C — Critique

I do not mean to speak here of that criticism of scholiasts which badly restores a word in an ancient author that was perfectly well understood before. I do not touch on the genuine criticism that has disentangled what can be disentangled of ancient history and philosophy. I have in mind criticism bordering on satire.

A lover of literature was reading Tasso with me one day; he came upon this stanza:

The harsh sound of the infernal trumpetCalls the dwellers in eternal shade;The vast black caverns tremble,And the blind air echoes with the noise.Not so shrill from the highestRegions of heaven does the thunderbolt fall;Nor does the earth ever shake so violentlyWhen, pregnant, it seals vapors in its breast.

He then read several stanzas at random of this strength and harmony. “Ah!” he exclaimed, “so this is what your Boileau calls tinsel! Is this how he wishes to belittle a great man who lived a hundred years before him, the better to exalt another great man who lived sixteen hundred years earlier and would himself have done Tasso justice?”

“Take comfort,” I told him; “let us take up Quinault’s operas.” On opening the book we found cause enough to be angry with criticism; the admirable poem of Armide presented itself, and we found these words:

Sidonie.

Hatred is dreadful and barbarous;Love forces the hearts it seizesTo suffer cruel pains.If your fate is in your power,Choose indifference:It ensures a happier destiny.

Armide.

No, no, it is not possible for meTo pass from my turmoil into peace;My heart can no longer grow calm.Renaud offends me too much; he is only too lovable;Henceforth a choice is forced upon me:To hate him or to love him.

We read all of Armide, in which Tasso’s genius receives new charms at Quinault’s hands. “Well,” I told my friend, “yet this is the Quinault whom Boileau always strove to have regarded as the most contemptible of writers. He even persuaded Louis XIV that this graceful, touching, moving, elegant writer had no merit except what he borrowed from the musician Lully.” “I understand that easily enough,” my friend answered. “Boileau was not jealous of the musician; he was jealous of the poet. What reliance can we place on the judgment of a man who, to rhyme with a line ending in aut, would disparage now Boursault, now Hénault, now Quinault, depending on whether he was on good or bad terms with those gentlemen?

“But not to let your zeal against injustice cool, merely put your head out the window. Look at that beautiful façade of the Louvre, through which Perrault immortalized himself. This able man was the brother of a very learned academician with whom Boileau had had some dispute: reason enough to be called an ignorant architect.”

After reflecting a little, my friend resumed with a sigh: “Human nature is made that way. In his memoirs the Duke of Sully finds Cardinal d’Ossat and Secretary Villeroy to be bad ministers; Louvois did what he could not to esteem the great Colbert.” “They printed nothing against each other in their lifetimes,” I replied. “That is a folly belonging almost exclusively to literature, legal wrangling, and theology.

“We had a man of merit, La Motte, who wrote some very fine stanzas:

“Sometimes, against the fire that enchants her,A young beauty stands firm,And arms herself against herselfWith a painful firmness.Alas, this extreme constraintDeprives her of the vice she lovesTo escape the shame she hates.Her severity is only show,And the honor of passing for chasteMakes her resolve to be so in fact.

“In vain this stern Stoic,Weighed down by a thousand faults,Boasts of a heroic soulWholly devoted to virtue.It is not virtue that he loves;But his heart, drunk on itself,Would usurp the altars;And with his frivolous wisdomHe seeks only to adorn the idolHe offers for mortals’ worship.

“The fields of Pharsalus and ArbelaSaw two conquerors triumph,Both worthy modelsFor great hearts to set before themselves.But success made their glory;And had the seal of victoryNot consecrated these demigods,Alexander, in the common eye,Would have been merely reckless,And Caesar merely seditious.”

“This author,” he said, “was a sage who more than once lent philosophy the charm of verse. Had he always written such stanzas, he would be the first of lyric poets. Yet it was while he was producing these fine pieces that one of his contemporaries called him:

“A certain gosling, barnyard game.

“Elsewhere he says of La Motte:

“The tedious beauty of his discourses.

“And elsewhere:

“… I see only one fault in them:The author ought to have written them in prose.Those odes smell strongly of Quinault.

“He pursues him everywhere, everywhere reproaches him with dryness and lack of harmony.

“Would you be curious to see the odes written a few years later by this same censor, who judged La Motte like a master and discredited him like an enemy? Read:

“This sovereign influenceIs for him only an illustrious chainBinding him to others’ happiness;All the brilliancies that adorn him,All the talents that ennoble him,Are in him, but are not his.

“There is nothing time does not absorb, devour;And facts unknownDiffer little from facts that never happened.

“The goodness shining in her,Among her sweetest charms,Is an image of that goodnessShe sees shining in you.And enriched by you alone,Her politeness, freedFrom the slightest obscurities,Is the reflected gleamOf your sublime illuminations.

“Through your good faith they have seenThe fears of their terrified peoplesHappily disappointed,And uprooted foreverThe hatred so often receivedIn reversion after peace.

“Unveil to my eager sightThese adopted deities,Synonyms of thought,Symbols of abstraction.

“Is it not good fortune,When of a common burdenTwo halves bear the weight,For the lesser to claim it,And for the body’s part aloneTo pay for the soul’s happiness?”

“He ought not,” my judicious lover of literature then said, “he certainly ought not to have offered such detestable works as models to the man he criticized so bitterly. It would have been better to let his adversary enjoy his merit in peace, and keep his own. But what can you expect? The irritable race of poets suffers from the same bile that tormented it long ago. The public forgives these wretched things in talented men because the public thinks only of amusement. In an allegory entitled Pluto, it sees judges condemned to be flayed and to sit in hell on a seat covered with their skin instead of fleurs-de-lis; the reader does not trouble himself whether these judges deserve it or not, whether the complainant summoning them before Pluto is right or wrong. He reads these verses solely for pleasure. If they give him pleasure, he wants nothing more; if they displease him, he leaves the allegory there and would not take a single step to have the sentence confirmed or quashed.”

Racine’s inimitable tragedies have all been criticized, and very badly: because the critics were rivals. Artists are the competent judges of art, it is true; but these competent judges are almost always corrupt.

An excellent critic would be an artist with great knowledge and taste, without prejudice or envy. That is hard to find.

I am not proposing to discuss the criticism of scholiasts who restore a word badly in an ancient author, one that used to be perfectly clear. Nor am I touching the true criticism that has untangled what can be untangled of ancient history and philosophy. The criticism I have in mind is the kind that shades into satire.

A lover of literature was reading Tasso with me one day. He came across this stanza:

The dwellers in the everlasting shadows are summonedBy the rasping blast of the trumpet of Tartarus;The wide dark caverns shake,And the sightless air resounds with that roar.Not with such a screech does lightning fallFrom the upper regions of the sky;Nor does the earth ever quake so violentlyWhen it keeps vapors pent in its swollen womb.

He then read several more stanzas at random, equally powerful and harmonious. “Ah!” he cried, “so that is what your Boileau calls tinsel! That is how he tries to run down a great man who lived a hundred years before him, in order to raise up another great man who lived sixteen hundred years earlier still, and who would himself have done Tasso justice?”

“Cheer up,” I told him, “let’s take Quinault’s operas.” When we opened the book, we found plenty to make us furious at critics. The admirable poem of Armide presented itself, and we came upon these words:

Sidonie.

“Hatred is dreadful and brutal;Love makes the hearts it takesEndure harsh torments.If your fate lies in your own hands,Pick indifference:It guarantees a happier lot.”

Armide.

“No, no, it is not possible for meTo move from my agitation to a tranquil state;My heart can no longer be soothed.Renaud wrongs me too much, and he is all too lovable.From now on I must chooseBetween hating him and loving him.”

We read the whole of Armide, in which Tasso’s genius takes on fresh charm from Quinault’s hand. “Well,” I said to my friend, “this is still the Quinault whom Boileau labored all his life to have seen as the most despicable of writers. He even convinced Louis XIV that this graceful, touching, impassioned, elegant writer owed all his merit to the musician Lully.” “That is easy for me to understand,” my friend answered. “It was not the musician Boileau envied but the poet. What weight should we give to the judgment of a man who, to rhyme with a line ending in aut, ran down now Boursault, now Hénault, now Quinault, depending on whether he was on good or bad terms with those gentlemen?”

“But to keep your zeal against injustice from cooling, just put your head out of the window. Look at that fine façade of the Louvre, through which Perrault won lasting fame. This capable man was the brother of a very learned academician with whom Boileau had quarreled. That was enough to have him branded an ignorant architect.”

After a moment’s thought, my friend resumed with a sigh: “Such is human nature. The Duke of Sully, in his memoirs, judges Cardinal d’Ossat and Secretary Villeroy to be poor ministers. Louvois did his best not to think well of the great Colbert.” “At least they printed nothing against each other while they lived,” I replied. “That folly clings almost solely to literature, legal quibbling, and theology.”

We once had a man of merit, La Motte, who composed some very fine stanzas:

Sometimes, against the flame that charms her,A young beauty holds out,And arms herself against herselfWith a painful steadfastness.Alas, this extreme constraintRobs her of the vice she cherishes,So she may flee the shame she abhors.Her severity is mere show,And the honor of passing as chasteBrings her to be so in fact.

In vain this austere Stoic,Crushed beneath a thousand flaws,Brags of a heroic soulEntirely given to virtue.It is not virtue that he loves,But his heart, intoxicated with itself,Would seize the altars for its own;And with his hollow wisdomHe wants only to deck out the idolHe sets up for mortals to worship.

The fields of Pharsalus and ArbelaWitnessed two victors in triumph,Each a fitting patternFor great hearts to hold up to themselves.But success made their fame;And had the seal of victoryNot hallowed these demigods,Alexander, in the common eye,Would have been a rash adventurer,And Caesar a mere agitator.

“This writer,” he said, “was a sage who more than once gave philosophy the charm of verse. Had he always written stanzas like these, he would be the foremost of lyric poets. Yet it was just when he was producing these lovely pieces that one of his contemporaries called him”

“Some gosling, quarry of the barnyard:”

Elsewhere he says of La Motte:

“The tiresome beauty of his speeches.”

And elsewhere:

“… I see just one flaw:The author ought to have composed them in prose.These odes have a strong whiff of Quinault.”

He hounds him everywhere, charging him everywhere with dryness and lack of harmony.

Are you curious to see the odes that this same censor, who judged La Motte as a master and tore him down as an enemy, wrote some years afterward? Read:

That commanding powerIs for him merely a splendid chainThat ties him to the welfare of others;All the jewels that adorn him,All the gifts that raise him up,Are within him, yet not his own.

Nothing escapes time’s swallowing and devouring,And events nobody knows ofAre little different from events that never occurred.

The kindness that glows in her,Among her gentlest charms,Mirrors that other kindnessShe sees glowing in you.Made rich by you alone,Her courtesy, clearedOf the faintest shadows,Is the borrowed gleamOf your sublime radiance.

Your good faith let them seeTheir peoples, shaken by dread,Happily cured of their fear,And rooted out for all timeThe hatred so often taken onAs the heir to peace.

Unveil before my impatient eyesThose deities by adoption,Stand-ins for thought,Emblems of abstraction.

Is it not a stroke of luckWhen, of a burden shared,Two halves carry the load,If the smaller one asks for it,And the body alone paysThe price of the soul’s contentment?

“Surely,” said my judicious lover of literature, “such wretched works should never have been held up as models to a man attacked so bitterly. It would have been wiser to let one’s adversary enjoy his merit in peace and keep what one had. But what do you expect? The irritable tribe of poets is sick with the same bile that plagued it long ago. The public forgives such paltry stuff in talented people, because the public thinks only of amusement. In an allegory entitled Pluto, it sees judges sentenced to be skinned and to sit in hell on a seat covered with their own hides instead of fleurs-de-lis. The reader does not fret over whether those judges deserve it, or whether the plaintiff who summons them before Pluto is right or wrong. He reads the lines purely for pleasure. If they please him, he asks no more. If they displease him, he drops the allegory and would not walk a single step to have the sentence confirmed or overturned.”

Every one of Racine’s inimitable tragedies was criticized, and very poorly, since the critics were rivals. Artists are, admittedly, the competent judges of art, but such competent judges are nearly always corrupt.

A really good critic would be an artist with plenty of learning and taste, free of prejudice and envy. That is hard to come by.