place; the Theatre no longer exhibits any but virtuous and indulgent fathers, who graciously save their sons the trouble of duping them, for they consent to every thing; or irreproachable husbands, whose misfortunes it is the poet's effort to persuade us to pity, instead of making us laugh at them. It is curious to observe how comedy, which did not fear to attack the paternal authority, when this authority was an indisputable right, treats it with tenderness when it was no longer supported except by worldly proprieties. We often, even in these days, when the idea of duty is changed, hear comedy loudly regretting the severity of the ancient manners. It becomes austere, in order to remain censorious. In the eighteenth century, the Theatre witnessed, during many years, an affecting procession of virtuous and tender fathers, such as the Father of a Family in Diderot, and the father of Eugenia, in the drama of Beaumarchais; excellent people, whom we would love more, if they would say less about their goodness, and whose chagrins we would be more willing to pity, if their grief did not mount upon two points of exclamation, as if upon crutches. "O holy bond of marriage," says the father of a family in Diderot, M. D'Orbesson, "when I think of you, my heart becomes cheered and elevated. O tender names of son and daughter! I can never pronounce you without leaping with joy, and becoming affected to tears." Well! we are willing that you should be affected, but say less about it! It is for us to be moved and affected; but it is not for you to make a display of your paternal transports. Be a father, like Venceslas, embracing his son when he has just condemned him to death; be a father like the old Horace or Don Diego: be it in joy or in grief; but do not practise it before a mirror; do not talk about the feelings which you experience. Unfortunately, Diderot was a philosopher and a critic, rather than a poet. He made his drama to justify his dramatic theories. His characters do not live; they are precepts put in action; they have the secret of all the emotions which they feel, and they, moreover, take great care to tell us of it, so that we may lose nothing of their intentions. The father of a family analyzes and dwells upon his tenderness for his children; Saint Albin his love for Sophia; Cecile her love for Germeuil. It is only the commander who naturally bursts out into a fit of anger, and without making any observations about it. Each one in this piece speaks for the public, and not for his interlocutor; therefore, the reasons of the characters are arguments drawn from the general state of society, and which are better calculated to please the audience than particular reasons derived from the passions of each individual; and yet, these passionate reasons are the only good ones, the only ones, indeed, which influence men. What, for example, can we think of a father who gravely says to his daughter, who wishes to retire into a convent, on account of some disappointment in love: "Who will then repeople society with virtuous citizens, if the women who are most worthy to become mothers of families refuse to do so?" This argument of the philosopher, who does not love convents, and which, in its very expression, has something to cause a young girl to blush, would affect her, certainly, much less than a single word of the secret love which she feels for Germeuil. What signify, we may also ask, the constant eulo giums upon virtue and morality with which Diderot and Beaumarchais have interspersed their dramas? Is it for our instruction? Useful lessons are only those which are seasonably introduced. But when Lord Clarendon, in the Eugenia of Beaumarchais, having been secretly married to Eugenia, and having shamefully deceived her, repents, in the denouement, and returns to his wife, is that the time for a father to think of passing a eulogy upon virtue, and of saying gravely to Eugenia, to Clarendon, and particularly to the audience, "Never forget that the only solid blessings of life are in the exercise of virtue ?" Be it so; but, during the five long acts, have occupied us with every thing else but the practice of virtue. Let us frankly confess, that the drama is intended to move, and not to instruct us; to paint the life of man, such as it is, and not to teach virtue. But it is this painting of the life and affections of man, it is this truth which is wanting in the dramas of the eighteenth century. In all these dramas, which intended to represent the paternal character on the stage and to make it respectable, Sedaine alone has succeeded, in the drama entitled The Philosopher without knowing it, in showing the heart of a father, such as it really is, in its most cruel moments of anxiety. you The drama of the eighteenth century did not know how to represent the paternal character; it wished to invest it with the dignity which belongs to it, but it fell into stiffness and declamation. When the paternal character goes out of tragedy, when it aspires to enter the drama, without descending to comedy, it loses its grandeur and its dignity; it has no longer even that which it had in the world, in the bosom of each family, a sweet and touching gravity. It knows how to be great only at the Theatre, and in tragedy, under the mask of kings and princes. Elsewhere, we do not find it as we imagined it, either in novels or in the drama; and, as it is not sufficiently idealized, it does not seem to us to resemble it. This necessity of idealizing our sentiments, in order to recognize them, is one of the moral causes of the custom which tragedy has adopted to represent the misfortunes of princes and kings, rather than those of private individuals. The dignity of their rank elevates, in our eyes, their griefs, their anger, and their loves. But so far are their sentiments elevated above, and distinguished from ours, that they enable us only to satisfy the desires of our imagination. We only recognize ourselves in those which are greater and more refined than ourselves. We may add in passing, that the custom of tragic heroes to speak in verse proceeds from the same cause, poetry being the means of recovering, by grandeur of expression, this grandeur of the human sentiments, which always remains above the efforts of the dramatic poet. We ought never to mingle the paternal character with events of too trivial a nature, which run the risk of degrading it below the rank to which it belongs. This is the danger of the familiar drama; without intending it, it debases the paternal character, and although it sincerely respects it, and does not wish to make us laugh at its expense, yet it tends to degrade it by buffoonery and familiarity. Comedy is still more embarrassed; it lives upon the laughter which ridicule inspires. What would it then do with the paternal character, if it did not wish to jeer openly at the faults of fathers, as the ancient comedy did? What would it do, especially if it selected a subject where the father played the first part, if it wished to exhibit the ingratitude of children, and their punishment? A respectable character endangers its success. But of all dangers of this kind, the most perilous is that of a father insulted by his children; for in that case the laughter would be odious. What then must be done in order to avoid the risk of exciting a laugh against the misfortunes of a father, which would be immoral, or, on the other hand, of causing us to weep, which would be contrary to the end and intention of comedy? In the seventeenth century, under Moliere, comedy had always, except in the Tartuffe, avoided odious subjects. In the eighteenth century, with more boldness, and for want of new inventions, it endeavored to chastise filial ingratitude by ridicule. Piron composed a play entitled, Ungrateful Sons. In our own' days, Etienne has, with more ability, composed his piece, called The Two Sons-in-law. Let us see in what manner these two authors have treated this subject, so difficult for comedy. An old fabliau has furnished Piron and Etienne with the subject of their pieces. A father, blinded by his tenderness for his children, has given them all his property, they agreeing to lodge and support him, each in his turn. Although well treated at first, he soon sees himself neglected and outraged. He goes to tell his chagrin to one of his friends. "Your sons," said his friend to him, who was a rich broker, "your sons have no more regard for you, because they know that you are poor, and have nothing more to leave them. I will have these sacks of louis d'ors conveyed to your house; you will take care to count them aloud in your chamber, and permit them to see you, while you seem to conceal them. As soon as they believe that you are rich, your sons will change their conduct towards you." The poor father consented to the trick; and having returned to his chamber, he began to count his gold. The noise of the gold was heard afar off; the sons ran and saw, through the key-hole, their father occupied in heaping up the pieces of money. In the evening they said to him: " My father, what is that you were counting this morning?" "It is a sum which I had invested in commerce, and which has yielded me a large profit, owing to the good care of my banker." "And what are you going to do with it, my father?” "I mean to keep it in my strong box. It is a treasure which I intend to leave to the one with whom I will be most pleased during the remainder of my life." From this day the old man was taken care of, respected, and caressed by his sons, who endeavored to outvie each other in their filial attentions. He died; and his sons, running to the strong box, quickly opened it: it was empty! There was only an iron hammer, with a scrap of paper, containing these words: "I bequeathe this hammer to break the head of the father who would be fool enough to give all his property to his children, and to expect their gratitude." This story is both grave and satirical. We see what Piron has made of it. The name of Piron scarcely awakens in our mind the idea of a poet, who was able to avenge, even in comedy, the majesty of the paternal character. Piron, however, had some of the qualities requisite to handle such a subject: and when we read his history, we pity him, as one who did not know how to give to his contemporaries, or to posterity, a just idea of his genius, which was better than his works, except the Metromanià, and his character, which was better than his manner of living. He did not know how to show what he was, and as, on the other hand, he overvalued himself, this good opinion which he had of himself, and which he did not know how to justify in the eyes of others, has made his self-love appear ridiculous, especially in our eyes. Shall we say, for instance, that during his whole life, Piron believed himself the rival and superior of Voltaire ? Voltaire, in his opinion, was a wit;* Piron was a man of genius. This pretension seems inexplicable to us, nowadays; but Piron had witnessed the first attempts of Voltaire, who, notwithstanding the tragic genius which burst forth in his Edipus, had, particularly in the beginning, acquired reputation for wit. Wit, in fact, was the most striking trait of Voltaire's mind; but to a certain degree, wit is a sign of genius, and this is what the early contemporaries of Voltaire did not see. In order to overcome prejudices of this kind, and finally to control the spirit of his age, as he did, a long life was necessary to Voltaire. At his debut, the brilliancy of his wit concealed, if we may so speak, the strength and grandeur of his genius. Some particular circumstances also explain Piron's opinion. Piron and Voltaire met when they were young at the house of the Marchioness de Mimeure, who loved and protected letters. Voltaire, at the house of Madame de Mimeure, had not only the air of an author; he had already acquired this tone of equality for which literature is under obligations * En deux mots, voulez-vous distinguer et connaître Le premier ne fut rien, ni ne voulut rien être : |