Chapter VI (7)

This grand trilogy of the "Mystery of the Passion"--which history exhibits as closely connected with puppet shows and village performances, naive even to the grotesque--has quite another importance and quite another destiny in the eyes of philosophy, which discerns therein the principal features of the modern dramatic art. Let us not quit this subject before presenting a confirmation of the thesis which the readers of these essays have already seen maintained in an article where Corneille, Racine, and even Voltaire himself were shown to be unconsciously the lineal successors of our old dramatists far more than of AEschylus, of Sophocles, and of Euripides. The father of French tragedy, who discoursed upon his art with so much philosophy and toiled night and day to make our poetry Aristotle's--Pierre Corneille, after having for half a century attempted himself, and seen attempted around him, every possible denouement, was led to recognize the necessity in this particular of going contrary to the tragic art of the Greeks. "The ancients," he wrote at the close of his career, "very often content themselves in their tragedies with depicting vices in such a manner as to cause us to hate them, and virtues so as to cause us to love them, without troubling themselves with recompensing good actions or punishing bad ones. Clytemnestra and her paramour slay Agamemnon, and go free. Medea does the same with her children, and Atreus with those of her brother. It is true that by carefully studying the actions which were selected for the catastrophe of their tragedies, there were some criminals whom they punished, but by crimes greater than their own. . . . Our drama hardly tolerates such subjects. . . . . It is the interest which we love to extend to the virtuous that has obliged us to resort to this other mode of finishing the dramatic poem by punishing the bad actions and by recompensing the good. It is not a precept of art, but a custom, which we have observed."

Whence originated this custom Corneille gave his own century the credit of it; but it is from the middle ages that it dates. What tragic drama was it which was the most important--the most popular--the longest played--of that first epoch of the modern theatre? Was it not the "Mystery of the Passion," which we have seen commencing with a simple dramatizing of the gospel--growing century by century--and ending with an immense trilogy, extending from the fall of man to the birth of our Saviour, from the passion and the death of the Saviour to his resurrection, from the establishment of the Church to the last judgment--that solution of human doctrines which regulates all things retribution for the wicked and recompense for the good, and by making virtue rise victorious from its battle with the passions? What the middle ages show us in the "mystery" which was its masterpiece, appears without exception in all those dramatic compositions which have come down to us. We have already remarked, and it is moreover a fact recognized by all scholars, that there is not a tragic drama of this epoch, whatever may be its subject, which does not close with the _Te Deum_ or with some other chant of joy, of triumph, or of forgiveness. Its denouement is always homage rendered by the justice {597} heaven avenging innocence, or by mercy bestowing on the guilty repentance and pardon.

In speaking three years ago upon the liturgic origin of the modern tragedy, and the influence of Christianity on the dramatic passions, we ended by saying that we need no longer seek, as has been too often done, in Corneille or Racine for the restorers of the ancient tragedy; that those great dramatists, it is true, received from Greece the science of the pageant and the _mise en scene_; but that as much as they approach the Greek art in their literary form, so much they depart from it not only by their denouement but also by the moral character of their intrigue. It was impossible, in fact, to change the nature of the tragic denouement without changing that of the passions and of the events which led to them. Let us develop this conclusion of our essay by showing what it is that prevents our comprehending French tragedy and defining it.

Voltaire has said, "To compress an illustrious and interesting event into the space of two or three hours, to introduce the _personae_ only when they ought to appear, to never leave the stage empty, to construct an intrigue which shall be probable as well as striking, to say nothing useless, to instruct the mind and to move the heart, to be always eloquent in verse, and with an eloquence appropriate to each character represented, to make the dialogue as pure as the choicest prose, without the constraint of the rhyme appearing to fetter the thoughts, and never to admit an obscure or harsh or declamatory verse--these are the conditions which are exacted from a tragedy of _our_ day, before it can pass to posterity with the approbation of critics, without which it can never have a true reputation."

This definition, or rather this exposition, otherwise so clear and so elegant, of the demands of our Melpomene, are far from being complete. In the time of Euripides, a Greek could have said almost as much. It is because Voltaire has only taken into account the style and the _mise en scene_, the laws of which were at Athens what they are at Paris. The difference between the ancient tragedies and the modern tragic art consists essentially in their moral character and in that alone. Christianity, by modifying the passions of the human heart, has been able to modify them on the stage likewise. It is, then, from the philosophy of the drama that we ought to set out with Aristotle to study its nature.

The French tragedy, such as our own great century has made it, is the representation of an action more probable than real, more ideal than historic, wholly noble, serious, and becoming, restricted to one place, accomplished in a few hours, without any interruption, except the interval of the acts, constructed with the majestic simplicity of the epic, drawing its startling changes from the play of passions rather from that of events, and leading forward the mind by admiration and enthusiasm to emotions of pity and of terror.

It is not the Greek tragedy--although the ancient Melpomene has transmitted to our time its _cothurnus_, its _mise en scene_, its triple unity, its heroes themselves, with their terrors and their tears. The poetic form is the same, the moral force is entirely different. On the Athenian stage, the will was subjugated by a brutal fatality; upon ours, the will makes the destiny. Vice becomes more terrible, virtue more magnanimous, and the struggles of the soul hold a larger place than the tricks of fortune. The heroes of the ancient tragedy, to become endurable with us, would have not only to take on something of our character, of our manners, of our sentiments, and, above all, of our conscience, but it would be necessary to change their mode of action, and to lead them to a denouement by paths wholly new.

Returning to the trilogy of the Passion, let us conclude this essay with a {598} reflection which appears to us of a nature to throw great light upon the popularity and the gigantic proportions of this "mystery." The middle age, so penetrated with Christian beliefs and ideas, loved it only because it found there the supreme manifestation of Divine Providence, at once merciful and just. It had been induced to thus represent the whole history of the human race, only to give to that manifestation all the development demanded by the religious conscience and the ethics of nations. There was needed the representation of sin and the fall of the first man to explain the justice and the pardon of Cavalry: there was needed the spectacle of a universal judgment to solve the grand tragedy of human destinies.

We may blame the literary tastes of our good ancestors, but not their philosophy. It has established on an immovable basis the fundamental laws of our dramatic art. We may laugh at the puerile simplicity of their theatre, but let us laugh reverently, since we find in their literary infancy the germ, the strength, the character of the manhood of the great century.

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Translated and Abridged from the Civilta Cattolica.

ANTONIO CANOVA.

_Memorie di Antonio Canova, scritte da Antonio d'Este, e publicate per cura, di Alessandro d'Este_. Firenze: Felice Le Monnier. 1864.

"It must be known," says Signor Antonio d'Este, "that when the learned Missirini undertook to publish the artist-life of Canova, he had recourse to me as the only person living who could inform him thoroughly and truly of the principles of the Venetian artist, and instruct him in some details of a life which I had known intimately for the space of fifty years. . . . I put upon paper whatever might serve to illustrate not only the disposition and character of my friend, but also the excellent qualities of his heart. . . . I was disappointed when the illustrious writer, in sending back my manuscript, said: 'I have made use of many things, and of some anecdotes, but not of all, since they appeared to me too familiar.' To tell the truth, such an answer hurt my self-love, and offended the unquenchable affection which I felt for Canova."

Hence the book before us. The author has apparently endeavored chiefly to exhibit Canova the artist as a model for the studious, but he has not overlooked Canova the citizen and the Christian. He begins with him in the humble Possagno, and shows us his life in Venice, where his genius first displayed itself, even in the degenerate school with which alone he was then acquainted. It was in Rome that the young sculptor saw the ancient purity in its full splendor. It burst upon him like a sudden revelation. For several days he was like one in a trance. Then, with his conceptions enlightened, his manner fixed, and his aim determined, he threw himself into his work. Yet he was never a servile copyist of Greek or Roman models. He imbibed the spirit of the classical school, but his genius never was trammelled by imitation. The last group which he carved under the inspiration drawn from the ancient masterpieces,--his _Daedalus and Icarus_,--compared with his _Theseus_, the first work which he executed in Rome, shows in a marked {599} manner the change in his style--we might almost say his conversion to the true principles of art.

From this time Canova, though endowed with rare modesty, and always ready to take advice, showed a fixed resolution to free sculpture from the mannerism then so common; and neither the advice of friends nor the abuse of evil-minded critics could shake his purpose.

Nature undoubtedly lavished talents upon him with unsparing hand; but he was without a parallel in the industry and care with which he fostered the divine flame. His whole time not passed in labor was devoted to monuments and museums of art. With his friend d'Este he often paid a reverential visit to the famous horses at the Quirinal, before which he gave free vent to his fancy. He used to spend many hours in contemplating these masterpieces. Long before sunrise he would spring from his bed and shut himself up in his studio. He took no relaxation--scarcely even food and rest. After hammering at the marble all day, he examined it by candlelight, and dreamed about it at night. He so consumed himself in work that his friends had to wrench the tools from his hands by force. But if he laid down the chisel, it was only to return to the study of ancient masterpieces. Not content with contemplating the works themselves under every possible aspect, he tried to study out what instruments the artists probably made use of. He would throw open his studio, and then hide or disguise himself in order to overhear the honest opinions of his visitors. Extravagant praise always made him suspicious. Once he was so much pained at a lavish eulogium upon one of his works that he ran, all trembling, to his friend Hamilton, and begged him to point out some defect in it; and having obtained the criticism that he asked, he ran home again in great glee to correct the fault. He gladly accepted criticism from the ignorant as well as the learned. One day, when he was quite old, and recognized as the first sculptor of the time, he begged d'Este to move to a certain spot a beautiful group that he had finished. Several laborers were called in to move it. When they had done their task, one of them, with that connoisseur-air which the Roman laborer knows so well how to assume, shrugged his shoulders and exclaimed:

"Well, perhaps the marchese" (Canova bore this title in his later years) "knows best; but to me this statue seems to have the goitre."

The pupils in the studio sprang up in a rage and loaded the poor man with abuse, and in the midst of the noisy dispute Canova rushed into the room, and with some difficulty learned what was the laborer's offence. He darted a glance of fire at the marble.

"Bravo!" he exclaimed after a moment's pause. "You are right. 'Take this watch--it is yours--you have done me a great service."

So saying, he threw his watch and chain upon the man's neck; and taking up a chisel began immediately to retouch the statue.

At the age of twenty-five, Canova was selected by Volpato to execute the monument of Clement XIV., and it is not too much to say that the restoration of the art of sculpture dates from this immortal work. The governments of Venice, Russia, Austria, and France invited him to take up his residence in their respective capitals; but he was never happy out of Rome; the ground seemed to burn under his feet whenever he was away from his beloved studio and the great works of the ancient sculptors. Few artists ever enjoyed so high a reputation in Europe during their lifetime as Canova, and few certainly ever sought it less. He was wholly absorbed in love for his art. and eagerness for its advancement.

But the character of a great artist, according to the Italian ideal, is not complete without a touch of oddity, and Canova was not free from some amiable eccentricities. His love passage with the Signorina Volpato, and the {600} way he got out of it, will perhaps furnish the subject for a poem by some future Goldoni; but we have no space to tell of it here.

D'Este describes the moral character of Canova extremely well. He was upright, brave, and sincere, an ardent patriot, and a sensible, practical Christian. In the midst of his labors he was not insensible to the dark clouds which obscured the political horizon, and he felt so deeply the misfortunes which threatened his country that he took the pains to retouch his _Dancing Girls_ because their expression was too joyful to accord with his own sadness of heart. He was still employed on this work when the pope was carried into captivity. He felt the misfortune as a personal affliction, and on the statue wrote these words: "Modelled in the most unhappy days of my life, June, 1809."

A few weeks after the establishment of the Roman republic, a National Institute was erected, and Canova was chosen a member. He accepted the appointment willingly, in the hope of being useful to Rome and to her artists; but when, on the evening appointed for his formal admission, the oath of membership was tendered to him, and he heard the words, "I swear hatred to princes," etc., he sprang to his feet, cried out in his Venetian dialect, _"Mi non odio nessun!"_ (I hate no one), and left the hall.

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From The Month.

CONSTANCE SHERWOOD.

AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY. BY LADY GEORGIANA FULLERTON.