice,
"Twill be to you. Save then your hapless victim;
Bestir yourself; stretch him your helping hand!
That this is much to claim of you, I know,
But more the effort's great, the more the glory!
To save a rival 'spite of rivalry
Were greatness all particular to you.
And-be that not enough for your renown
'Twere much to let a woman erst so loved,
And haply who may yet be somewhat dear,
Her greatest treasure owe to your great heart.
In fine, remember that you are Severus!
Adieu! alone determine of your course;
For if you be not all I think you are,
I'd still, not knowing it, believe you such.
English Translation by W. F. Nokes.
## p. 4079 (#453) ###########################################
4079
VICTOR COUSIN
(1792-1867)
LL Philosophy, past and present, has been based on the at-
tempt to make abstract ideas clear. The questions Cousin
endeavors to answer are:-" Do ideas exist apart from
Being and Knowledge; and if so, on what are they founded? " and
his answer involves his whole doctrine.
Victor Cousin, the son of a watchmaker of Voltairean principles
and of a laundress of strong religious convictions, was born in Paris
on November 28th, 1792. But in spite of his humble origin he
obtained a brilliant education, and through
the force of his genius lived to have pre-
cedence at court over his social superiors.
The little gamin owed his start in life to
Madame Viguier, who placed him at school.
On leaving college, from which he was
graduated first in his class at the age
of eighteen, he could have obtained a
position in the Council of State at a yearly
salary of five thousand francs; but he pre-
ferred to enter the Normal School, then
but recently established, with the intention
of teaching literature. The impression
made upon him by Laromiguière's lectures
on philosophy decided him to devote him-
self to the latter branch of study. Philosophy, to Cousin, was not
only a keen delight but a battle as well. Many systems were then
arrayed against each other; these in turn fascinated, his imagination
and excited his enthusiasm, - first the sensual school, then Scottish
philosophy as developed by Royer-Collard and Maine de Biran; then
Kant, Schelling, Hegel, whose genius he was the first to recognize;
and later, Plotinus, Descartes, and Leibnitz. All these doctrines, as
he expounded them in his lectures, simmered in his imagination for
a while, and unconsciously modifying each other, left a deposit from
which arose eclecticism.
VICTOR COUSIN
There was a dearth of French men of letters when Cousin reached
manhood. To become a fashionable lecturer it was only necessary
to speak of literature and philosophy in elegant language; and as to
## p. 4080 (#454) ###########################################
4080
VICTOR COUSIN
these requirements the young orator added a poetic imagination, he
became famous at once.
One of Cousin's distinguishing qualities was the impetus he gave
to other minds. His lectures created positive fanaticism. But twenty
years of age, his delicate face was lighted up with magnificent dark
eyes which emitted fire as his own enthusiasm grew. He had a fine
voice, was a finished comedian, a poet rather than a deep or original
thinker, a preacher rather than a professor, and looked like "a tri-
bune and apostle in one. "
It is difficult to understand nowadays the enthusiasm aroused by
Cousin's philosophy, or the attacks upon it. He advanced no new
truths. No objection could be made to a belief in God, the spirit-
uality and immortality of the soul, and moral liberty. But Cousin
went further. He wished to establish philosophy on an independent
basis; to found an intermediate school that would not clash with
religion, but subsist side by side with, though independent of and in
a certain measure controlling it. This aroused the hostility of the
Church without satisfying the extremists, who clamored for more rad-
ical doctrines. After 1820, when the Normal School was suppressed,
Cousin had recourse to private teaching, and devoted his leisure to
editing the classics. His edition of Plato occupied him many years.
"Every man's life should contain one monument and several epi-
sodes," he declared; and his Plato, he believed, was destined to be
his « monument. "
When Cousin was restored to his chair in 1828, he brought with
him a new philosophy which fulfilled the aspirations of the rising
generation, whose idol he became. During this course he propounded
a few transcendental theories borrowed from Hegel and Schelling,
emitted several contestable historical views, and distributed all the
doctrines he knew,- and, add his enemies, all those he did not
know,- into four divisions. Taken as a whole, Cousin's system has
far more in common with Christianity than with pantheism.
During the next three years he made rapid strides in his career.
He had taken no part in the July Revolution, but his friends were
placed in office by that event, and through their influence he became
successively member of the Royal Council of Public Instruction,
member of the Academy, and Peer of France.
Cousin was in virtual control of French philosophy when, in 1830
he resigned his chair to become Director of the Sorbonne. To his
new task he brought an intelligence matured by time; and the twenty
years of his administration were fruitful of good results.
He formed
a corps of learned professors, perfected the study of French, and
placed philosophy on a sound basis. His indefatigable activity, breadth
of view, and devotion to teaching made him an admirable director of
## p. 4081 (#455) ###########################################
VICTOR COUSIN
4081
Each one was
He regulated
a school destined to train the professors of a nation.
encouraged to take up an original line of research.
the position of the Sorbonne towards religion, instructing the teach-
ers that belief in God, free-will, and duty was to be inculcated.
Not being of a naturally tender disposition, Cousin may not have
loved the students for themselves, but he passionately loved talent,
and exerted himself to foster and develop it. Of a disdainful, sar-
castic turn of mind, Cousin's mordant wit was well known and greatly
feared. His habits were frugal, and though he dressed badly, he was
prodigal with regard to books. He nowhere appeared to better
advantage than in his library at the Sorbonne, where so many of his
books were written. He could talk magnificently on any subject-
for an hour; after that, his own eloquence carried him beyond all
bounds and he was apt to indulge in paradox. Guizot said of him:
"C'est l'esprit qui a le plus besoin de garde-fou. " (His is a mind
which has the greatest need of restraint. ) His voice was wonderfully
expressive: witty sayings, comparisons, anecdotes, crowded upon his
tongue; as a rule he absorbed the entire conversation and created a
sensation, as he loved to do.
Liberal in matters of philosophy rather than in politics, Cousin
engaged in a battle with the clergy, to whom however he cheerfully
conceded the rights granted by the Charter, and a certain preponder-
ance in the schools. He considered it criminal to attack religion,
and required it to be taught in the primary schools, though he
excluded it from the University, where it might clash with philoso-
phy. Towards the end of his life he entered into a correspondence
with the Pope to prevent The True, the Beautiful, the Good' from
being placed on the Index Expurgatorius, and obtained his point
only after lengthy negotiations.
In the earlier years of his life, Cousin's poetic temperament, aided
by youth, carried him towards pure philosophy and German ideas.
The word pantheism however grew to be a very abomination to
him; but storm and protest as he would, it pursued him all his life;
his lyric descriptions of God were rigidly interpreted according to
pantheistic formulæ, and hurled at his head until he cried "Enough! "
"This is the truth," was answered back, though he had long since
erased that compromising indorsement of Schelling's system.
Debarred from both politics and teaching at the age of sixty, with
intellect and vitality unimpaired, Cousin devoted the fourteen remain-
ing years of his life to literature; and now that the eclectic philos-
ophy is considered merely a brilliant but fleeting system which has
lived its day, we still turn with pleasure to his 'Biographies. '
It was by study of the seventeenth century that Cousin's purely
literary career began. He relates facts and penetrates the nature of
VII-256
## p. 4082 (#456) ###########################################
4082
VICTOR COUSIN
his characters. Taine declares that when at last the lovely face of
Madame de Longueville does appear, crash goes a pile of folios to
the floor! Nevertheless, strength and energy characterize Cousin's
style, and make good his dictum "Style is movement. " To the
very end, Cousin retained the spontaneous emotion of youth. The
quality of vehemence everywhere so apparent in these 'Biographies'
presupposes an intense emotion which is communicated from the
writer to the reader.
It was a current joke among the professors of the Sorbonne that
her biographer was in love with Madame de Longueville. "Every one
knows that Cousin is the chevalier servant of Madame de Longue-
ville," writes Taine. "This noble lady has had the rare privilege
of making post-mortem conquests, and the solid walls of the Sor-
bonne have not protected M. Cousin from the darts of her beautiful
eyes. He is so deeply in love with her that he speaks of Condé (her
brother) as a brother-in-law, and of La Rochefoucauld (her lover) as
a rival. »
Cousin's critics take this retrospective infatuation too seriously.
It was merely an "episode" in his life; and when Sainte-Beuve said,
"Cousin's bust would one day have engraved beneath it: 'He wished
to found a great system of philosophy, and he loved Madame de
Longueville,»»- he was more witty than just. It is only fair to add
that Sainte-Beuve considered Cousin the most brilliant meteor that
had flashed across the sky of the nineteenth century.
In his later years, Cousin recommended 'The True, the Beautiful,
the Good' and his Philosophy of History' for perusal, in preference
to his other books. He was conscious of the drawback attendant
upon scattering his doctrines over so many books, and condensed
them in the former volume. Composed of brilliant and incomplete
fragments, if it does not constitute a systematic whole, the pages
relating to God and necessary and universal principles are however
full of grandeur, and will always endear it to humanity.
On the 2d of January, 1867, Cousin passed away during his sleep,
having been until the last in full possession of the lucidity and vigor
which characterized his mind. He left his fine library to the State,
with ample funds for its maintenance. He has had the privilege of
living in the books of many distinguished men whose minds he
trained, whose careers he advanced, and who have recorded in brill-
iant pages the debt owed him, not by themselves alone, but by all
Frenchmen of succeeding generations.
## p. 4083 (#457) ###########################################
VICTOR COUSIN
4083
PASCAL'S SKEPTICISM
From 'Les Pensées de Pascal'
ASCAL was skeptical of philosophy, not of religion. It is
P because he is skeptical in philosophical matters, and recog-
nizes the powerlessness of reason and the destruction of
natural truth among men, that he clings desperately to religion
as the last resource of humanity.
What is philosophical skepticism? It is a philosophical opinion
which consists in rejecting philosophy as unfounded, on the ground
that man of himself is incapable of reaching any truth, and still
less those truths which constitute what philosophy terms natural
morals and religion, such as free-will; the law of duty; the
distinction between good and evil, the saint and the sinner; the
holiness of virtue; the immateriality of the soul; and divine
providence. Skepticism is not the enemy of any special school
of philosophy, but of all.
Pascal's Pensées' are imbued with philosophical skepticism;
Pascal is the enemy of all philosophy, which he rejected utterly.
He does not admit the possibility of proving God's existence;
and to demonstrate the impotence of reason, he invented a
desperate argument. We can ignore truth, but we cannot ignore
our own interest, the interest of our eternal happiness. Accord-
ing to him, we must weigh the problem of divine Providence
from this point of view. If God does not exist, it cannot hurt
us to believe in him; but if by chance he should exist, and
we do not believe in him, the consequences to us would be ter-
rible.
"Let us examine this point of view and say: God is, or he is
not," writes Pascal. "To which belief do we incline? Reason is
powerless to solve the question for us. Chaos separates us from
its solution. At the extreme end of this infinite distance, a game
is being played in which heads or tails will turn up. What do
we win in either case? Through the power of mere reason we
can neither prove nor disprove God's existence; through the
power of reason we can defend neither proposition. "
On this foundation, not of truth but of interest, Pascal founds
the celebrated calculation to which he applies the law of chance.
Here is the conclusion he reaches: "In the eyes of Reason, to
believe or not to believe in God (the for and against, or as I
say, the game of 'croix ou pile') is equally without consequence;
## p. 4084 (#458) ###########################################
4084
VICTOR COUSIN
but in the eyes of interest the difference is infinite, because the
Infinite is to be gained or lost thereby. "
Pascal considers skepticism legitimate, because philosophy or
natural reason is incapable of attaining to certitude; he affirms
"the sole rôle of reason to be the renouncement of reason; that
true philosophy consists in despising philosophy. "
The God of Abraham, the God of Jacob, not the God of
savants and philosophers, is the God of Pascal. He caught a
gleam of light, and believed he had found peace in submission to
Christ and his confessor. Doubt yielded to grace; but vanquished
doubt carried reason and philosophy in its train.
MADAME DE LONGUEVILLE
From the Life of Madame de Longueville'
WHA
HAT a number of accomplished women the seventeenth cen-
tury produced,-women who inspired adoration, drew all
hearts towards them, and spread among all ranks the
cultus of beauty, termed by Europe, French gallantry! They
accompany this great century upon its too rapid flight, and mark
its principal moments. Madame de Longueville has her place in
the brilliant galaxy of seventeenth-century women by the right
of true beauty and rare charm.
Born in 1619, in the prison of Vincennes, during the captivity
of her father, Henri de Bourbon,- whose wife, the beautiful
Marguerite de Montmorency, shared his imprisonment,- Mademoi-
selle de Bourbon grew in grace under the care of her mother,
dividing her time between the Carmelite Convent and the Hôtel
de Rambouillet, nourishing her soul upon pious and romantic
books. Married at the age of twenty-three to a man twenty-
three years her senior, she found that M. de Longueville, instead
of trying by tenderness to make his young wife forget this dis-
parity, followed the triumphal car of the famous Duchesse de
Montbazon, the veriest coquette of the century. Insulted by her
rival, neglected by her husband, Madame de Longueville yielded
by degrees to the contagion in the midst of which she lived,
and after having spent some time at the frivolous court of
Münster, was fascinated on her return to Paris by the wit,
chivalrous appearance, and distinguished manners of the Prince
de Marcillac, afterwards Duc de la Rochefoucauld. This intimacy
decided her career, the first part of which it closed in 1648.
## p. 4085 (#459) ###########################################
VICTOR COUSIN
4085
The vicissitudes of the Fronde; love, as it was understood at
the Hôtel Rambouillet,- that is, love à la Scudéry, with its
enchantments, its sufferings, intermingled with danger and
glory, crossed by adventures, triumphant over the greatest tests,
yielding finally to its own weakness and exhausting itself,- such
is the second period of Madame de Longueville's life, a period
so short, and yet so crowded with events, which began in 1648
and ended towards the middle of 1654. After 1654 Madame
de Longueville's life was one long repentance, daily growing in
austerity; passed first by the bedside of her husband, and then
at the Carmelite Convent and at Port-Royal, where she died in
1679.
First, spotless brilliancy; then sin and prompt expiation.
Thus is divided the career of Madame de Longueville. A
famous beauty, she possessed height and a fine figure. Her
eyes were of the tenderest blue; her light-brown hair, of excep-
tional fineness, fell in abundant curls around the graceful oval
of her face and rippled over her shoulders, which were fully
exposed in accordance with the fashion of the time. Add to
these attractions a complexion whose fairness, delicacy, and soft
brilliancy justified its being compared with a pearl. Her charm-
ing skin reflected all the emotions of her soul. She spoke in
the softest voice; her gestures harmonized with her face and
voice, making perfect music. But her greatest charm was a
graceful ease of manner, a languor which had brilliant awaken-
ings when she was moved by passion, but which in every-day
life gave her an appearance of aristocratic indifference, of indo-
lence, frequently mistaken for ennui or disdain.
Madame de Longueville loved but one person. For his sake
she sacrificed repose, interest, duty, and reputation. For his sake
she embarked upon the rashest and most contradictory enter-
prises. La Rochefoucauld drew her into the Fronde; it was he
who made her advance or retreat, who separated her from or
reconciled her with her family, who controlled her absolutely.
In his hands she became a heroic instrument. Passion and pride
had their share in the life of adventure she faced so bravely;
but what a soul she must have possessed, to find consolation in
struggles such as these!
plays are much like their predecessors in lack of action and super-
fluity of complimentary talk. The same may be said of Corneille's
collaboration on Richelieu's 'Comedy of The Tuileries' (1635). His
superiority to his colleagues at this time consisted mainly in his
poetic talent and common-sense.
In the season of 1634-35 he tried a tragedy, 'Medea,' patterned
after Seneca's Latin drama of that name. It shows an advance on
his previous efforts, yet did not come up to his high standard; and
he sought a diversion for his disappointment by eulogizing the theat-
rical profession in a play within a play, The Dramatic Illusion,›
which he gave to the actors of the Hôtel of Burgundy, probably
in 1635.
About this time Corneille's attention was drawn to the Spanish
drama, then at its highest point. The storied deeds of Spain's na-
tional hero especially appealed to his temperament, and he selected
Guillen de Castro's 'First Exploits of the Cid' as a model for his
imitation. A year or more he may have been busy in adapting its
complexity of scene and character to the orderly, simple require-
ments of the French stage. For it was not till the last days of 1636,
after unusual preparations in rehearsals and costuming, that Mon-
dory's company brought out The Cid. ' Its success was instantane-
ous. The theatre was crowded for many nights. The stage even
was filled in with seats for the nobility, to the great annoyance of
the actors and the detriment of the scenery. And sixteen years
later, Pellisson, the historian of the Academy, could still write:-
:- "It
is difficult to conceive the approbation with which this play was re-
ceived by the Court and public. People never tired of going to it;
you could hear nothing else talked about; everybody knew some part
of it by heart; children were made to learn it, and in several places
in France it gave rise to the proverb, That is as beautiful as The
Cid. '»
The history of modern French drama dates from the first perform-
ance of The Cid. ' The theme here selected became the typical one.
It shows the struggle between love and honor on the part of the
hero, love and duty on the part of the heroine. Jimena's father has
insulted Rodrigo's, enfeebled by his advanced years. He calls upon
his son to avenge his honor. In spite of his love for Jimena, Rodrigo
shows no hesitation. He challenges the Count and kills him. In the
lovers' interview which follows, Jimena is more distracted from her
duty by her love than Rodrigo was, but yet resolves on vengeance.
She demands a champion of the king, who objects that Rodrigo
## p. 4067 (#441) ###########################################
PIERRE CORNEILLE
4067
should be pardoned, having just saved the city from the invading
Moors. Jimena insists: a champion appears, is overthrown, and is
spared by Rodrigo, whereupon the king intervenes and orders the
betrothal of the lovers.
Since The Cid' ends happily, so far as the hero and heroine are
concerned, Corneille first called it a tragi-comedy, but later substi-
tuted the title of tragedy. Its general structure is the same as that
of his other plays,-five fairly equal acts, subdivided into scenes,
with rhymed Alexandrine couplets, excepting in a few lyric strophes.
The time of the action is limited to twenty-four hours, but the scene
of the action is restricted only by the boundaries of the town
(Seville), the different places being marked by a fixed scenery, which
presented several localities to the audience at the same time.
His dramatic form and stage properties Corneille had obtained
from his French predecessors of the classical school. The mediæval
Miracle Plays had practically fallen out of favor nearly a century
before 'Mélite,' and had been prohibited in Paris in 1548. But the
Fraternity of the Passion still occupied the only theatre in the city,
and had a monopoly of all the performances in the city and suburbs.
Into its theatre of the Hôtel of Burgundy it had put as much of its
old multiplex scenery as it could fit into the new and narrow stage.
And while it could no longer act the old Mysteries, still it clung to
dramatic stories which knew neither unity of time, place, nor even
action.
Outside of these playwrights, however, the Renaissance had created
a set of men who looked towards classical antiquity for their literary
standards. In 1552 Jodelle and his friends of the Pléiade had ap-
pealed to this class by acting in Boncourt College a tragedy modeled
on Seneca's Latin dramas. This example was subsequently followed
by many writers, who however rarely got their pieces acted, and
therefore fell into the way of writing without having the necessities
of stage effects in view. Consequently for nearly half a century the
best dramatists of France were strangers to the public of the Hôtel
of Burgundy, and were drifting more and more from a dramatic con-
ception of the theatre into a lyric one. Long declamatory mono-
logues, acts varying greatly in length and separated by elaborate
choruses, were the chief features of this school. Nothing happened
on the stage; all was told by messengers.
Yet these dramas, by their very lack of action and scenery, were
suited to the limited means of strolling companies of actors; and
modifications of them were being played more and more to provin-
cial audiences. Finally in 1599 one of these companies came to
Paris, leased the Hôtel of Burgundy from the Fraternity, now tired
of its avocation, and laid there the foundations of modern French
## p. 4068 (#442) ###########################################
4068
PIERRE CORNEILLE
drama. The purveyor to this troupe was Alexandre Hardy, a man of
some education, of considerable theatrical endowments, but lacking
in literary taste. True to his classical models so far as the unlettered
public of the Hôtel and its scenery would allow, he managed by
cutting down the monologues, equalizing the acts, restricting or
suppressing the choruses, and leading the dialogue to some climax
visible to his audience, to effect a compromise between the partisans
of the two schools and educate a new body of theatre-goers. His
scenery he could not change, and it still remained a constant temp-
tation to diversity of place and multiplication of episodes. Hardy
labored for more than thirty years. It is to his dramatic form,
audience, and stage that Corneille succeeded, continuing his work
while avoiding his excesses. And aided by the growing taste and
intelligence of his public, Corneille could further simplify and refine
the style of play in vogue.
Now De Castro's 'Cid' had enjoyed the freedom of the Miracle
Plays. It numbered three acts, divided into fifty-three scenes. Its
episodes, many of them purely digressive, occupied nearly two years
of time and were bounded in place only by the frontiers of Spain.
In order to reduce this epic exuberance to the severity of the classi-
cal mold, Corneille had to eliminate the digressive episodes, cut down
and combine the essential ones, connect the places where the action
took place, and lessen the time of its duration. In the French Cid,'
Rodrigo kills Jimena's father and is betrothed to her in less than
twenty-four hours.
This instance alone illustrates the effort Corneille made on him-
self. It caught also the eye of his rivals and critics. The Cid' was
fiercely assailed for its "inhumanity" and "improbability," and with
the connivance of Richelieu the newly organized Academy was called
upon to condemn it.
While the opinion of this body was not indeed
unfavorable, yet the dispute had so irritated Corneille that he retired
to Rouen and for a time renounced his art. When he reappeared, it
was as a dramatizer of classical subjects, that dealt with but one
episode to a play. But the romantic side still survived in the love
affair invariably interwoven with his nobler, sterner theme.
So 'Horace (1640) treated of the fight of the Horatii and the
Curatii, and the immolation of a woman's love to the Roman father-
land. 'Cinna (1640-41) narrated a conspiracy against Augustus,
which was undertaken through love for the heroine, but was par-
doned by the Emperor's magnanimity. Polyeuctus (1643) showed
how a steadfast Christian husband could preserve his wife's fidelity
against the memory of a first love, and how his martyrdom could
result in her conversion. Pompey (1643-44) recited the death of
that leader and the devotion of Cornelia, his wife, to his memory.
## p. 4069 (#443) ###########################################
PIERRE CORNEILLE
4069
These four plays, tragedies all, represent in their eloquence, their
diction, nobility of thought, and lofty aspiration, the highest develop-
ment of Corneille's dramatic genius.
After this period of serious composition Corneille sought relaxa-
tion in comedy, and produced from Spanish models The Liar'
(1644) and The Sequel to the Liar' (1645). Both are superior in
dialogue, action, and verse to his earlier plays, and the first re-
mained the best comedy of the new school up to the appearance of
Molière. Towards the end of 1645 'Rodogune' was acted, a tragedy
to which Corneille was ever partial on account of its highly wrought,
exciting solution. Théodore' (1646), the fate of another Christian
martyr, and 'Heraclius' (1646-47), preceded their author's election to
the Academy (January 22d, 1647). The Fronde then intervened, and
it was not till 1649 that Corneille's best tragi-comedy, 'Don San-
cho,' was performed.
(
A spectacular play or opera, Andromeda'
(1650), closely followed it. 'Nicomedes' (1651) was a successful
tragedy, 'Pertharite' (1652) a failure. Consequently for the next few
years Corneille devoted himself to religious poetry and a verse
translation of the 'Imitation of Christ. '
་
But the visit of Molière's company to Rouen in 1658 incited him
to write again for the stage. Edipus' (1659), Sertorius' (1662),
'Sophonisba (1663), 'Otho' (1664), 'Agesilas' (1666), and 'Attila '
(1667), all tragedies, were the result. Some were successful, but
others were not. Molière was now in full career, and Racine was
beginning. Corneille's defects were growing. His plays were too
much alike, and gallant talk supplied in them the place of deeds.
In 1660 a second spectacular drama, 'The Golden Fleece,' had been
performed; and the same year he had edited a general edition of his
plays, with a critical preface to each play and three essays on the
laws and theories of the drama. All this time he had not neglected
society and religious verse, and probably in 1662 he had moved from
Rouen to Paris.
>
A retirement of three years followed 'Attila. ' Then in 1670 Cor-
neille reappeared with the tragedy Titus and Berenice,' neglected.
by the public for Racine's 'Berenice. ' In 1671 he collaborated with
Molière and Quinault on a comedy-ballet, Psyche. ' In 1672 he wrote
'Pulcheria, a tragi-comedy, and in 1674 gave his last play, the
tragedy of Surena,' to the stage. Henceforth only supplicatory
poems addressed to the King reminded the Parisians of Corneille's
existence. In 1682 he published the final revision of his dramas, and
in 1684. on the night of September 30th, he passed away. He had
married in 1641. Four children survived him.
Corneille's contemporaries complain of his slovenliness, his timidity,
quick temper, and wearying conversation. He could never read his
## p. 4070 (#444) ###########################################
4070
PIERRE CORNEILLE.
own plays successfully, and is even said to have spoken French
incorrectly. He was reputed avaricious, but was continually lament-
ing his poverty, and seems to have died in want. He was quite
tall, well set, with large eyes and strongly marked features.
Besides his services to French comedy, Corneille may be said to
have established the higher comedy in verse, with its decent man-
ners and self-respecting characters. In this departure he undoubtedly
owed much to Plautus and Terence, but probably more to Hardy's
tragi-comedies and lighter plays. The chief merit of his style was
fine diction, eloquence, and harmony of phrase. His thought was
high and noble. As a dramatist he excelled in the invention and
variety of his situations. His defects were the reverse of these
qualities: rhetoric, subtle sentiment, stiff characters.
The best complete edition of Corneille is Marty-Laveaux's in the
Hachette series of 'Les Grands Écrivains de la France' (Great
Writers of France), 12 volumes, 1862-68. This edition contains a bio-
graphical notice. The most complete bibliography is E. Picot's
'Bibliographie Cornélienne' (Paris, 1865). J. Taschereau's 'Histoire
de la Vie et des Euvres de Corneille' (History of the Life and
Works of Corneille) is the best biography (published Paris, 1829: 3d
edition, 1869). F. Guizot's Corneille and His Times' is the only life
that has been translated into English (London, 1857). Of the separate
plays, The Cid,' 'Horace,' and 'Polyeuctus' have been rendered
into English blank verse by W. F. Nokes (Hachette and Company),
and these three, together with 'Cinna,' have been literally translated
by R. Mongan and D. McRae (London: 1878-86. )
L. M Warren.
THE LOVERS
From The Cid'
The scene is an apartment in the house of Chimène's father in Seville.
Chimène and Elvire are conversing, after Chimène has learned
that her father, the Count de Gormas, has lost his life in a
duel with Don Rodrigue, the son of an aged nobleman insulted by
De Gormas.
CH
HIMÈNE At stake is my honor; revenge must be mine;
Whate'er the desire love may flattering stir,
To the soul nobly born all excuse is disgrace.
## p. 4071 (#445) ###########################################
PIERRE CORNEILLE
4071
Elvire-
Thou lov'st Don Rodrigue; he can never offend.
Chimène-
I admit it.
Elvire-
Chimène-
Admitting it, how canst thou act?
-
By sustaining my honor, by casting my care-
Pursue him, destroy him, and after him — die.
Don Rodrigue [entering as she speaks the last words] —
'Tis well! Without taking the pains of pursuit,
Be secure in the pleasure of ending my days.
Chimène
―
Elvire, oh where are we? What, what do I see?
Rodrigue in this house! Before me, Rodrigue!
Don Rodrigue-
Oh, spare not my blood; unresisted, pray taste
Of my ruin the sweetness, of vengeance the joy.
Chimène-
Alas!
--
Chimène
Don Rodrigue-Hear me, lady!
Chimène
Don Rodrigue-
Chimène
-
Go, I say; let me die!
Don Rodrigue-
Chimène
--
Ah, vouchsafe me a word!
And once I have spoke, make reply with—this sword.
――――――
―――――
Chimène-
What! The sword e'en now red with the blood of my sire!
Don Rodrigue-
Chimène, my Chimène!
―
Hide that hideous steel,
That rebuketh my eyes for thy crime and thy life.
Don Rodrigue-
Chimène-
I die!
-
But one word
Nay, rather behold it, thy hate to excite,
Thy wrath to increase — and my doom so to speed.
-
It is tinged with my blood.
Don Rodrigue-
Plunge it then into mine,
That so it may lose the dread tint of thy veins.
Ah, fate all too cruel! that slays in one day
The father by steel, and the daughter by sight!
Take away, as I bid, what I cannot endure;
Thou will'st that I hearken -and kill'st me meantime!
## p. 4072 (#446) ###########################################
PIERRE CORNEILLE
4072
Don Rodrigue-
What thou wishest I do; but with no less desire
That my life, now deplorable, ends by your hand;
For expect not, I beg, from my passion itself
A coward's repentance of deed so deserved.
From thy father's rash hand came a blow-past recall;
It dishonored my sire in his honored old age.
What are blows to a man of due honor thou knowest.
In the shame I had part, and its author must seek;
Him I saw-both my father and honor I 'venged;
I would do it again, if I had it to do.
Yet think not 'gainst duty to father and self
My love for thee, lady, no contest has made;
Of thy power in this moment do thou be the judge.
Too well might I doubt if such vengeance I dared.
Bound to please thee, Chimène, or to suffer affront,
Too rash seemed my arm - I would fain hold it back;
With a deed all too violent blamed I myself:
Thy beauty had weighed down the balance at last,
Had I not, to thy charms, countervailing, opposed
That a man lost to honor could not thee deserve;
That once having loved me when blameless I lived,
She who cared for me stainless must hate me disgraced;
That to hearken to love, to obey its soft voice,
Was to find myself shameful- thy favor to stain.
Again do I tell thee-and while I shall breathe
Unchanged shall I think and unchanging will say -
I have done thee offense, but I could not halt back,
A disgrace to remove and thyself to deserve.
But now, quits with honor, and quits toward my sire,
'Tis thee, thee alone, I would fain satisfy;
'Tis to proffer my blood that thou seest me here.
I have done what I should what is left I would do.
Well I know that thy father's death arms thee toward mine;
Not thee have I wished of thy victim to cheat.
Boldly immolate, now, the blood he has spilled –
The being who glories that such was his deed.
――――
Chimène-
Ah, Rodrigue! True it is that though hostile I am,
No blame can I speak that disgrace thou hast fled;
Howe'er from my lips this my dolor break forth,
I dare not accuse thee-I weep for my woes.
I know that thy honor, on insult so deep,
Demanded of ardor a valorous proof.
## p. 4073 (#447) ###########################################
PIERRE CORNEILLE
Thou hast done but the duty enjoined on the brave:
Yet more, in its doing 'tis mine thou hast taught.
By thy courage funest, and thy conquest, I'm schooled;
Thy father avenged and thine honor upheld,
Like care, see, is mine; for to load me with grief,
I must father avenge, I must honor uphold!
Alas, 'tis thy part here that brings me despair.
Had aught other misfortune bereft me of sire,
My heart in the joy of beholding thyself
The sole solace that heart could receive would have found
Against my affliction a charm would be strong,
My tears would be dried by the dearest of hands.
But lo! I must lose thee, my father a loss;
And the more that my soul may in torment be thrown,
My star has decreed that I compass thy end.
Expect not, in turn, from the passion I own,
That my hand I shall stay from thy punishment meet;
Thy direful offense makes thee worthy of me;
By thy death I shall show myself worthy of thee.
Unrhymed literal version in the metre of the original, by E. Irenæus
Stevenson.
4073
DON RODRIGUE DESCRIBES TO KING FERNANDO HIS VICTORY
OVER THE MOORS
From The Cid>
NDER me, then, the troop made advance,
With soldierly confidence marked on each brow.
Five hundred we started, but soon reinforced,
Three thousand we were when the port we had reached;
So much did mere sight of our numbers, our mien,
New courage revive in all timorous hearts.
Two-thirds did I ambush, as soon as arrived,
U
In the vessels in harbor, that ready were found;
But the others, whose numbers each hour did increase,
With impatience on fire, all about me encamped,
Stretched out on the earth passed the beauteous night.
In the harbor, I order the guards to like watch;
Their concealment my stratagem further assists;—
I dared to declare, Sire, as thine the command
That I so followed out, and enjoined upon all.
In the radiance pallid that fell from the stars,
At last, with the flood-tide we spy thirty sails;
## p. 4074 (#448) ###########################################
4074
PIERRE CORNEILLE
Beneath swells the wave, and in movement therewith,
The sea and the Moors into harbor advance.
We permit them a passage-to them all seemed calm,
Our soldiers unseen, and the walls without ward.
Our silence profound well deluded their wit;
No longer they doubt our surprise is achieved;
Without fear they draw nearer - they anchor-they land—
They run to the hands that are waiting to strike.
Then rise we together, and all in a breath
Utter clamorous shoutings that heavenward rise.
From the ships to such signal our troops make response;
They stand forth in arms, and the Moors are dismayed;
By dread they are seized when but half-disembarked;
Ere the battle's begun they have deemed themselves lost.
They have come but to pillage - 'tis fight that they meet.
We assail them on sea, we assail them on land;
On the ground runs the blood we set flowing in streams
Ere a soul can resistor fly back to his post.
But soon in our spite the chiefs rallied their host,
Their courage awoke, and their fear was o'ercome:
The shame of their dying without having fought,
Their disorder arrests, and their valor restores.
A firm stand they take, and their swords are unsheathed;
The land and the stream, ay, the fleet and the port,
Are a field where, triumphant o'er carnage, is death.
Oh, many the deeds, the exploits worthy fame,
In that horror of darkness are buried for aye,
When each, the sole witness of blows that he struck,
Could not guess whither Fortune the conflict would steer!
I flew to all sides to encourage our force,
Here to push into action, and there to restrain,
To enrank the newcoming, to spur them in turn,
Yet naught could I know till the breaking of day.
But with dawn and the light, our advantage was plain;
The Moors saw their ruin; their courage declined;
And beholding new succor approach to our side,
Changed their ardor for battle to sheer dread of death.
Their vessels they seek,-every cable is cut;
For farewells to our ears are sent up their wild cries;
Their retreat is a tumult-no man ever heeds
If their princes and kings have made good their escape.
Even duty itself yields to fear so extreme.
On the flood-tide they came, the ebb bears them away;
Meantime their two Kings with our host still engaged,
## p. 4075 (#449) ###########################################
PIERRE CORNEILLE
'Mid a handful of followers, slashed by our blows,
In valiance contending, are selling life dear.
In vain to surrender I beg them- entreat,
With the cimeter gripped, not a word will they hear:
But at sight of their troops falling dead at their feet,
The brave who alone make so vain a defense,
Our chief they demand; and to me they submit.
To you, O my Sire, have I sent them, each one—
And the combatants lacking, the combat was done.
THE WRATH OF CAMILLA
From the 'Horace'
Horatius, the only survivor of the combat, advances to meet his sister
Camilla with Proculus at his side, bearing the swords of the three
one of whom was Camilla's betrothed. Camilla sur-
veys him with horror and disdain as he advances.
slain Curatii
Camilla-
ORATIUS -Lo, sister, the arm that hath brothers avenged! -
H
The arm that our fate so contrary has checked,
The arm that makes Alba our own; and to-day
By one deed the lot of two nations hath fixed.
See these tokens of honor-my glory's attest.
Do thou pay the tribute now due to my fame.
Receive then my tears: for my tears are thy due.
after action so bold.
the combat's dark fate,
Nay, Rome likes them not,
Our brothers, both slain by
Are avenged by this blood no more weeping demand.
If a loss be so paid, then the loss is no more.
Horatius-
Camilla
Horatius-
Camilla
-
―
Horatius
Since thou deemest my brothers by blood so appeased,
I will cease to show sign of my grief for their death;
But who shall avenge me my lover's death, say?
And make me forget in one moment such loss?
What sayest thou, unhappy?
――――――
O beloved Curiace!
4075
O boldness disgraceful, from sister disgraced!
The name on thy lips and the love in thy heart
Of the foe of our people, whose conquest is mine!
## p. 4076 (#450) ###########################################
4076
PIERRE CORNEILLE
Thy criminal flame to such vengeance aspires!
Thou darest to utter such thought of thy heart!
Follow passion the less, better rule thy desire:
Make me not so to blush that thy sighs are not hid;
From this moment thou owest to smother thy flame,
Free thy heart from them- dwell on these trophies instead,
And make them from this hour thy sole pleasure in life.
Camilla
―――
Nay, first give me, cruel, a heart hard as thine,
And if thou wilt seek all my spirit to read,
Give me back Curiace, or my passion let glow.
My joy and my grief of his lot are a part;
Him living I loved him in death I deplore.
No more find me sister-deserted by thee!
Behold in me only a woman outraged,
Who like to some Fury pursuing thy steps-
Unceasing shall charge thee with trespass so great!
O tiger, blood-gorged, who forbiddest my tears,
Who would see me find joy in this death thou hast wrought,
Who vauntest to Heaven itself such a deed,
Shall I by approval bring death to him—twice?
Misfortunes so dire, may they follow thy life
That thou fallest to envying even my own!
Oh, soon by some cowardice mayest thou blot
This glory thy brutal soul reckons so dear!
Horatius-
O heavens! hath any an equal rage seen?
Dost thou think I could brook, all unmoved, such offense ?
That race could endure a dishonor so deep?
Love, love thou the death which means good to thy State,
Prefer to thy passion and thoughts of this man
The sentiment due to a daughter of Rome!
Camilla-
Rome! Object supreme of the wrath that I feel!
This Rome, to whose aid came thy arm-and my loss;
Rome, city that bore thee-by thee so adored!
Rome, hated the more for its honoring thee!
O may each of her neighbors together in league
Sap every foundation, as yet so unsure!
Nay, if Italy be not enough to the fall,
Let the East and the West for her ruin unite;
Let peoples conjoined from the four winds of heaven,
Be met to her downfall; let hills aid, and seas;
O'erthrown on her walls may she prostrate be cast,
## p. 4077 (#451) ###########################################
PIERRE CORNEILLE
4077
Torn out by her own hands, her entrails be strewn!
May the anger of Heaven, here kindled by me,
Rain down on her dwellings a deluge of fire!
O grant that mine own eyes such thunderbolt see! -
See her mansions in ashes, her laurels in dust,
See the latest of Romans yielding his last breath,
I cause of it all- I dying of joy!
[With the last words Camilla rushes from the apartment. Horace snatches
his sword and pursues her, exclaiming:—]
Oh too much! Even reason to passion gives place.
Go, weep thou thy lost Curiace in the shades!
[After an instant is heard behind the scenes the shriek of the wounded
Camilla:-]
Ah, traitor!
Horace [returning to the stage]-
S
――――
Receive thou quick chastisement, due
Whomsoever shall dare Roman foe to lament.
EVERUS
Unrhymed literal version in the metre of the original, by E. Irenæus
Stevenson.
Paulina
.
PAULINA'S APPEAL TO SEVERUS
From Polyeucte
I stand agaze,
Rooted, confounded, in sheer wonderment.
Such blind resolve is so unparalleled,
I scarce may trust the witness of mine ears.
A heart that loves you-and what heart so poor
That knowing, loves you not? —one loved of you,
To leave regretless so much bliss just won!
Nay, more - as though it were a fatal prize —
To his corrival straight to yield it up!
Truly, or wondrous manias Christians have,
Or their self-happiness must be sans bourn,
Since to attain it they will cast away
What others at an empire's cost would win.
For me, had fate, a little sooner kind,
--
Blessed my true service with your hand's reward,
The glory of your eyes had been my worship;
My twin kings had they reigned-kings? nay, my gods!
To dust, to powder, had I grinded been
E'er I had-
Hold! let me not hear too much;
Let not the smoldering embers of old time
## p. 4078 (#452) ###########################################
4078
PIERRE CORNEILLE
Relume to speech unworthy of us both.
Severus, know Paulina utterly:
His latest hour my Polyeuctus nears;
Nay, scarce a minute has he yet to live.
You all unwittingly have been the cause
Of this his death. I know not if your thoughts,
Their portals opening to your wish's knock,
Have dared to some wild hope give harboring,
Based upon his undoing; but know well,
No death so cruel I would not boldly front,
Hell hath no tortures I would not endure,
Or e'er my stainless honor I would spot,
My hand bestowing upon any man
Who anywise were his death's instrument.
And could you for such madness deem me apt,
Hate would replace my erstwhile tender love.
You're generous still be so, to the end:
My father fears you; is in mood to grant
All you might ask; ay, I e'en dare aver
That if my husband he do sacrifice,
"Twill be to you. Save then your hapless victim;
Bestir yourself; stretch him your helping hand!
That this is much to claim of you, I know,
But more the effort's great, the more the glory!
To save a rival 'spite of rivalry
Were greatness all particular to you.
And-be that not enough for your renown
'Twere much to let a woman erst so loved,
And haply who may yet be somewhat dear,
Her greatest treasure owe to your great heart.
In fine, remember that you are Severus!
Adieu! alone determine of your course;
For if you be not all I think you are,
I'd still, not knowing it, believe you such.
English Translation by W. F. Nokes.
## p. 4079 (#453) ###########################################
4079
VICTOR COUSIN
(1792-1867)
LL Philosophy, past and present, has been based on the at-
tempt to make abstract ideas clear. The questions Cousin
endeavors to answer are:-" Do ideas exist apart from
Being and Knowledge; and if so, on what are they founded? " and
his answer involves his whole doctrine.
Victor Cousin, the son of a watchmaker of Voltairean principles
and of a laundress of strong religious convictions, was born in Paris
on November 28th, 1792. But in spite of his humble origin he
obtained a brilliant education, and through
the force of his genius lived to have pre-
cedence at court over his social superiors.
The little gamin owed his start in life to
Madame Viguier, who placed him at school.
On leaving college, from which he was
graduated first in his class at the age
of eighteen, he could have obtained a
position in the Council of State at a yearly
salary of five thousand francs; but he pre-
ferred to enter the Normal School, then
but recently established, with the intention
of teaching literature. The impression
made upon him by Laromiguière's lectures
on philosophy decided him to devote him-
self to the latter branch of study. Philosophy, to Cousin, was not
only a keen delight but a battle as well. Many systems were then
arrayed against each other; these in turn fascinated, his imagination
and excited his enthusiasm, - first the sensual school, then Scottish
philosophy as developed by Royer-Collard and Maine de Biran; then
Kant, Schelling, Hegel, whose genius he was the first to recognize;
and later, Plotinus, Descartes, and Leibnitz. All these doctrines, as
he expounded them in his lectures, simmered in his imagination for
a while, and unconsciously modifying each other, left a deposit from
which arose eclecticism.
VICTOR COUSIN
There was a dearth of French men of letters when Cousin reached
manhood. To become a fashionable lecturer it was only necessary
to speak of literature and philosophy in elegant language; and as to
## p. 4080 (#454) ###########################################
4080
VICTOR COUSIN
these requirements the young orator added a poetic imagination, he
became famous at once.
One of Cousin's distinguishing qualities was the impetus he gave
to other minds. His lectures created positive fanaticism. But twenty
years of age, his delicate face was lighted up with magnificent dark
eyes which emitted fire as his own enthusiasm grew. He had a fine
voice, was a finished comedian, a poet rather than a deep or original
thinker, a preacher rather than a professor, and looked like "a tri-
bune and apostle in one. "
It is difficult to understand nowadays the enthusiasm aroused by
Cousin's philosophy, or the attacks upon it. He advanced no new
truths. No objection could be made to a belief in God, the spirit-
uality and immortality of the soul, and moral liberty. But Cousin
went further. He wished to establish philosophy on an independent
basis; to found an intermediate school that would not clash with
religion, but subsist side by side with, though independent of and in
a certain measure controlling it. This aroused the hostility of the
Church without satisfying the extremists, who clamored for more rad-
ical doctrines. After 1820, when the Normal School was suppressed,
Cousin had recourse to private teaching, and devoted his leisure to
editing the classics. His edition of Plato occupied him many years.
"Every man's life should contain one monument and several epi-
sodes," he declared; and his Plato, he believed, was destined to be
his « monument. "
When Cousin was restored to his chair in 1828, he brought with
him a new philosophy which fulfilled the aspirations of the rising
generation, whose idol he became. During this course he propounded
a few transcendental theories borrowed from Hegel and Schelling,
emitted several contestable historical views, and distributed all the
doctrines he knew,- and, add his enemies, all those he did not
know,- into four divisions. Taken as a whole, Cousin's system has
far more in common with Christianity than with pantheism.
During the next three years he made rapid strides in his career.
He had taken no part in the July Revolution, but his friends were
placed in office by that event, and through their influence he became
successively member of the Royal Council of Public Instruction,
member of the Academy, and Peer of France.
Cousin was in virtual control of French philosophy when, in 1830
he resigned his chair to become Director of the Sorbonne. To his
new task he brought an intelligence matured by time; and the twenty
years of his administration were fruitful of good results.
He formed
a corps of learned professors, perfected the study of French, and
placed philosophy on a sound basis. His indefatigable activity, breadth
of view, and devotion to teaching made him an admirable director of
## p. 4081 (#455) ###########################################
VICTOR COUSIN
4081
Each one was
He regulated
a school destined to train the professors of a nation.
encouraged to take up an original line of research.
the position of the Sorbonne towards religion, instructing the teach-
ers that belief in God, free-will, and duty was to be inculcated.
Not being of a naturally tender disposition, Cousin may not have
loved the students for themselves, but he passionately loved talent,
and exerted himself to foster and develop it. Of a disdainful, sar-
castic turn of mind, Cousin's mordant wit was well known and greatly
feared. His habits were frugal, and though he dressed badly, he was
prodigal with regard to books. He nowhere appeared to better
advantage than in his library at the Sorbonne, where so many of his
books were written. He could talk magnificently on any subject-
for an hour; after that, his own eloquence carried him beyond all
bounds and he was apt to indulge in paradox. Guizot said of him:
"C'est l'esprit qui a le plus besoin de garde-fou. " (His is a mind
which has the greatest need of restraint. ) His voice was wonderfully
expressive: witty sayings, comparisons, anecdotes, crowded upon his
tongue; as a rule he absorbed the entire conversation and created a
sensation, as he loved to do.
Liberal in matters of philosophy rather than in politics, Cousin
engaged in a battle with the clergy, to whom however he cheerfully
conceded the rights granted by the Charter, and a certain preponder-
ance in the schools. He considered it criminal to attack religion,
and required it to be taught in the primary schools, though he
excluded it from the University, where it might clash with philoso-
phy. Towards the end of his life he entered into a correspondence
with the Pope to prevent The True, the Beautiful, the Good' from
being placed on the Index Expurgatorius, and obtained his point
only after lengthy negotiations.
In the earlier years of his life, Cousin's poetic temperament, aided
by youth, carried him towards pure philosophy and German ideas.
The word pantheism however grew to be a very abomination to
him; but storm and protest as he would, it pursued him all his life;
his lyric descriptions of God were rigidly interpreted according to
pantheistic formulæ, and hurled at his head until he cried "Enough! "
"This is the truth," was answered back, though he had long since
erased that compromising indorsement of Schelling's system.
Debarred from both politics and teaching at the age of sixty, with
intellect and vitality unimpaired, Cousin devoted the fourteen remain-
ing years of his life to literature; and now that the eclectic philos-
ophy is considered merely a brilliant but fleeting system which has
lived its day, we still turn with pleasure to his 'Biographies. '
It was by study of the seventeenth century that Cousin's purely
literary career began. He relates facts and penetrates the nature of
VII-256
## p. 4082 (#456) ###########################################
4082
VICTOR COUSIN
his characters. Taine declares that when at last the lovely face of
Madame de Longueville does appear, crash goes a pile of folios to
the floor! Nevertheless, strength and energy characterize Cousin's
style, and make good his dictum "Style is movement. " To the
very end, Cousin retained the spontaneous emotion of youth. The
quality of vehemence everywhere so apparent in these 'Biographies'
presupposes an intense emotion which is communicated from the
writer to the reader.
It was a current joke among the professors of the Sorbonne that
her biographer was in love with Madame de Longueville. "Every one
knows that Cousin is the chevalier servant of Madame de Longue-
ville," writes Taine. "This noble lady has had the rare privilege
of making post-mortem conquests, and the solid walls of the Sor-
bonne have not protected M. Cousin from the darts of her beautiful
eyes. He is so deeply in love with her that he speaks of Condé (her
brother) as a brother-in-law, and of La Rochefoucauld (her lover) as
a rival. »
Cousin's critics take this retrospective infatuation too seriously.
It was merely an "episode" in his life; and when Sainte-Beuve said,
"Cousin's bust would one day have engraved beneath it: 'He wished
to found a great system of philosophy, and he loved Madame de
Longueville,»»- he was more witty than just. It is only fair to add
that Sainte-Beuve considered Cousin the most brilliant meteor that
had flashed across the sky of the nineteenth century.
In his later years, Cousin recommended 'The True, the Beautiful,
the Good' and his Philosophy of History' for perusal, in preference
to his other books. He was conscious of the drawback attendant
upon scattering his doctrines over so many books, and condensed
them in the former volume. Composed of brilliant and incomplete
fragments, if it does not constitute a systematic whole, the pages
relating to God and necessary and universal principles are however
full of grandeur, and will always endear it to humanity.
On the 2d of January, 1867, Cousin passed away during his sleep,
having been until the last in full possession of the lucidity and vigor
which characterized his mind. He left his fine library to the State,
with ample funds for its maintenance. He has had the privilege of
living in the books of many distinguished men whose minds he
trained, whose careers he advanced, and who have recorded in brill-
iant pages the debt owed him, not by themselves alone, but by all
Frenchmen of succeeding generations.
## p. 4083 (#457) ###########################################
VICTOR COUSIN
4083
PASCAL'S SKEPTICISM
From 'Les Pensées de Pascal'
ASCAL was skeptical of philosophy, not of religion. It is
P because he is skeptical in philosophical matters, and recog-
nizes the powerlessness of reason and the destruction of
natural truth among men, that he clings desperately to religion
as the last resource of humanity.
What is philosophical skepticism? It is a philosophical opinion
which consists in rejecting philosophy as unfounded, on the ground
that man of himself is incapable of reaching any truth, and still
less those truths which constitute what philosophy terms natural
morals and religion, such as free-will; the law of duty; the
distinction between good and evil, the saint and the sinner; the
holiness of virtue; the immateriality of the soul; and divine
providence. Skepticism is not the enemy of any special school
of philosophy, but of all.
Pascal's Pensées' are imbued with philosophical skepticism;
Pascal is the enemy of all philosophy, which he rejected utterly.
He does not admit the possibility of proving God's existence;
and to demonstrate the impotence of reason, he invented a
desperate argument. We can ignore truth, but we cannot ignore
our own interest, the interest of our eternal happiness. Accord-
ing to him, we must weigh the problem of divine Providence
from this point of view. If God does not exist, it cannot hurt
us to believe in him; but if by chance he should exist, and
we do not believe in him, the consequences to us would be ter-
rible.
"Let us examine this point of view and say: God is, or he is
not," writes Pascal. "To which belief do we incline? Reason is
powerless to solve the question for us. Chaos separates us from
its solution. At the extreme end of this infinite distance, a game
is being played in which heads or tails will turn up. What do
we win in either case? Through the power of mere reason we
can neither prove nor disprove God's existence; through the
power of reason we can defend neither proposition. "
On this foundation, not of truth but of interest, Pascal founds
the celebrated calculation to which he applies the law of chance.
Here is the conclusion he reaches: "In the eyes of Reason, to
believe or not to believe in God (the for and against, or as I
say, the game of 'croix ou pile') is equally without consequence;
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but in the eyes of interest the difference is infinite, because the
Infinite is to be gained or lost thereby. "
Pascal considers skepticism legitimate, because philosophy or
natural reason is incapable of attaining to certitude; he affirms
"the sole rôle of reason to be the renouncement of reason; that
true philosophy consists in despising philosophy. "
The God of Abraham, the God of Jacob, not the God of
savants and philosophers, is the God of Pascal. He caught a
gleam of light, and believed he had found peace in submission to
Christ and his confessor. Doubt yielded to grace; but vanquished
doubt carried reason and philosophy in its train.
MADAME DE LONGUEVILLE
From the Life of Madame de Longueville'
WHA
HAT a number of accomplished women the seventeenth cen-
tury produced,-women who inspired adoration, drew all
hearts towards them, and spread among all ranks the
cultus of beauty, termed by Europe, French gallantry! They
accompany this great century upon its too rapid flight, and mark
its principal moments. Madame de Longueville has her place in
the brilliant galaxy of seventeenth-century women by the right
of true beauty and rare charm.
Born in 1619, in the prison of Vincennes, during the captivity
of her father, Henri de Bourbon,- whose wife, the beautiful
Marguerite de Montmorency, shared his imprisonment,- Mademoi-
selle de Bourbon grew in grace under the care of her mother,
dividing her time between the Carmelite Convent and the Hôtel
de Rambouillet, nourishing her soul upon pious and romantic
books. Married at the age of twenty-three to a man twenty-
three years her senior, she found that M. de Longueville, instead
of trying by tenderness to make his young wife forget this dis-
parity, followed the triumphal car of the famous Duchesse de
Montbazon, the veriest coquette of the century. Insulted by her
rival, neglected by her husband, Madame de Longueville yielded
by degrees to the contagion in the midst of which she lived,
and after having spent some time at the frivolous court of
Münster, was fascinated on her return to Paris by the wit,
chivalrous appearance, and distinguished manners of the Prince
de Marcillac, afterwards Duc de la Rochefoucauld. This intimacy
decided her career, the first part of which it closed in 1648.
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The vicissitudes of the Fronde; love, as it was understood at
the Hôtel Rambouillet,- that is, love à la Scudéry, with its
enchantments, its sufferings, intermingled with danger and
glory, crossed by adventures, triumphant over the greatest tests,
yielding finally to its own weakness and exhausting itself,- such
is the second period of Madame de Longueville's life, a period
so short, and yet so crowded with events, which began in 1648
and ended towards the middle of 1654. After 1654 Madame
de Longueville's life was one long repentance, daily growing in
austerity; passed first by the bedside of her husband, and then
at the Carmelite Convent and at Port-Royal, where she died in
1679.
First, spotless brilliancy; then sin and prompt expiation.
Thus is divided the career of Madame de Longueville. A
famous beauty, she possessed height and a fine figure. Her
eyes were of the tenderest blue; her light-brown hair, of excep-
tional fineness, fell in abundant curls around the graceful oval
of her face and rippled over her shoulders, which were fully
exposed in accordance with the fashion of the time. Add to
these attractions a complexion whose fairness, delicacy, and soft
brilliancy justified its being compared with a pearl. Her charm-
ing skin reflected all the emotions of her soul. She spoke in
the softest voice; her gestures harmonized with her face and
voice, making perfect music. But her greatest charm was a
graceful ease of manner, a languor which had brilliant awaken-
ings when she was moved by passion, but which in every-day
life gave her an appearance of aristocratic indifference, of indo-
lence, frequently mistaken for ennui or disdain.
Madame de Longueville loved but one person. For his sake
she sacrificed repose, interest, duty, and reputation. For his sake
she embarked upon the rashest and most contradictory enter-
prises. La Rochefoucauld drew her into the Fronde; it was he
who made her advance or retreat, who separated her from or
reconciled her with her family, who controlled her absolutely.
In his hands she became a heroic instrument. Passion and pride
had their share in the life of adventure she faced so bravely;
but what a soul she must have possessed, to find consolation in
struggles such as these!
