Voltaire/Chapter 4
CHAPTER IV.
HIS FIRST TRAGEDY.
That he chose a classical subject for his essay in tragedy was owing partly to the fashion set by Racine and Corneille, partly to his recent studies at the Jesuit College; and he chose this particular story because, as he tells us, he did not approve of the Œdipus either of Sophocles or of Corneille, and endeavoured in his own play to avoid the faults which they had committed. But it was a subject that no genius could make attractive in our day. To represent a good man as the sport of a malignant destiny is of itself an idea belonging to a pagan rather than a Christian age; and when his fate takes the shape of causing him unwittingly to slay his father and to marry his mother—bringing down, by these involuntary offences, the wrath of the gods upon a whole nation—the fable would seem to be altogether outside the pale of modern sympathies. Nevertheless the play, obstructed at first by critics who did not like Voltaire, on the score that it contained reflections against religion, and by the players because the characters did not suit them, especially as there was no "lady in love," ran for forty-five nights in succession.
Believing that the language of the drama (which, he held, should be the standard of linguistic excellence) had terribly degenerated, he set himself to render his play a model of correctness in all respects. It is framed in extreme accordance with the assumed exigencies of the unities. The story is very simple and direct, the time occupied in the action is the same as that of the representation, and the scene is throughout in the same palace or its precincts. In thus focussing the whole drama into a crisis in the lives of the characters, and making no demands on the imagination of the spectators to furnish anything except the epoch, the dramatist proceeds on the assumption that all the illusion which the stage can afford is not attained except under these conditions. This assumption has been proved false by a thousand examples. The writer who has succeeded in observing the unities, probably confounds his own satisfaction at overcoming a great difficulty with the pleasure of the audience, forgetting that the spectator is interested in the effect only, not in the process. However this may be, Voltaire continued to value himself on the observance of the rules with which he hampered his genius, and to allow his prejudices on this point to affect his estimate of others, notably of Shakespeare.
It is not expedient to dwell on the character of this drama further than to say that it exhibits great dexterity in securing symmetry, compactness, and completeness under the assumed conditions; and that, if the characters exhibit no great individuality, and speak rather to promote the action than to reveal themselves, they talk as well as characters so unhappily situated can be supposed to talk. But it may be interesting to quote one or two short speeches which were considered to hint at his rebellion against priestcraft. They were so accepted by his enemies at the time, and his later writings lent to them fresh significance. Philoctetes makes Œdipus understand how dangerous is the enmity of the priesthood:—
"If kings had been your only enemies,
Then under you had Philoctetes fought;
But when a weapon bears a sacred name,
All the more fatal is the stab it deals.
Strongly upborne by his vain oracles,
A priest is oft to rulers terrible;
And a besotted people, fired by zeal,
Making an idol of its stupid creed,
In pious disregard of higher laws,
Honours its gods by treason to its kings."
Jocasta thus questions the authority of the oracle:—
"Can it not err, this organ of the gods?
A holy tie priests to the altar binds,
Yet, commercing with gods, they are but men.
Think you, indeed, the award of fate can hang
Upon their seeking, or the flight of birds?
That oxen, groaning under sacred steel,
To curious eyes unveil our destinies?
And that these victims, all in garlands decked,
Within their entrails bear the doom of men!
Not so. To seek in this way hidden truth
Is to usurp the rights of power divine.
Our priests, far other than dull crowds believe,
Owe all their lore to our credulity."
These two last lines have often been quoted as indicating the revolt against religious belief which was then stirring in the mind of the dramatist. But what they really prove is the extraordinary jealousy and intolerance which could find such a meaning in them.
There runs a tale, that at one of the performances of this play the Maréchale de Villars, the beautiful wife of Louis XIV.'s famous Marshal, observed a young man on the stage holding up the train of the high priest in such a way as to cast ridicule on the scene. Inquiring who this person was, who seemed to desire to ruin the play, she was told he was no other than the author; and, struck by his eccentricity and cleverness, she thereupon desired that he might be brought to her box and presented to her. This story, however, can scarcely be altogether true; for two of Voltaire's published letters which speak of visits he was about to pay at Villars, her country seat, are dated a year or two before. But however this may be, the fact remains that his friendship with this excellent pair, begun in his youth, ended only with their death. Indeed, it was something more than friendship on Voltaire's part, for the graces of the Maréchale inspired him with one of the two really ardent attachments of his youth. He appears to have imparted his passion for her (according to the laudable practice of the time) to everybody who would listen to him, including, possibly, the Marshal. As for the lady, she appears to have accorded him only so much indulgence as a veteran swordsman may bestow on a promising young fencer, letting him practise with her his airs and graces, his tender letters, verses, vows and entreaties, but never allowing him to come within her guard.