Letter XXIV

On the Academies

Great men have all been formed either before academies existed or independently of them. Homer and Phidias, Sophocles and Apelles, Virgil and Vitruvius, Ariosto and Michelangelo belonged to no academy; Tasso received nothing but unjust criticism from the Crusca, and Newton did not owe his discoveries in optics, gravitation, integral calculus, and chronology to the Royal Society of London. What use, then, can academies be? To keep alive the fire kindled by great minds.

The Royal Society of London was founded in 1660, six years before our Academy of Sciences. It has none of the rewards ours offers, but then it is free: none of those disagreeable distinctions devised by the Abbé Bignon, who divided the Academy of Sciences into scholars who were paid and honorary members who were not scholars. Independent and encouraged by nothing but its own efforts, the London Society has included men who discovered infinitesimal calculus, the laws of light and gravity, stellar aberration, the reflecting telescope, the steam pump, the solar microscope, and many other inventions as useful as they are admirable. What more would these great men have done if they had drawn stipends or been honorary members?

The famous Dr. Swift conceived a plan, in the last years of Queen Anne's reign, to establish an academy for the language on the model of the French Academy. This project had the support of the Earl of Oxford, lord high treasurer, and still more of Viscount Bolingbroke, secretary of state, who had the gift of speaking extemporaneously in Parliament with as much purity as Swift wrote in his study, and who would have been both protector and ornament of the academy. The men who were to compose it had written works that will last as long as the English language: Dr. Swift himself; Mr. Prior, whom we have seen here as a diplomatic minister and who in England enjoys the same reputation that La Fontaine enjoys among us; Mr. Pope, England's Boileau; and Mr. Congreve, whom one might call its Molière. Several others whose names escape me here would all have helped this institution flourish from its birth. But the queen died suddenly; the Whigs got it into their heads to hang the academy's patrons: which, as you can well imagine, proved fatal to literature. The members of this body would have had a great advantage over the first members of the French Academy. Swift, Prior, Congreve, Dryden, Pope, Addison, and others had established the English language through their writings; whereas Chapelain, Colletet, Cassaigne, Faret, and Cotin, our first academicians, were a disgrace to our nation, and their names have become so ridiculous that if a passable writer had the misfortune to be named Chapelain or Cotin today, he would have to change his name. Above all, the English Academy would have had to set itself tasks entirely different from ours. One day a wit of that country asked me for the Memoirs of the French Academy. “It does not write memoirs,” I replied, “but it has published sixty or eighty volumes of compliments.” He skimmed one or two; he could never make sense of their style, though he understood all our good writers perfectly well. “All I can make out,” he told me, “from these fine speeches is that the new member, having declared that his predecessor was a great man, Cardinal Richelieu a very great man, and Chancellor Séguier a fairly great man, receives the same answer from the director, who adds that the new member might well be a sort of great man himself, and that he, the director, will not forgo his own share of greatness.”

It is easy to see what fatal circumstance has caused almost all these academic speeches to bring so little honor to that body: the fault belongs to the times rather than to the man. A custom gradually took hold that every academician should repeat these eulogies upon his admission. They imposed upon themselves a kind of law requiring them to bore the public. If we then ask why the greatest minds to enter this body have sometimes delivered the worst addresses, the reason is again very simple: they wanted to shine; they wanted to treat an exhausted subject in a new way. The need to speak, the embarrassment of having nothing to say, and the desire to be clever are three things capable of making even the greatest man ridiculous. Unable to find new thoughts, they sought new turns of phrase and spoke without thinking, like people chewing on nothing, pretending to eat while dying of starvation.

Instead of the French Academy's rule that all these speeches be printed—the only thing for which it is known—there ought to be a rule against printing them.

The Academy of Inscriptions and Belles-Lettres has set itself a wiser and more useful goal: to offer the public a collection of memoirs full of curious research and criticism. These memoirs are already esteemed abroad. One might wish only that some subjects had been examined more deeply and others not treated at all. We could, for example, very well have done without some dissertation or other on the prerogatives of the right hand over the left, and without certain other inquiries whose titles, though less ridiculous, do little to make them less frivolous.

The Academy of Sciences, in its more difficult and more plainly useful research, embraces the knowledge of nature and the improvement of the arts. We may believe that studies so profound and so sustained, calculations so exact, discoveries so subtle, and visions so expansive will at last produce something that serves the good of the world.

The most useful discoveries have been made in the most barbarous ages. It seems to fall to the most enlightened times and the most learned societies to reason about what the ignorant have invented. Today, after the long disputes of Mr. Huygens and Mr. Renaud, we know the angle a ship's rudder should make with its keel for the greatest advantage; but Christopher Columbus discovered America without the faintest idea of that angle.

I am very far from inferring that we should confine ourselves to blind practice; but it would be fortunate if physicists and geometers joined practice to speculation wherever possible. Must what does the greatest honor to the human mind so often be what is least useful? A man with the four rules of arithmetic and common sense becomes a great merchant, a Jacques Cœur, a Delmet, a Bernard; while a poor algebraist spends his life seeking astonishing relations and properties among numbers that have no practical use and will not teach him what a bill of exchange is. Nearly all the arts stand in the same position; there is a point beyond which inquiry serves curiosity alone. These ingenious and useless truths are like stars so far from us that they shed no light upon us.

As for the French Academy, what a service it would render to literature, the language, and the nation if, instead of publishing compliments every year, it published the fine works of the age of Louis XIV, cleansed of all the errors of language that have slipped into them! Corneille and Molière are full of them; La Fontaine teems with them: those that could not be corrected would at least be marked. Europe, which reads these authors, would learn our language from them with confidence. Its purity would be fixed forever. Fine French books printed with this care at the king's expense would be among the most glorious monuments of the nation. I have heard that Mr. Despréaux once made this proposal, and that it was renewed by a man whose intelligence, wisdom, and sound critical judgment are well known; but this idea has met the fate of many other useful projects: it has been approved and neglected.

One rather singular thing is that Corneille, who wrote the first of his good tragedies with considerable purity and great nobility when the language was beginning to take shape, wrote all the others very incorrectly and in a very low style, at the very time when Racine was giving the French language such purity, true nobility, and grace; when Despréaux was establishing it through the most scrupulous correctness, precision, force, and harmony. Compare Racine's Bérénice with Corneille's: one would think the latter belonged to the age of Tristan. Corneille seemed to neglect his style more and more as his need to sustain it grew, and to have the ambition to write but not the ambition to write well. Not only are his last twelve or thirteen tragedies bad; their style is very bad. What is stranger still is that even in our own time we have had plays, works of prose and poetry, composed by academicians who neglected their language to the point that one cannot find ten successive verses or ten successive lines in their work without some barbarism. A group of enlightened and intelligent people once counted more than six hundred intolerable solecisms in a tragedy that had enjoyed the greatest success in Paris and the highest favor at court. Two or three such successes would suffice to corrupt the language beyond recovery and plunge it back into the old barbarism from which the assiduous care of so many great men has rescued it.

END OF THE PHILOSOPHICAL LETTERS.

On the Academies

All great men developed their abilities either before academies existed or independently of them. Homer and Phidias, Sophocles and Apelles, Virgil and Vitruvius, Ariosto and Michelangelo belonged to no academy. The Crusca gave Tasso nothing but unfair criticism. Newton did not owe his discoveries about optics, gravity, integral calculus, and chronology to the Royal Society of London. So what good can academies do? They can keep alive the fire that great minds have lit.

The Royal Society of London was founded in 1660, six years before our Academy of Sciences. It has no rewards like ours, but then it is free. It has none of the unpleasant distinctions invented by Abbé Bignon, who split the Academy of Sciences into scholars who were paid and honorary members who were not scholars. The London society is independent and has no support but its own. Among its members have been people who discovered the calculus of infinity, the laws of light and gravity, the aberration of the stars, the reflecting telescope, the steam pump, the solar microscope, and many other inventions as useful as they are remarkable. What more would these great men have done if they had been paid or honorary members?

In the last years of Queen Anne's reign, the famous Dr. Swift planned to establish an academy for the English language on the model of the French Academy. The Earl of Oxford, the lord treasurer, supported the plan. It had even stronger support from Viscount Bolingbroke, the secretary of state. Bolingbroke could speak off the cuff in Parliament as clearly as Swift wrote in his study. He would have been both this academy's patron and its pride. The intended members were men whose works will last as long as the English language. They included Dr. Swift himself; Mr. Prior, whom we saw here as a diplomat and who has the same reputation in England that La Fontaine has among us; Mr. Pope, England's Boileau; and Mr. Congreve, whom we might call its Molière. Several others whose names escape me now would all have helped this society flourish from the start. But the queen suddenly died. The Whigs took it into their heads to hang the academy's patrons. As you can imagine, this was fatal to literature. The members of this proposed academy would have had a great advantage over the first members of the French Academy. Swift, Prior, Congreve, Dryden, Pope, Addison, and others had established the English language through their writing. Chapelain, Colletet, Cassaigne, Faret, and Cotin, our first academicians, were a disgrace to our nation. Their names have become so ridiculous that any passable author today unlucky enough to be named Chapelain or Cotin would have to change his name. Above all, the English Academy should have set itself tasks quite different from ours. One day an educated man from that country asked me for the memoirs of the French Academy. "It doesn't write memoirs," I answered, "but it has published sixty or eighty volumes of compliments." He looked through one or two volumes. He could never understand that style, though he understood all our good writers very well. "All I can make out from these fine speeches," he told me, "is that the incoming member declares his predecessor a great man, Cardinal Richelieu a very great man, and Chancellor Séguier a fairly great man. The director then says the same thing back to him and adds that the incoming member might also be some kind of great man and that he, the director, claims his share of greatness too."

It is easy to see why nearly all these academy speeches have brought so little honor to that institution: the fault lies with the times rather than with the people. A custom slowly took hold requiring every new member to repeat these praises when admitted. The academicians have made a kind of rule of boring the public. Why, then, have even the greatest minds admitted to the academy sometimes made the worst speeches? The reason is just as clear. They wanted to shine. They wanted to say something new about a worn-out subject. Having to speak, having nothing to say, and wanting to sound clever: those three things can make even the greatest man ridiculous. Since they could find no new thoughts, they looked for new ways of saying things. They spoke without thinking, like people chewing on nothing and pretending to eat as they starved.

The French Academy has a rule that all these speeches must be printed, and they are the only thing for which it is known. It ought instead to have a rule against printing them.

The Academy of Inscriptions and Belles-Lettres has set itself a wiser and more useful goal. It publishes a collection of papers full of interesting research and criticism. Those papers are already respected abroad. One might only wish it went deeper into some subjects and left others alone. For example, we could easily have done without a certain essay on the advantages of the right hand over the left, and without some other studies whose titles are less ridiculous but whose subjects are hardly less trivial.

The Academy of Sciences pursues more difficult research with more visible benefits. It studies nature and works to improve the practical arts. Such deep, sustained studies, such exact calculations, such subtle discoveries, and such broad ideas will surely produce something that benefits the whole world in the end.

The most useful discoveries were made in the most uncivilized centuries. It seems that the task left to the most enlightened ages and the most learned societies is to reason about what uneducated people invented. Today, after the long debates between Mr. Huygens and Mr. Renaud, we know the best angle for a ship's rudder relative to its keel. But Christopher Columbus discovered America without knowing anything about that angle.

I am far from concluding that we should rely only on blind practice. But it would be good if physicists and mathematicians joined practice to theory as much as possible. Must the things that do most credit to the human mind so often be the least useful? With the four basic operations of arithmetic and good sense, a man can become a great merchant, a Jacques Cœur, a Delmet, or a Bernard. Meanwhile, a poor algebraist spends his life looking for amazing patterns and properties in numbers that have no practical use and will not teach him how currency exchange works. Nearly all the arts are like this. Beyond a certain point, research serves only curiosity. These clever but useless truths are like stars too far away to give us any light.

Think what a service the French Academy could do for literature, the language, and the nation. Instead of publishing compliments every year, it could publish the great works of the age of Louis XIV, cleansed of all the errors of language that slipped into them. Corneille and Molière are full of such errors; La Fontaine's work swarms with them. Errors that could not be corrected could at least be pointed out. Europeans who read these writers could then learn our language reliably from them. Its proper form would be established forever. Good French books printed with this care at the king's expense would be among the nation's most glorious monuments. I have heard that Mr. Despréaux once made this proposal and that a man known for his intelligence, wisdom, and sound criticism proposed it again. But this idea met the fate of many other useful plans: people approved it and then neglected it.

One rather strange thing is that Corneille wrote his first good tragedies with reasonably correct language and great dignity, when the language was only beginning to take shape. Yet he wrote all his later ones with very poor grammar and a very low style. He did this at the very time when Racine was giving French such correctness, genuine dignity, and grace, and Despréaux was establishing its standards through strict accuracy, precision, force, and harmony. Compare Racine's Bérénice with Corneille's and you would think Corneille lived in Tristan's time. Corneille seemed to neglect his style more and more as he had more need to maintain it. He seemed eager only to write, not to write well. His last twelve or thirteen tragedies are not just bad; their style is very bad. Stranger still, even in our own time we have had plays, prose works, and poems by academicians who have neglected their language so badly that you cannot find ten consecutive lines of verse or prose without a mistake in proper usage. An author can be very good despite a few mistakes, but not despite many. One day a group of intelligent, well-informed people counted more than six hundred intolerable grammatical errors in a tragedy that had enjoyed the greatest success in Paris and the greatest favor at court. Two or three successes like that would be enough to corrupt the language beyond repair. They would drag it back into the old barbarism from which so many great men worked tirelessly to rescue it.

END OF THE PHILOSOPHICAL LETTERS.