​CORNEILLE, PIERRE (1606–1684), French dramatist and poet, was born at Rouen, in the rue de la Pie, on the 6th of June 1606. The house, which was long preserved, was destroyed not many years ago. His father, whose Christian name was the same, wasavocat du roi à la Table de Marbre du Palais, and also held the position ofmaître des eaux et forêts in thevicomté(orbailliage, as some say) of Rouen. In this latter office he issaid to have shown himself a vigorous magistrate, suppressingbrigandage and plunder without regard to his personal safety.He was ennobled in 1637 (it is said not without regard to hisson’s distinction), and the honour was renewed in favour of hissons Pierre and Thomas in 1669, when a general repeal of theletters of nobility recently granted had taken place. Thereappears, however, to be no instance on record of the poet himselfassuming the “de” of nobility. His mother’s name was Marthele Pesant.

After being educated by the Jesuits of Rouen, Corneille at the age of eighteen was entered asavocat, and in 1624 took theoaths, as we are told, four years before the regular time, a dispensationhaving been procured. He was afterwards appointedadvocate to the admiralty, and to the “waters and forests,”but both these posts must have been of small value, as we findhim parting with them in 1650 for the insignificant sum of 6000livres. In that year and the next he wasprocureur-syndic desÉtats de Normandie. His first play,Mélite, was acted in 1629.It is said by B. le B. de Fontenelle (his nephew) to have beeninspired by personal experiences, and was extremely popular,either because or in spite of its remarkable difference from thepopular plays of the day, those of A. Hardy. In 1632Clitandre,a tragedy, was printed (it may have been acted in 1631); in1633La Veuve and theGalerie du palais, in 1634La Suivante andLa Place Royale, all the last-named plays being comedies, sawthe stage. In 1634 also, having been selected as the composerof a Latin elegy to Richelieu on the occasion of the cardinalvisiting Rouen, he was introduced to the subject of his verses,and was soon after enrolled among the “five poets.” Theseofficers (the others being G. Colletet, Boisrobert and C. de l’Étoile, who in no way merited the title, and J. de Rotrou, who was no unworthy yokefellow even of Corneille) had for task the more profitable than dignified occupation of working up Richelieu’s ideas into dramatic form. No one could be less suited for such work than Corneille, and he soon (it is said)incurred his employer’s displeasure by altering the plan of the third act ofLes Thuileries, which had been entrusted to him.

Meanwhile the year 1635 saw the production ofMédée, agrand but unequal tragedy. In the next year the singularextravaganza entitledL’Illusion comique followed, and wassucceeded about the end of November by theCid, based on theMocedades del Cid of Guillem de Castro. The triumphant successof this, perhaps the most “epoch-making” play in all literature,the jealousy of Richelieu and the Academy, the open attacks ofGeorges de Scudéry and J. de Mairet and others, and the pamphlet-warwhich followed, are among the best-known incidents in thehistory of letters. The trimming verdict of the Academy,which we have in J. Chapelain’sSentiments de l’Académiefrançaise sur la tragi-comédie du Cid (1638), when its arbitrationwas demanded by Richelieu, and not openly repudiated byCorneille, was virtually unimportant; but it is worth rememberingthat no less a writer than Georges de Scudéry, in hisObservationssur le Cid (1637), gravely and apparently sincerely assertedand maintained of this great play that the subject was utterlybad, that all the rules of dramatic composition were violated, that the action was badly conducted, the versification constantly faulty, and the beauties as a rule stolen! Corneille himself was awkwardly situated in this dispute. Theesprit bourru by which he was at all times distinguished, and which he now displayed in his rather arrogantExcuse à Ariste, unfitted him for controversy, and it was of vital importance to him that he should not lose the outward marks of favour which Richelieu continued to show him. Perhaps the pleasantest feature in the whole matter is the unshaken and generous admiration with which Rotrou, the only contemporary whose geniusentitled him to criticise Corneille, continued to regard his friend, rival, and in some sense (though Rotrou was the younger of the two) pupil. Finding it impossible to make himself fairly heard in the matter, Corneille (who had retired from his position among the “five poets”) withdrew to Rouen and passed nearly three years in quiet there, perhaps revolving the opinions afterwards expressed in his threeDiscours and in theExamens of his plays, where he bows, somewhat as in the house of Rimmon, to “the rules.” In 1639, ​or at the beginning of 1640, appearedHorace with a dedication toRichelieu. The good offices of Madame de Combalet, to whomtheCid had been dedicated, and perhaps the satisfaction of thecardinal’s literary jealousy, had healed what breach there mayhave been, and indeed the poet was in no position to quarrelwith his patron. Richelieu not only allowed him 500 crowns ayear, but soon afterwards, it is said, though on no certainauthority, employed his omnipotence in reconciling the fatherof the poet’s mistress, Marie de Lampérière, to the marriageof the lovers (1640). In this year alsoCinna appeared. Abrief but very serious illness attacked him, and the death of hisfather the year before had increased his family anxieties byleaving his mother in very indifferent circumstances. It has,however, been recently denied that he himself was at any timepoor, as older traditions asserted.

In the following year Corneille figured as a contributor totheGuirlande de Julie, a famous album which the marquis deMontausier, assisted by all the literary men of the day, offered tohis lady-love, Julie d’Angennes. 1643 was, according to thelatest authorities (for Cornelian dates have often been altered),a very great year in the dramatist’s life. Therein appearedPolyeucte, the memorable comedy ofLe Menteur, which thoughadapted from the Spanish stood in relation to French comedyvery much asLe Cid, which owed less to Spain, stood to Frenchtragedy; its less popular and far less goodSuite,—and perhapsLa Mort de Pompée.Rodogune (1644) was a brilliant success;Théodore (1645), a tragedy on a somewhat perilous subject, wasthe first of Corneille’s plays which was definitely damned.Some amends may have been made to him by the commissionwhich he received next year to write verses for theTriomphespoétiques de Louis XIII. Soon after (22nd of January 1647)the Academy at last (it had twice rejected him on frivolous pleas)admitted the greatest of living French writers.Héraclius (1646),Andromède (1650), a spectacle-opera rather than a play,DonSanche d’Aragon (1650) andNicomède (1651) were the productsof the next few years’ work; but in 1652Pertharite was receivedwith decided disfavour, and the poet in disgust resolved, likeBen Jonson, to quit the loathed stage. In this resolution hepersevered for six years, during which he worked at a versetranslation of theImitation of Christ (finished in 1656), at histhreeDiscourses on Dramatic Poetry, and at theExamens whichare usually printed at the end of his plays. In 1659 Fouquet,the Maecenas of the time, persuaded him to alter his resolve,andŒdipe, a play which became a great favourite with LouisXIV., was the result. It was followed byLa Toison d’or (1660),Sertorius (1662) andSophonisbe (1663). In this latter yearCorneille (who had at last removed his residence from Rouen toParis in 1662) was included among the list of men of letterspensioned at the proposal of Colbert. He received 2000 livres.Othon (1664),Agésilas (1666),Attila (1667), andTite et Bérénice(1670), were generally considered as proofs of failing powers,—the cruel quatrain of Boileau—

in the case of these two plays, and the unlucky comparison withRacine in theBérénice, telling heavily against them. In 1665and 1670 some versifications of devotional works addressed tothe Virgin had appeared. The part which Corneille took inPsyché (1671), Molière and P. Quinault being his coadjutors,showed signs of renewed vigour; butPulchérie (1672) andSuréna (1674) were allowed even by his faithful followers to befailures. He lived for ten years after the appearance ofSuréna,but was almost silent save for the publication, in 1676, of somebeautiful verses thanking Louis XIV. for ordering the revivalof his plays. He died at his house in the rue d’Argenteuil onthe 30th of September 1684. For nine years (1674–1681), andagain in 1683, his pension had, for what reason is unknown,been suspended. It used to be said that he was in great straits,and the story went (though, as far as Boileau is concerned, ithas been invalidated), that at last Boileau, hearing of this,went to the king and offered to resign his own pension if therewere not money enough for Corneille, and that Louis sent theaged poet two hundred pistoles. He might, had it actually beenso, have said, with a great English poet in like case, “I have notime to spend them.” Two days afterwards he was dead.

Corneille was buried in the church of St Roch, where nomonument marked his grave until 1821. He had six children,of whom four survived him. Pierre, the eldest son, a cavalryofficer who died before his father, left posterity in whom thename has continued; Marie, the eldest daughter, was twicemarried, and by her second husband, M. de Farcy, became theancestress of Charlotte Corday. Repeated efforts have beenmade for the benefit of the poet’s descendants, Voltaire, CharlesX. and theComédie française having all borne part therein.

The portraits of Corneille (the best and most trustworthy ofwhich is from the burin of M. Lasne, an engraver of Caen),represent him as a man of serious, almost of stern countenance,and this agrees well enough with such descriptions as we haveof his appearance, and with the idea of him which we should formfrom his writings and conduct. His nephew Fontenelle admitsthat his general address and manner were by no means prepossessing.Others use stronger language, and it seems to beconfessed that either from shyness, from pride, or from physicaldefects of utterance, probably from all three combined, he didnot attract strangers. Racine is said to have assured his sonthat Corneille made verses “cent fois plus beaux” than his own,but that his own greater popularity was owing to the fact thathe took some trouble to make himself personally agreeable.Almost all the anecdotes which have been recorded concerninghim testify to a rugged and somewhat unamiable self-contentment.“Je n’ai pas le mérite de ce pays-ci,” he said of thecourt, “Je n’en suis pas moins Pierre Corneille,” he is saidto have replied to his friends as often as they dared to suggestcertain shortcomings in his behaviour, manner or speech, “Jesuis saoul de gloire et affamé d’argent” was his reply to thecompliments of Boileau. Yet tradition is unanimous as to hisaffection for his family, and as to the harmony in which he livedwith his brother Thomas who had married Marguerite de Lampérière,younger sister of Marie, and whose household both atRouen and at Paris was practically one with that of his brother.No story about Corneille is better known than that which tellsof the trap between the two houses, and how Pierre, whosefacility of versification was much inferior to his brother’s, wouldlift it when hard bestead, and call out “Sans-souci, une rime!”Notwithstanding this domestic felicity, an impression is left onthe reader of Corneille’s biographies that he was by no meansa happy man. Melancholy of temperament will partially explainthis, but there were other reasons. He appears to have beenquite free from envy properly so called, and to have been alwaysready to acknowledge the excellences of his contemporaries.But, as was the case with a very different man—Goldsmith—praisebestowed on others always made him uncomfortableunless it were accompanied by praise bestowed on himself.As Guizot has excellently said, “Sa jalousie fut celle d’un enfantqui veut qu’un sourire le rassure contre les caresses que reçoitson frère.”

Although his actual poverty has been recently denied, hecannot have been affluent. His pensions covered but a small part of his long life and were most irregularly paid. He was no “dedicator,” and the occasional presents of rich men, such as Montauron (who gave him a thousand, others say two hundred, pistoles for the dedication ofCinna), and Fouquet (who commissionedŒdipe), were few and far between, though they have exposed him to reflections which show great ignorance of the manners of the age. Of his professional earnings, the small sum for which, as we have seen, he gave up his offices, and the expression of Fontenelle that he practised “sans goût et sans succès,” are sufficient proof. His patrimony and his wife’s dowry must both have been trifling. On the other hand, it was during the early and middle part of his career impossible, and during the later part very difficult, for a dramatist to live decently by his pieces. It was not till the middle of the century that the custom ​of allowing the author two shares in the profits during the firstrun of the piece was observed, and even then revivals profitedhim nothing. Thomas Corneille himself, who to his undoubtedtalents united wonderful facility, untiring industry, and (giftvaluable above all others to the playwright) an extraordinaryknack of hitting the public fancy, died, notwithstanding hissimple tastes, “as poor as Job.” We know that Pierre receivedfor two of his later pieces two thousand livres each, and we do notknow that he ever received more.

But his reward in fame was not stinted. Corneille, unlikemany of the great writers of the world, was not driven to waitfor “the next age” to do him justice. The cabal or clique whichattacked theCid had no effect whatever on the judgment of thepublic. All his subsequent masterpieces were received with thesame ungrudging applause, and the rising star of Racine, evenin conjunction with the manifest inferiority of Corneille’s lastfive or six plays, with difficulty prevailed against the older poet’stowering reputation. The great men of his time—Condé,Turenne, the maréchal de Grammont, the knight-errant duc deGuise—were his fervent admirers. Nor had he less justice donehim by a class from whom less justice might have been expected,the brother men of letters whose criticisms he treated with suchscant courtesy. The respectable mediocrity of Chapelain mightmisapprehend him; the lesser geniuses of Scudéry and Mairetmight feel alarm at his advent; the envious Claverets andD’Aubignacs might snarl and scribble. But Balzac did himjustice; Rotrou, as we have seen, never failed in generousappreciation; Molière in conversation and in print recognizedhim as his own master and the foremost of dramatists. We havequoted the informal tribute of Racine; but it should not beforgotten that Racine, in discharge of his duty as respondent atthe Academical reception of Thomas Corneille, pronounced uponthe memory of Pierre perhaps the noblest and most just tributeof eulogy that ever issued from the lips of a rival. Boileau’stestimony is of a more chequered character; yet he seems neverto have failed in admiring Corneille whenever his principles wouldallow him to do so. Questioned as to the great men of LouisXIV.’s reign, he is said to have replied: “I only know three,—Corneille,Molière and myself.” “And how about Racine?”his auditor ventured to remark. “He was an extremely cleverfellow to whom I taught the art of elaborate rhyming” (rimerdifficilement). It was reserved for the 18th century to exaltRacine above Corneille. Voltaire, who was prompted by hisnatural benevolence to comment on the latter (the profits wentto a relation of the poet), was not altogether fitted by nature toappreciate Corneille, and moreover, as has been ingeniouslypointed out, was not a little wearied by the length of his task.His partially unfavourable verdict was endorsed earlier byVauvenargues, who knew little of poetry, and later by La Harpe,whose critical standpoint has now been universally abandoned.Napoleon I. was a great admirer of Corneille (“s’il vivait, je leferais prince,” he said), and under the Empire and the Restorationan approach to a sounder appreciation was made. But it wasthe glory of the romantic school, or rather of the more catholicstudy of letters which that school brought about, to restoreCorneille to his true rank. So long, indeed, as a certain kind ofcriticism was pursued, due appreciation was impossible. Whenit was thought sufficient to say with Boileau that Corneilleexcited, not pity or terror, but admiration which was not atragic passion; or that

when Voltaire could think it crushing to add to his exposure ofthe “infamies” ofThéodore—“après cela comment osons-nouscondamner les pièces de Lope de Véga et de Shakespeare?”—itis obvious that theCid andPolyeucte, much moreDon Sanched’Aragon andRodogune, were sealed books to the critic.

Almost the first thing which strikes a reader is the singularinequality of this poet, and the attempts to explain this inequality,in reference to his own and other theories, leave thefact untouched. Producing, as he certainly has produced, workwhich classes him with the greatest names in literature, he hasalso signed an extraordinary quantity of verse which has notmerely the defects of genius, irregularity, extravagance,bizarreté,but the faults which we are apt to regard as exclusively belongingto those who lack genius, to wit, the dulness and tediousness ofmediocrity. Molière’s manner of accounting for this is famousin literary history or legend. “My friend Corneille,” he said,“has a familiar who inspires him with the finest verses in theworld. But sometimes the familiar leaves him to shift forhimself, and then he fares very badly.” That Corneille was byno means destitute of the critical faculty hisDiscourses and theExamens of his plays (often admirably acute, and, with Dryden’ssubsequent prefaces, the originals to a great extent of speciallymodern criticism) show well enough. But an enemy mightcertainly contend that a poet’s critical faculty should be of thePromethean, not be Epimethean order. The fact seems to bethat the form in which Corneille’s work was cast, and which by anodd irony of fate he did so much to originate and make popular,was very partially suited to his talents. He could imagineadmirable situations, and he could write verses of incomparablegrandeur—verses that reverberate again and again in thememory, but he could not, with the patient docility of Racine,labour at proportioning the action of a tragedy strictly, atmaintaining a uniform rate of interest in the course of the plotand of excellence in the fashion of the verse. Especially in hislater plays a verse and a couplet will crash out with fulgurousbrilliancy, and then be succeeded by pages of very second-ratedeclamation or argument. It was urged against him also by theparty of theDoucereux, as he called them, that he could notmanage, or did not attempt, the great passion of love, and thatexcept in the case of Chimène his principle seemed to be that ofone of his own heroines:—

There is perhaps some truth in this accusation, however muchsome of us may be disposed to think that the line just quotedis a fair enough description of the admired ecstasies of Achilleand Bajazet. But these are all the defects which can be fairlyurged against him; and in a dramatist bound to a less strictservice they would hardly have been even remarked. Theycertainly neither require, nor are palliated by, theories of his“megalomania,” of his excessive attention to conflicts of willand the like. On the English stage the liberty of unrestrictedincident and complicated action, the power of multiplyingcharacters and introducing prose scenes, would have exactlysuited his somewhat intermittent genius, both by coveringdefects and by giving greater scope for the exhibition of power.

How great that power is can escape no one. The splendidsoliloquies of Medea which, as Voltaire happily says, “annoncentCorneille,” the entire parts of Rodogune and Chimène, the finalspeech of Camille inHorace, the discovery scene ofCinna, thedialogues of Pauline and Sévère inPolyeucte, the magnificently-contrastedconception and exhibition of the best and worst formsof feminine dignity in the Cornélie ofPompée and the CléopâtreofRodogune, the singularly fine contrast inDon Sanche d’Aragon,between the haughtiness of the Spanish nobles and the unshakendignity of the supposed adventurer Carlos, and the charactersof Aristie, Viriate and Sertorius himself, in the play named afterthe latter, are not to be surpassed in grandeur of thought,felicity of design or appropriateness of language. “Admiration”may or may not properly be excited by tragedy, and untilthis important question is settled the name of tragedian may beat pleasure given to or withheld from the author ofRodogune.But his rank among the greatest of dramatic poets is not amatter of question. For a poet is to be judged by his best things,and the best things of Corneille are second to none.

The Plays.—It was, however, some time before his geniuscame to perfection. It is undeniable that the first six or sevenof his plays are of no very striking intrinsic merit. On the otherhand, it requires only a very slight acquaintance with the state ofthe drama in France at the time to see that these works, poor asthey may now seem, must have struck the spectators as something ​new and surprising. The language and dialogue ofMélite are on the whole simple and natural, and though the construction is not very artful (the fifth act being, as is not unusual in Corneille, superfluous and clumsy), it is still passable. The fact that one of the characters jumps on another's back, and the rather promiscuous kissing which takes place, are nothing to the liberties usually taken in contemporary plays. A worse fault is theστιχομυθία, or, to borrow Butler's expression, the Cat-and-Puss dialogue, which abounds. But the common objection to the play at the time was that it wastoo natural and too devoid of striking incidents. Corneille accordingly, as he tells us, set to work to cure these faults, and produced a truly wonderful work,Clitandre. Murders, combats, escapes and outrages of all kinds are provided; and the language makesThe Rehearsal no burlesque. One of the heroines rescues herself from a ravisher by blinding him with a hair-pin, and as she escapes the seducer apostrophizes the blood which trickles from his eye, and the weapon which has wounded it, in a speech forty verses long. This, however, was his only attempt of the kind. For his next four pieces, which were comedies, there is claimed the introduction of some important improvements, such as the choosing for scenes places well known in actual life (as in theGalerie du palais), and the substitution of the soubrette in place of the old inconvenient and grotesque nurse. It is certain, however, that there is more interval between these six plays andMédée than between the latter and Corneille's greatest drama. Here first do we find those sudden and magnificent lines which characterize the poet. The title-rôle is, however, the only good one, and as a whole the play is heavy. Much the same may be said of its curious successorL'Illusion comique. This is not only a play within a play, but in part of it there is actually athird involution, one set of characters beholding another set discharging the parts of yet another. It contains, however, some very fine lines, in particular, a defence of the stage and some heroics put into the mouth of a braggadocio. We have seen it said of theCid that it is difficult to understand the enthusiasm it excited. But the difficulty can only exist for persons who are insensible to dramatic excellence, or who so strongly object to the forms of the French drama that they cannot relish anything so presented. Rodrigue, Chimène, Don Diègue are not of any age, but of all time. The conflicting passions of love, honour, duty, are here represented as they never had been on a French stage, and in the "strong style" which was Corneille's own. Of the many objections urged against the play, perhaps the weightiest is that which condemns the frigid and superfluous part of the Infanta.Horace, though more skilfully constructed, is perhaps less satisfactory. There is a hardness about the younger Horace which might have been, but is not made, imposing, and Sabine's effect on the action is quite out of proportion to the space she occupies. The splendid declamation of Camille, and the excellent part of the elder Horace, do not altogether atone for these defects.Cinna is perhaps generally considered the poet's masterpiece, and it undoubtedly contains the finest single scene in all French tragedy. The blot on it is certainly the character of Émilie, who is spiteful and thankless, not heroic.Polyeucte has sometimes been elevated to the same position. There is, however, a certain coolness about the hero's affection for his wife which somewhat detracts from the merit of his sacrifice; while the Christian part of the matter is scarcely so well treated as in theSaint Genest of Rotrou or theVirgin Martyr of Massinger. On the other hand, the entire parts of Pauline and Sévère are beyond praise, and the manner in which the former reconciles her duty as a wife with her affection for her lover is an astonishing success. InPompée (forLa Mort de Pompée, though the more appropriate, was not the original title) the splendid declamation of Cornélie is the chief thing to be remarked.Le Menteur fully deserves the honour which Molière paid to it. Its continuation, notwithstanding the judgment of some French critics, we cannot think so happy. ButThéodore is perhaps the most surprising of literary anomalies. The central situation, which so greatly shocked Voltaire and indeed all French critics from the date of the piece, does not seem to blame. A virgin martyr who is threatened with loss of honour as a bitterer punishment than loss of life offers points as powerful as they are perilous. But the treatment is thoroughly bad. From the heroine who is, in a phrase of Dryden's, "one of the coolest and most insignificant" heroines ever drawn, to the undignified Valens, the termagant Marcelle, and the peevish Placide, there is hardly a good character. Immediately upon this in most printed editions, though older in representation, follows the play which (therein agreeing rather with the author than with his critics) we should rank as his greatest triumph,Rodogune. Here there is hardly a weak point. The magnificent and terrible character of Cléopâtre, and the contrasted dispositions of the two princes, of course attract most attention. But the character of Rodogune herself, which has not escaped criticism, comes hardly short of these.Héraclius, despite great art and much fine poetry, is injured by the extreme complication of its argument and by the blustering part of Pulchérie.Andromède, with the later spectacle piece, theToison d'or, do not call for comment, and we have already alluded to the chief merit ofDon Sanche.Nicomède, often considered one of Corneille's best plays, is chiefly remarkable for the curious and unusual character of its hero. OfPertharite it need only be said that no single critic has to our knowledge disputed the justice of its damnation.Œdipe is certainly unworthy of its subject and its author, but inSertorius we have one of Corneille's finest plays. It is remarkable not only for its many splendid verses and for the nobility of its sentiment, but from the fact that not one of its characters lacks interest, a commendation not generally to be bestowed on its author's work. Of the last six plays we may say that perhaps only one of them,Agésilas, is almost wholly worthless. Not a few speeches ofSuréna and ofOthon are of a very high order. As to the poet's non-dramatic works, we have already spoken of his extremely interesting critical dissertations. His minor poems and poetical devotions are not likely to be read save from motives of duty or curiosity. The verse translation of à Kempis, indeed, which was in its day immensely popular (it passed through many editions), condemns itself.