I
STUDIES IN THE WORK OF COLLEY CIBBER1
De Witt C. Croissant
NOTES ON CIBBER’S PLAYS
Colley Cibber’s activity was not confined to writing plays.
Besides being a leader in the development of comedy and a skilful
adapter in tragedy, he was the greatest actor of his day in
comic rôles; was the dominant personality in the triumvirate
of managers of the playhouse, so that the healthy theatrical
conditions of his time were largely due to him; was a writer of
poetry, some of which is fairly good; was the author of some
of the most amusing and clever controversial pamphlets of the
time; and was the author of a most interesting autobiography.
Today he is thought of by many merely as the hero of Pope’s
Dunciad. In some respects he deserved Pope’s satire, but the
things he did well entitle him to more consideration than he has
received.
It is the purpose of these Notes to discuss merely his plays;
and to treat these principally from the point of view of what may
be called external relations, with some discussion of dramatic
technique. Under the heading of external relations I have considered
the dates of the various plays, the circumstances of their
presentation, their sources, and their relation to the various
types of the drama of the time. I have discussed the plays in
chronological order within the various classes.
1. Farces.
Of the farces ascribed to Cibber, only two, The Rival Queans
and Bulls and Bears, are unquestionably his, and these two are
not accessible. The Rival Queans, acted at the Haymarket,
June 29, 1710, printed in Dublin in 1729, is without doubt by
Cibber. But in the collected edition of his plays, published in
1777, the editors substituted a farce of the same name, which,
however, deals with a different subject and is by another writer.
Cibber’s farce was a burlesque of Lee’s Rival Queens; the piece
that was substituted deals with the operatic situation in England.
An adaptation of Doggett’s Country Wake (1696), called Hob,
or The Country Wake (1715), has been ascribed to Cibber, but
Genest1 doubts his authorship because it was brought out while
Doggett was still on the stage.
Bulls and Bears, Cibber’s second undisputed farce, was acted
at Drury Lane, December 2, 1715, but was apparently not printed.
Chuck (1736) seems to have been ascribed to him by either the
author or the publisher without grounds, for in a list of plays
“wrote by anonymous authors in the 17th century,” appended
to the fourth edition of the Apology (1756), there is a note on
this play to the effect that “the author or printer has set the name
of Mr. Cibber to this piece.” This is not proof positive that
Cibber did not write the play, for Cinna’s Conspiracy, which
is unquestionably by him, appears in the same list. In The New
Theatrical Dictionary (1742), it is stated that “this piece [Chuck]
is extremely puerile, yet the author has thought proper to put
Mr. Cibber’s name to it.” This again is not necessarily convincing
argument against Cibber’s authorship, for he was capable
of poor work, as his poems and some of his plays show.
On the whole, it seems probable that Hob and Chuck are not
by Cibber. In any case, they are entirely without value, and it is
therefore a matter of no importance to literary history whether
their authorship is ever determined or not.
Coffey’s The Devil to Pay (1736) is stated in the catalogue of
the British Museum to have been “revised by Colley Cibber.”
But the work of revision was done by Theophilus Cibber, his son,
and Cibber himself contributed only one song.2
2. Operas.
In common with many of his contemporaries, Cibber attempted
operatic pieces. His undisputed operas are Venus and Adonis
(1715), Myrtillo (1716), Love in a Riddle (1729), and Damon and
Phillida (1729), the last being merely the sub-plot of Love in a
Riddle acted separately.3 Two other operatic pieces, The Temple
of Dullness (1745) and Capochio and Dorinna, have been
ascribed to him.
Love in a Riddle (1729) seems to have been the cause of some
unpleasantness. In the Life of Quin (1766) the following account
of it is given:4
“This uncommon reception of The Beggar’s Opera induced
Colley Cibber to attempt something the same kind the next year,
under the title of Love in a Riddle, but how different was its reception
from Gay’s production; it was damned to the lowest
regions of infamy the very first night, which so mortified Cibber,
that it threw him into a fever; and from this moment he resolved
as soon as he conveniently could to leave the stage, and
no longer submit himself and his talents to the capricious taste
of the town.
“It was generally thought that his jealousy of Gay, and the
high opinion he entertained of his own piece had operated so strongly
as to make him set every engine in motion to get the sequel of
The Beggar’s Opera, called Polly, suppressed in order to engross
the town entirely to Love in a Riddle. Whether Cibber did or
did not bestir himself in this affair, it is certain that Gay and
Rich had the mortification to see all their hopes of a succeeding
harvest blasted by the Lord Chamberlain’s absolute prohibition
of it, after it had been rehearsed and was just ready to bring
out.”
In this same volume5 it is stated that the failure of the piece
was one of the potent causes of the dissolution of the Drury Lane
company, though this seems an exaggeration, as does also the
effect on Cibber that is ascribed to the failure.
Cibber denies6 that he had anything to do with the suppression
of the second part of The Beggar’s Opera, and gives as his reason
for writing that he thought something written in the same form,
but recommending virtue and innocence instead of vice and wickedness,
“might not have a less pretence to favor.”
The Temple of Dullness (1745), which The Biographia Dramatica7
states had been ascribed to Cibber, is in two acts of two
scenes each, the second scene of each act being the comic “interlude”
of Theobald’s Happy Captive (1741). These two scenes
have as their principal characters, Signor Capochio and Signora
Dorinna.8 The other two scenes, which give the principal title to
the piece, are based, as is stated in the preface, on the fact that
Pope in The Dunciad makes the Goddess of Dullness preside over
Italian operas. It is inconceivable that either Cibber or Theobald
would have based anything of the sort on a hint from The Dunciad
and complacently given the credit to Pope, after the way they had
both been handled in The Dunciad. There is nothing on the title
page to indicate that Cibber had anything to do with the piece.
The ascription of the authorship of The Temple of Dullness to
Cibber seems to be without foundation, and the probability is
that this piece was composed by a third person soon after Theobald’s
death, which occurred about four months before it was
acted.9
Concerning Capochio and Dorinna, The Biographia Dramatica
has the following note: “A piece with this title, but without a
date, is, in Mr. Barker’s catalogue, ascribed to Colley Cibber. It
was probably an abridgment from The Temple of Dullness.” This
statement concerning the source of Capochio and Dorinna
would seem plausible from the supplementary title of The Temple
of Dullness,—With the Humours of Signor Capochio and Signora
Dorinna. Capochio and Dorinna is no doubt the two scenes
from Theobald’s The Happy Captive which had been used in The
Temple of Dullness, as is stated above.
Cibber’s operatic writings belong chiefly to the English type of
pastoral drama, rather than to the type of Italian opera. In
fact, they are not operas either in the Italian or in the modern
sense, but are rather plays interspersed with songs appropriate
to the characters who sing them. They show the common characteristics
of the pastoral drama of the time.10 They possess the
court element, have the same plot devices, and their characters
belong to the same general types. It is noticeable that Cibber
here, as well as in his comedies, arrays himself with the moralists,
as is seen in his introduction of a moral purpose in Love in a Riddle.
These pieces are in verse of varying meters. In Venus and Adonis
and Myrtillo there is apparent imitation of the versification of
Dryden’s Alexander’s Feast; in Love in a Riddle and Damon and
Phillida the dialogue is in blank verse, but in neither case is the
verse inspired.
His operas are neither intrinsically nor historically important;
they are merely representative of a vogue which was popular but
which left no permanent impress on the English drama.
3. Tragedies.
Cibber’s seven tragedies appeared in the following order:
Xerxes, 1699; his adaptation of Shakspere’s Richard III, 1700;
Perolla and Izadora, 1705; the three translations of Corneille,
Ximena, acted 1712, but not published until 1719, Cinna’s Conspiracy,
1713, and Caesar in Egypt, 1725; and finally Papal
Tyranny, an adaptation of Shakspere’s King John, 1745. The
best stage play is Richard III, but those that make the most
agreeable reading are the alterations of Corneille.
Xerxes (1699), which was a failure, belongs to the type of the
tragedies of the last decade of the century, in which the material
of the heroic play is handled in blank verse, in which there is no
comedy, and in which there is in general a following of French
models.11 In its presentation of a story of distressed womanhood,
it allies itself with the sentimental tragedy of the school of Southerne
and Otway. In its use of the supernatural, in its puerile use
of claptrap, and in the bombast and extravagance of emotion, it
follows the general usage of the tragedies of the time.
When it was written Cibber was one of the company at Drury
Lane, but the play was refused there, and was accepted at
Lincoln’s Inn Fields only when Cibber guaranteed the expenses
of the production. Notwithstanding the fact that two such great
actors as Betterton and Mrs. Barry were in the cast, the play
was a failure.12
The common supposition that it was acted only once, is based
on Addison’s inventory of Rich’s theatrical paraphernalia, in
which are mentioned “the imperial robes of Xerxes, never worn
but once.”13 The play had been acted ten years previously,
and Addison is speaking of an entirely different playhouse and
manager so that this testimony, if it does apply to this play, is probably
not to be given much weight. While the play may have been
withdrawn from the stage after only one performance, Addison’s
evidence does not establish the matter one way or the other.
Cibber’s next venture in tragedy was more successful, for while
his adaptation of Shakspere’s Richard III has not received critical
commendation, it was for over a century practically the only
version presented on the stage and is still used by many actors.
When Cibber’s Richard III was originally acted at Drury Lane
in 1700, Charles Killigrew, Master of the Revels, forbade the first
act, because the distress of Henry, introduced from Shakspere’s
Henry VI, might bring the exiled King James to the mind of the
people; so that only four acts could be given. The play was a
comparative failure at first, owing no doubt to the omission of so
important and necessary a part of the revision, so that Cibber’s
profits from the third night, as author, came to less than five
pounds.14 Later, when this act was restored, the piece became
a success. As has been pointed out by Dohse15 and Wood16,
Cibber may in making this adaptation have used the chronicles
of Hall and others, and probably was influenced by The Mirror for
Magistrates and Caryl’s English Princess (1667).
In his alteration Cibber has cut down the play to a little more
than half its original length, and of this remainder only a little
over a third is found in Shakspere’s Richard III, while the rest is
from a number of Shakspere’s plays or is made up of original additions
by Cibber.17 The alterations vary from the change of
single words,18 to the addition of scenes entirely by Cibber. The
omissions, such as Anne’s spitting at Gloster, I, ii, 146, are generally
happy; the lines he has substituted are generally easier to
understand, if less aesthetically pleasing, than those of the original;
and the additions throughout are such as add clearness and theatric
effectiveness.
Richard is made the central figure, so that the play revolves more
closely about him than in Shakspere. A love story, more slightly
developed than usual in the adaptations of this period, is introduced
at the end of the play in accordance with contemporary
usage. The women are made less prominent, the lyric chorus
effect of the various scenes in which these women foretell and
bewail is omitted, and the whole action is made more simple and
direct. Shakspere’s Richard III is full of this lyric element
which Cibber has excised.
With this curtailment of plot comes likewise a less highly presented
delineation of character. Not only is the number of
characters diminished, but modifications are made in those that
remain. Richard becomes less the unfeeling hypocrite, by use of
asides his motives and character are made more clear, and he is
influenced more by love; his victims are not so vividly presented,
and though their weakness of will and character is not less than in
the original, the reader does not feel it so much. Cibber’s Richard
III, like his King John, is more play than poem; in it Cibber has
attempted to make everything subservient to dramatic effectiveness.
Perolla and Izadora was acted at Drury Lane on December 3,
1705, and published the next year. Lintot had bought the copyright
November 14, 1705, a few weeks before its presentation, for
thirty-six pounds, eleven shillings, next to the largest amount
that he paid Cibber for any of his plays. Cibber explains that he
omitted Woman’s Wit from the 1721 edition of his plays because
it was so inferior a drama, which was no doubt his reason for omitting
Xerxes; but why he should not have included Perolla and
Izadora, which brought him a good third and sixth day at the
theatre, though it does not appear to have been presented afterwards,
is not clear, unless, as is probable, he included in this edition
only such plays as had gained a more or less permanent place
on the stage.
Cibber shows unusual modesty in his dedication of this play,
which he founded on a part of the story of Perolla and Izadora
from The Romance of Parthenissa19 (1654) by Roger Boyle, Earl
of Orrery. He “saw so many incidents in the fable, such natural
and noble sentiments in the characters, and so just a distress in
the passions, that he had little more than the trouble of blank
verse to make it fit for the theatre.”20 Cibber has followed the
events in Parthenissa very closely, making few changes or additions.
However, he has Perolla and Izadora in love before the
action begins, whereas they do not meet in the romance until
after Perolla has saved the life of Blacius in what makes the end
of Cibber’s second act; and at the close of the play he unites the
lovers, while the story goes on indefinitely in Parthenissa. The
characters display about the same qualities; Blacius is made
perhaps a trifle more reasonable and Poluvius a little less so. The
play is much better as a play than the original is as a story.
The play in general conforms to the French classical type;
the unities are observed, the characters are few and noble, it is
written in blank verse, and there are no humorous touches.
Only in the two deaths and the one fight on the stage does the
play violate the French tradition. In the death of the wicked,
the reward of the virtuous, and the general nature of the action,
it groups itself with the heroic plays of the preceding century,
but of course it does not conform to that type in versification.
Cibber was here probably writing under the influence of Corneille.
Ximena, or The Heroic Daughter, an alteration of Corneille’s Cid,
was acted at Drury Lane, November 28, 1712, when it had a run
of about eight performances;21 but it was not printed until 1719,
when it appeared in octavo after it had been revived at Drury
Lane, November 1, 1718. Cibber explains that he thus delayed
publishing the play because “most of his plays had a better reception
from the public when his interest was no longer concerned in
them.”22 The dedication of Ximena brought a storm of criticism
on Cibber23 because in it he spoke of Addison as a wren being
carried by Steele as an eagle, which figure he later applied, in his
odes, to himself and the king. He had the judgment to omit this
dedication from the collected edition of his plays.
As in the case of Richard III, he added a first act to the Cid in
order that the audience might understand the situation of the
various characters at the outset; a most important and necessary
thing if the audience is not familiar with the story and the situation
beforehand. In his alterations of Shakspere he followed the
English method and presented this information to his audience
by action; in his alteration of Corneille he followed the French
method by having his characters tell each other about it for the
benefit of the audience.
Cibber has discussed at length the changes he has made in the
Cid, and his reasons for them, in the prefatory “examen.” The
main reason seems to have been his desire to make the play less
“romantic” and the action more probable and reasonable from the
point of view of the eighteenth century Englishman, whose ideals
of honor and whose general characteristics were very different
from those of the seventeenth century Frenchman. Indeed,
Cibber explains in relation to one of these changes: “Here they
seem too declamatory and romantic, which I have endeavored to
avoid, by giving a more spirited tone to the passions, and reducing
them nearer to common life.”
Ximena, because of its source, would naturally have the general
characteristics of French tragedy, in which almost everything
happens off the stage, and in which the characters appear before the
audience only to tell it what they think or what has been done.
It violates the French canons by having a sub-action, though this
sub-action is not sufficiently important to distract the attention
materially from the main action, and is bound very closely to it.
The blow which Don Gormaz gives Alvarez constitutes the nearest
approach to violent action; but this blow, however, appears in
the original play.
Besides the anonymity of Cinna’s Conspiracy, the closeness
with which it follows Corneille’s Cinna and the difference in its
tone from the rest of Cibber’s work have led to doubt as to his
authorship.24 To see that Cibber was not always sprightly and
inconsequential, however, as he is usually supposed to be, one
has but to read his Cicero and his poems. The play was presented
less than three months after Ximena, and to bring out another
French tragedy translated by the same hand in so short a time
might have subjected Cibber to the charge of hasty work. Though
Ximena apparently had a run of eight nights, it did not receive
critical approbation, and Cinna’s Conspiracy, if known to be by
Cibber, was likely to bring further critical disapproval, so that
Cibber may have thought it would have better chance of success
if his authorship were not known. Cibber was ambitious to be
thought wise and serious, as his prefaces and Cicero show, and the
lack of success of the play together with its nearness to Ximena
in time of presentation would sufficiently explain his failure to
claim the authorship.
But there is external proof which would seem to be convincing
in support of his authorship. Defoe, according to the Biographia
Dramatica,25 in a pamphlet written about 1713 ascribed the
play to Cibber; and Nichols, in Literary Anecdotes of the Eighteenth
Century,26 gives an extract from a memorandum book of
Lintot, entitled Copies when purchased, according to which Cibber,
on March 16, 1712 (O.S.), was paid thirteen pounds for Cinna’s
Conspiracy. The play was first acted at Drury Lane, February
19, 1713, about a month before the purchase by Lintot. The
fact that Cibber was paid for the play so short a time after its
presentation would seem to be sufficient proof that it is by Cibber,
even though he apparently made no public claim to its authorship.
In the alteration of Corneille’s Cinna, Cibber has made remarkably
few changes. There is only one of any moment, the account
of the meeting of the conspirators in the second scene of the first
act. Corneille has had Cinna give an account of this meeting to
Emilie, while Cibber presents the meeting itself. This involves the
omission of some narration and the creation of some new characters
who have a few short speeches. Cibber throughout his
adaptation seeks to gain vividness and clearness, and his handling
of this incident is probably the best example of his method in
this respect. The other changes consist merely in the omission
and shortening of speeches. On the whole Cinna’s Conspiracy
is almost a literal translation, though a little free here and there.
The testimony of the critics concerning the source of Caesar in
Egypt, acted at Drury Lane,27 December 9, 1724, published in
1725, is somewhat confusing. The Biographia Dramatica finds
its source in Beaumont and Fletcher’s The False One; Genest28
says: “The plan of this tragedy is chiefly borrowed from
The False One—that part of it which concerns Cornelia is said
to be taken from Corneille’s Pompée.” Stoye,29 while apparently
oblivious of Corneille’s play, mentions Lucan’s Pharsalia in addition
to The False One; and Miss Canfield says:30 “Taking Beaumont
and Fletcher’s False One, Corneille’s Pompée, and one or
two ideas of his own, he stirred them all together with such
vigor, and so disguised them with his wonderful versification,
that it is an almost impossible task to distinguish the different
elements in the dish.... The general plan and construction
of the play are undoubtedly Corneille’s, many of the best
speeches are literally translated, especially some of the famous
ones between Cornelia and Caesar; and the description of Pompey’s
death is taken verbatim from the French.” This last statement
of Miss Canfield’s comes nearest to the truth, but it leaves out
of account the slight indebtedness to Lucan.31
An examination of these three plays shows, in fact, how little
Cibber used The False One in the construction of Caesar in Egypt.
He was no doubt familiar with the Beaumont and Fletcher play
and used some things from it, though very little in comparison
with what he has used from Pompée. He used it for hints in
some particulars32 just as he did the Pharsalia, from which he
apparently took the idea of having one scene occur before the
tomb of Alexander, and from which he obtained the burning of
Pharos.
One incident, the display of Pompey’s head, well illustrates
the change that had come since the days of Beaumont and Fletcher.
In The False One, the head was actually brought on the stage;
but in neither Cibber nor Corneille was the head actually displayed.
The actual appearance of the head would probably have been
almost as distasteful to Cibber’s audience as to Corneille’s.
His method of adaptation here is more like that in his alteration
of Shakspere than his method in Ximena or Cinna’s Conspiracy.
He has crowded the incidents, has expanded the action and increased
its liveliness, has enhanced the value of the piece as a
stage play, without, however, improving its literary quality.
He has a good deal happen in one day, but manages to satisfy
the technical demands of the unity of time.
He increases the probability by the alteration of certain passages.
For instance, whereas both the Pharsalia, as completed
by Rowe,33 and The False One, from one of which he took the
incident, have Caesar swimming from the island of Pharos with
drawn sword in one hand and documents in the other, Cibber
has him swim with only the documents.
While this play is essentially an adaptation of Corneille, the
general atmosphere and effect are not those of French tragedy,
but are rather those of the minor Elizabethan tragicomedy.
Its beginning and end have a historical rather than a dramatic
interest, so that the play produces the effect of a love story
with an impersonal enveloping action, which is again more English
than French.
Papal Tyranny was acted at Covent Garden, February 15,
1745, when it had a run of ten nights, and was published in the
same year. Shakspere’s King John, which had been played in
1737 and 1738, after Cibber’s alteration had been talked of and
withdrawn, was again revived on February 20, 1745,34 with
Garrick as King John and Mrs. Theophilus Cibber, then at the
height of her popularity, as Constance. This was no doubt done
both to profit by the publicity Cibber’s work had brought
about, and to take as much credit as possible from Cibber, by
showing the lack of originality in his work.35 According to
Victor,36 Cibber’s profits from Papal Tyranny amounted to
four hundred pounds, which probably includes what he received
from acting Pandulph as well as his author’s profits.
The play had been written some years before it was finally
acted, the parts had been distributed, and everything was practically
ready for the presentation in public during the season
1736–7. But so much criticism was leveled at Cibber for daring
again to alter Shakspere that one day he quietly walked into the
theatre, removed the copy of the play from the prompter’s
desk, and went away with it without a word to any one.37 It
was finally presented, as already stated, in 1745, when there was a
threatened invasion by the Young Pretender, which made the
political and anti-Catholic elements of the play timely.
Cibber says in the dedication that he had two reasons for
altering the play: antagonism to Catholicism, and a desire to
adjust the play to contemporary stage requirements—“to make
it more like a play than he found it in Shakspere.” His additions
to the anti-Catholic elements of the play are inconsistent
with the rest of the action, and the changes in structure have
increased rather than diminished the epic quality. He has,
without being conscious that he was doing so, gone back of Shakspere’s
time in introducing the anti-popish element; a quality
of Shakspere’s source which Shakspere had omitted, but which
Cibber reintroduced to the detriment of his play as drama.
The entire first act of Shakspere’s play is omitted, besides which
there are other shorter omissions. The point of view, too, is
very different; for in Cibber’s play Pandulph is the central figure,
instead of King John, as is indicated by the change of title from
The Life and Death of King John to Papal Tyranny in the Reign
of King John. Various short scenes entirely by Cibber are introduced,
the most noticeable being one in the last act in which
Constance attends the funeral of Arthur at Swinestead, where
King John has been brought to die.
The characters are more changed than the plot; all those which
appear only in the first act are omitted, besides such characters
as Peter of Pomfret, Elinor, Austria, and Chatillon. The part
of the bastard Faulconbridge is very much cut down and softened,
for as Shakspere conceived him he was too “low” and comic for
a dignified tragedy according to the views of the eighteenth
century. The rôle of Constance is much enlarged as well as that
of Pandulph.
Cibber’s tragedies are imitative; he showed no creative ability
in this field. That his Richard III has held the stage until the
present is an indication that it is at least a good stage play. The
other tragedies, except Xerxes and Papal Tyranny, do not possess
any very positive virtues or defects; they are of average merit as
compared with the work done by Cibber’s contemporaries.
They are alterations of Shakspere or Corneille, except Xerxes
and Perolla and Izadora. In his alterations of the French he has
anglicized some of the ideas, has had a tendency to present
rather than relate incidents, and generally has tried to make the
productions conform to English ideas. Turning them into English
has not made them romantic or altered in any essential
degree their neo-classical quality.
His alterations of Shakspere have not changed the essential
qualities; they are still characteristically English, and display
the characteristics of the originals. He has not altered Shakspere
because Shakspere is too “Gothic,” or too romantic and extravagant,
for Cibber complains that King John is too restrained.
In relation to these alterations of Shakspere one naturally
thinks of the flood of plays about this time which had Shakspere
as a basis.38 Cibber does not, in Richard III at least, follow the
example of Tate and his kind, but adheres more closely than they
to the originals. It is for this reason, principally, that Cibber’s
Richard III was successful. In this he has not attempted to
follow contemporary practice in adhering to the unities, in the
observance of poetic justice, in the making of the hero virtuous,
or in adding the element of show and pageantry. His addition
of a scene of violence39 is for the purpose of helping the spectator
to understand the play. Even his borrowing of lines from
other plays by Shakspere has saved him partially from the incongruous
or weak mixture of two styles which mars the work
of other adapters. He has told the same story as Shakspere,
and has not done violence to his original either in character,
plot, or, for the most part, in language.
His adaptation of King John is handled differently. This play,
even more than Shakspere’s King John, is unfitted for the modern
stage; its plot is not dramatic, and its persons are not modern in
their qualities. Such a play must depend for its appeal on its
poetic qualities, and Cibber was personally incapable of altering
the play and retaining its poetic qualities.
Although Cibber is not unaffected by the sentimental type of
tragedy, as Xerxes and Perolla and Izadora show, he does not
seem influenced by it to any great extent. This is remarkable
in one who was in the very forefront of the movement toward
sentimental comedy; though it is to be remarked that the two
tragedies which do show traces of this sentimental note are the
only two which are not based on previous plays.
As Thorndike40 has pointed out, during this period two influences
are at work—the influence of the Elizabethan romantic
drama, and the influence of the French classical drama; and Cibber
rather fairly represents both of these. Xerxes shows some French
influence in the construction, though it is probably more Elizabethan
in the handling of the material; but Perolla and Izadora
and the three plays from Corneille conform to French usage
almost entirely in material as well as in method. The restraint
in Richard III—for notwithstanding Hazlitt, this play is not as
brutal as Shakspere’s—is due to the change brought about
through the imitation of French tragedy.
In accordance with contemporary usage, all these tragedies
are in blank verse; but the verse is of no great merit. Cibber’s
verse for the most part is not musical nor subtle, but it has few
mannerisms. He sometimes uses alliteration, but not to an objectionable
or excessive degree, and although his style has been
called alliterative, his use of this device in his verse is so infrequent
as to make the term a misnomer.
Cibber conforms to the custom of the time in respect to rime.
Occasionally he introduces a couplet in the midst of a scene, but
this is seldom and for no apparent reason. The exits, except
those of minor importance, are marked by rime. This device,
descended from the Elizabethan drama, where it was probably
used to mark more strongly the ends of scenes because of the
lack of a curtain which concealed the whole stage, is continued
during and after the Restoration period without any valid reason
and becomes for the most part a mere convention, which is not
confined to tragedy but appears in comedy and even in farce.
Cibber shows a tendency to increase the number of couplets
with the increased importance of the exits,41 and in Ximena
and Caesar in Egypt we find several scenes closing with as many as
three.
It has perhaps been made sufficiently evident that Cibber was
not a great writer of tragedy. He lacked any deep philosophy
of life, tragic consciousness, and deep poetic feeling. He was not
without power of thought, but his thought concerned itself with
the obvious and the external, and had an element of friskiness, so
that when he turned to tragedy his work became labored and
even commonplace.
Nor does he show originality in his themes. The story of
Xerxes is apparently derived from history,42 and aside from
Perolla and Izadora, whose story is taken from a romance, is the
only one of his tragedies which is not based on the work of greater
men than himself. Although Richard III is a better stage play
than its source, the other adaptations are inferior to the originals
both as acting versions and as pure literature.
4. Comedies.
Love’s Last Shift, Cibber’s first play, was acted at Drury Lane
in January, 1696, and was published the same year, when he was
a little more than twenty-four years old. The comedy was accepted
by the managers through the good offices of Southerne,
for Cibber’s standing with the patentees was such that they were
not disposed to recognize ability in him.
So little had been expected of the piece, and so great was its
success, that Cibber was immediately charged with plagiarism,43
a charge which he entirely denies in the dedication. He claims
that “the fable is entirely his own, nor is there a line or thought
throughout the whole, for which he is wittingly obliged either to
the dead or the living.” There are, however, some striking
similarities in the situations and the characters in the sub-action
of Love’s Last Shift and Carlile’s Fortune Hunters (1689). Carlile’s
Elder Wealthy and Young Wealthy are closely paralleled by
Elder Worthy and Young Worthy, as are likewise the young
women with whom they are in love, and Carlile’s Shamtown
belongs to the same family as Sir Novelty Fashion, though he is
much more crudely portrayed. So too, the jealousy of Elder
Worthy in regard to Hillaria and Sir Novelty is very much like
that of Elder Wealthy in regard to Sophia and Shamtown. So
great is the similarity that, notwithstanding his denial, one must
believe that Cibber deliberately used the situation and characters
as a basis for his own, though he did not copy the language,
and has made an entirely new and original thing out of his
source.
So great was the failure of his second play that Cibber refuses
to mention it in his Apology and omitted it from the collected
edition of his plays in 1721. Woman’s Wit, or The Lady in Fashion
was acted at Drury Lane in 1697, but met with a most unfavorable
reception, though in management of the plot it is not
inferior to a great many plays whose success was much greater.
Carlile’s Fortune Hunters (1689) and Mountford’s Greenwich
Park (1691) have been suggested as the sources of that part of the
plot in which Young Rakish and Major Rakish appear, but this
is only partially true. In The Fortune Hunters the father and son
are rivals for a young woman, in Woman’s Wit she is an elderly
widow; in both, the son has obtained five hundred pounds from
the father. But notwithstanding the fact that these situations
are superficially similar the characters and the details of the
action are so different that it does not seem possible that there can
be any connection between the two plays. There does seem to be
a more valid reason for affirming the influence of Greenwich Park in
the play. The likeness of Sir Thomas Reveller and Young Reveller
to Old Rakish and Young Rakish is so great that Cibber
must have had them in mind, but the differences both of character
and action are such that it seems probable that he was attempting
to portray two characters of the same type rather than trying to
copy them. In Greenwich Park there is not even a superficial
similarity of situation to Woman’s Wit.44 The sub-action of
Woman’s Wit was separated and acted successfully at Drury Lane
in 1707 as The School Boy.
Love Makes a Man was acted at Drury Lane in 1701, and was
published the same year. It continued to be played until 1828.
It is made from Beaumont and Fletcher’s The Elder Brother and
The Custom of the Country, and is an attempt on the part of Cibber
merely to provide amusement. Ost45 points out that this play,
though it has no original literary worth, helped continue the literary
tradition, and notices it in connection with the healthful
influence of Cibber’s work in the moralizing tendency of the
drama. He adds that Cibber’s plays have more value in relation
to “kulturgeschichte” than in aesthetic interest. That is entirely
true so far as this play is concerned; various parts have a
purely contemporary interest, or are an indication to us of the
state of dramatic taste, and the aesthetic value is certainly often
inconsiderable. When Cibber introduces such references as
“hatchet face” of Clodio, a term which had been applied to Cibber
himself, who played the part, and more particularly in the farcical
discussion of the two playhouses in the fourth act, he is not
even attempting to write anything but horseplay.
By the omission and transposition of scenes, and the introduction
of some lines of his own, mainly for the purpose of gaining
probability, as Ost has pointed out, Cibber has condensed The
Elder Brother so that it forms practically the first two acts, and
The Custom of the Country so that it forms the last three. In the
main, the plays, so much of them as is used, are followed with very
few changes, and the whole makes a sprightly and amusing, if not
particularly literary comedy.
The change of place and the introduction of an entirely new set
of characters with fresh plot developments are dramatically
faulty; but for the purpose for which the play was written these
faults are not particularly great. To join the plots of two separate
plays end on end without breaking the continuity of the
story, and to adjust the characters so that there is no glaring
inconsistency, is surely no slight feat.
In the characterization Cibber has made some changes. These
changes appear particularly in Eustace, who becomes Clodio,
Miramont, who becomes Don Lewis, and Elvira, who is the sister
instead of the mother of Don Duart. It is difficult to understand
how this play could have been other than a theatrical success with
Bullock to interpret the farcical obstinacy of Antonio, Penkethman
to portray the humorously choleric Don Lewis, and Cibber as the
“pert coxcomb,” Clodio. But it is farce rather than pure comedy.
Cibber has changed these plays from verse to prose, except in
the first scene between Carlos and Angelina, in which the romantic
seriousness of the situation leads him to write blank verse, which
is however printed as prose.
She Would and She Would Not, considered by Genest as “perhaps
his best play,” was acted at Drury Lane, November 26, 1702,
and continued to be acted frequently as late as 1825.46 The
striking similarity of the two plays has caused the suggestion
that Cibber’s play is based on Leanerd’s The Counterfeits (1678).
The similarity indicates a common source, rather than that Cibber
drew from The Counterfeits. The source of Cibber’s play was
no doubt The Trepanner Trepanned, which is the third story of
John Davies’s La Picara, or The Triumphs of Female Subtilty,
published in London in 1665.47
This play is amusing, is well constructed, and while it is not of
serious import, is such as might be presented today with success.
Cibber commenced to write The Careless Husband in the summer
of 1703, but laid it aside because he despaired of finding any
one to take the part of Lady Betty Modish. In 1704 he again
took up the writing of the play, and in that year it was acted at
Drury Lane on December 7; and it was published in 1705. It was
one of the best and most successful plays of the period.48 It was
charged that Cibber received direct assistance in writing the
play, but he denied the charge, and as no proof was offered, Cibber
is no doubt to be believed. It seems to have no literary source;
but one incident, that in which the wife finds the husband and her
maid asleep in easy chairs, is said to have been suggested to
Cibber by Mrs. Brett, the reputed mother of the poet Savage,
from her own experience.49
This is Cibber’s best play of the sentimental type. Its plot is
consistent, has dramatic probability, and is serious enough in interest
to have real reason for being. The characters are well
conceived and well portrayed. In style, too, Cibber is here at his
best and the dialogue approaches the finest of the period.
The Haymarket opened the season 1706–7 under Swiney, and
in order to encourage the new venture, Lord Halifax headed a
subscription for the revival of three plays: Shakspere’s Julius
Caesar, Beaumont and Fletcher’s King and No King, and the
comic scenes of Dryden’s Marriage à la Mode and A Maiden
Queen. The last took the form of an adaptation called The Comical
Lovers, the adaptation being the work of Cibber. It was
acted February 4, 1707, and was published the same year. The
alteration was the result of only six days’ labor,50 and Cibber
claims no originality in it. It met with slight success.
The Comical Lovers is another such adaptation as Love Makes a
Man. Cibber has merely taken the two comic threads from their
serious settings and interwoven them, first a scene from one and
then a scene from the other, with only the changes necessary to
join them, and has followed his sources almost word for word.
Cibber was not under the necessity of changing verse into prose,
as he had done in Love Makes a Man, for the comic sections of
Dryden are in prose, according to the changed convention of his
time; and in the scene between Melantha and her maid, Cibber has
not even taken the trouble to alter a single one of the French
words, many of which must have acquired a place in the language
and been in good use by Cibber’s time. So far as Cibber’s part is
concerned, this is the least important of his plays.
The Double Gallant was acted at the Haymarket, November 1,
1707, but was apparently not successful at its first performance.
The Biographia Dramatica51 says:
“In a letter from Booth to A. Hill we learn that the play, at its
first appearance was, as he expressed it, hounded in a most outrageous
manner. Two years after, it was revived, met with most
extravagant success, and has continued a stock play ever since.”
Cibber says nothing about any hounding of the play, but ascribes
the failure of the piece to the fact that the Haymarket was
too big for plays; a fact that he thinks caused the lack of success
of other plays as well as his own.
In regard to the authorship, Cibber says:52
“It was made up of what was tolerable, in two, or three others,
that had no Success, and were laid aside, as so much Poetical
Lumber; but by collecting and adapting the best Parts of them all,
into one Play, the Double Gallant has had a Place, every Winter,
amongst the Publick Entertainments, these Thirty Years. As I was
only the Compiler of this Piece, I did not publish it in my own
Name.”
The title would lead one to suppose that it is taken directly
from Corneille’s Le Galant Double, but it is a weaving together of
Mrs. Centlivre’s Love at a Venture, which is an adaptation of
Corneille, Burnaby’s Ladies Visiting Day, and the Lady Dainty
action from Burnaby’s Reformed Wife. In consolidating such
parts of these three plays as are used, the crudities of the first two
are polished off, and certain additions are made to the last. These
additions consist in sections of the dialogue, in the changing of
Lady Dainty’s lover into a more impetuous wooer, and in the addition
of the lover’s disguise as a Russian, by which subterfuge he
wins her. The introductory scene, taken from Love at a Venture,
is much more lively and entertaining in Cibber’s play than in the
original, and Cibber likewise handles more adroitly the subterfuge
of the hero’s arrest, taken from the same play, using the same device
of decoy letters that he uses in Woman’s Wit. In the working
over of Burnaby’s adaptation of the Horner episode, which he
had taken from Wycherley’s Country Wife, Cibber has entirely
eliminated the unpleasant features.
This play is the same sort of an adaptation as his working over
of other earlier plays. He has taken such scenes as he wished,
changed the names of the characters, and introduced sufficient
lines of his own to give continuity and connection to the various
actions, but has made no material additions whatever. In this
case he has made an extremely diverting play, very superior to
his originals.
The Lady’s Last Stake, which seems to be entirely original, was
produced at the Haymarket, December 13, 1707, when it was
acted five times; and it was published probably early in the next
year. It continued on the London stage until 1786, and was last
performed at Bath, in 1813. It is only a fair comedy, lacking the
qualities of style, the originality in the conception of the characters,
and the skilful working out of the plot that had characterized
Cibber’s two earlier plays of the sentimental type. But in
whatever way the plot as a whole may be lacking, the last act
has plenty of liveliness; there complication follows complication
and humorous incidents follow serious with great rapidity.
The Rival Fools, published in quarto in 1709 and played at
Drury Lane, January 11, 1709, is an alteration of Beaumont and
Fletcher’s Wit at Several Weapons, and was not successful. At
its first presentation it was acted five times, and was revived
only once, in 1712, when it was acted twice. The Biographia Dramatica53
relates the following incident of the first performance,
the events of which may be compared with the reception accorded
Thomson’s Sophonisba:
“It met, however, with bad success. There happened to be a
circumstance in it, which, being in itself rather ridiculous, gave a
part of the audience an opportunity of venting their spleen on
the author; viz: a man in one of the earlier scenes on the stage,
with a long angling rod in his hand, going to fish for Miller’s
Thumbs; on which account some of the spectators took occasion
whenever Mr. Cibber appeared, who himself played the character,
to cry out continually, ‘Miller’s Thumbs.’”
Cibber has followed the original quite closely so far as the plot
is concerned, much more closely than would be inferred from the
first lines of the prologue:
“From sprightly Fletcher’s loose confed’rat muse,
Th’ unfinish’d Hints of these light Scenes we chuse,
For with such careless haste his Play was writ,
So unpersued each thought of started Wit;
Each Weapon of his Wit so lamely fought
That ’twou’d as scanty on our Stage be thought,
As for a modern Belle my Grannum’s Petticoat.
So that from th’ old we may with Justice say,
We scarce could cull the Trimming of a play.”
In spite of this statement by Cibber himself, he adds practically
nothing to the plot, and in the dialogue adds merely a touch here
and there.
As was customary in altering these old comedies written in
verse, the verse of the original is changed into prose, and as is
also customary in all of Cibber’s alterations, the long speeches are
broken into dialogue.
The character of Pompey Doodle is somewhat enlarged in
its transformation into Samuel Simple, and is one of the most
amusing elements in the play. The treatment is distinctly Jacobean
in its exaggeration of character, and the reception by the
audience must be attributed either to the alteration of taste on
the part of the public, or to the personal unpopularity of Cibber,
for the rôle is well written and Cibber was particularly well fitted
to act the part, both by temperament and by physical qualities.
The Non-Juror was acted at Drury Lane on December 6, 1717,
with a prologue by Nicholas Rowe, poet laureate, and was published
in 1718. At the time of its first presentation it had the
comparatively long run of twenty-three performances, and was
revived at Drury Lane and Covent Garden in 1745, when its
political meaning was again pertinent.
The play came at a time of great political stress, so that it was
but natural that its strong Whig and anti-Catholic sentiments
should arouse the greatest antagonism.54 This antagonism was
not only voiced in the many pamphlets issued at the time, but
no doubt affected the general attitude toward Cibber in his later
life. Cibber, in his first letter to Pope, states that one of his
enemies went so far as to write a pamphlet whose purport was
that The Non-Juror constituted a subtle Jacobite libel against the
government. He dedicated the play to the king when it was
published, and for this he received a gift of two hundred pounds.
Cibber was not burdened in mind because he had offended the losing
party, and any inconvenience he may have felt was amply repaid
by the pension and laureateship which later came as his reward.
The Non-Juror is based directly on Molière’s Tartuffe, though
two plays on the same theme had previously appeared in English:
Crowne’s English Friar (1689), and Medbourne’s Tartuffe
(1670), the latter a direct adaptation of Molière’s play. This
Tartuffe was revived during the summer season of 1718 at Lincoln’s
Inn Fields, and was published while Cibber’s play was still
running, with an advertisement that in it “may be seen the plot,
characters, and most part of the language of The Non-Juror.”
This statement is true only in that the two plays by Medbourne
and Cibber are based on Molière, and was made to discredit
Cibber’s claim to originality in the adaptation.
Cibber was no doubt familiar with Medbourne’s play, but he
used Molière as a basis, and owed practically nothing to any
play other than the Tartuffe of Molière. Cibber may have derived
the suggestion of the reformation of Charles from the corresponding
character in Medbourne’s play, but his manner of
carrying out this reformation and the difference in the qualities
of the characters in the two plays make this part an original creation.
In the edition of Crowne in the series of The Dramatists of the
Restoration, the editors maintain Cibber’s greater indebtedness to
Crowne than to Molière, in a way that makes one doubt whether
they had ever read either Molière or Cibber. So far as plot is
concerned there is absolutely no resemblance, except that in both
a priest attempts to seduce a decent woman. The characters,
style, and management are both different and inferior in Crowne,
although some slight similarity may be discovered in the attempt
of Finical and Dr. Wolf to allay the consciences of the respective
objects of their attentions. As suggested by Van Laun, Father
Finical, like Dr. Wolf, is based on Tartuffe.
Cibber has handled his sources very freely, and in some particulars
has improved both the plot and the characters. That
is not to say that The Non-Juror is a greater play than Molière’s
Tartuffe, for as a whole it is not. The parts of Dorine, who in
Tartuffe is the life and source of the humor, of Cléante, and of
Madame Pernelle, are omitted, but the part of Mariane is enlivened
into one of the best coquettes of the stage. The other
characters and incidents correspond in The Non-Juror and Molière’s
Tartuffe, though the dénouement is more artistically handled
in Cibber.
The Refusal, an adaptation of Molière’s Les Femmes Savantes,
published in 1721, was acted at Drury Lane, February 14, 1721,
and had a run of six performances. Molière’s play had been adapted
by Wright as The Female Virtuosoes in 1693, and this play
was revived at Lincoln’s Inn Fields on January 10, 1721, to
anticipate The Refusal. In like manner with the effort to discredit
Cibber’s hand in The Non-Juror, though in this case after
the run of Cibber’s play was over, Curll published, with a dedication
to Cibber, “the second edition of No Fools Like Wits,55 as
it was acted at Lincoln’s Inn Fields or The Refusal, as it was acted
at Drury Lane.”
In his adaptation Cibber has made more changes than is usual
with him, both in plot and in character; and in the dialogue he has
anglicized the idiom to an extent not found in his adaptations of
tragedies from the French.
Molière’s comedy is a satire on false learning in men as well as
in women, while Cibber has added some satire on business trickery,
in the same way that he added political satire in his adaptation of
Tartuffe. Cibber has supplied the elder daughter with a successful
suitor, and the dénouement is brought about by different,
more complicated, and more characteristically English means.
In the incident in Molière’s play in which Bélise takes the love of
Clitandre to herself, Cibber substitutes the mother for Bélise,
omits the maid, along with her impertinences, and adds some slight
original incidents.
Trissotin, the poet, becomes one of the typical would-be wits
of English comedy, and Chrysale is changed to a typical promoter.
In Molière, Chrysale is a purely humorous character,
whose vacillation and lack of force were no doubt very laughable
on the stage; Sir Gilbert, his equivalent in Cibber’s play, on the
other hand, is in no way a weakling and is in no way admirable or
a source of laughter, but embodies a satire on contemporary
business practices.
The directness and simplicity of Molière’s play, the unity of
tone and plot, give way in Cibber to complication of plot and
character, in which the whole piece loses the delightful quality of
the humor of the original.
The Provoked Husband was presented at Drury Lane, January
10, 1728, and had a run of twenty-eight nights. There was an
unsuccessful attempt on the part of Cibber’s enemies to damn the
play on the first night; the interruptions were so great that during
the fourth act the actors were compelled to stand still until it was
quiet enough for them to be heard. On January 31, Cibber published
Vanbrugh’s unfinished play and his own completion of it.
The critics, who had condemned the play unmercifully, especially
the supposed additions of Cibber, found, when the plays were
published, that it was not Cibber but Vanbrugh they had been
condemning. According to Cibber,56 on the twenty-eighth night
the play took in one hundred and forty pounds, a greater amount
than had been taken in at the last night of any play for fifty
years.
Vanbrugh’s Journey to London consists of four acts, the first
two practically complete, but the last two apparently unfinished.
Cibber has used practically all that Vanbrugh left, omitting the
trip to the theatre in the last part of Act II, and adding much
of his own to the whole play. He has interspersed his additions
between the parts of Vanbrugh’s play, and has changed very
little of the Vanbrugh part, except to “water it down” where it
had been too strong for the changed taste of the theatre goers.
Cibber’s additions to Steele’s Conscious Lovers are mentioned on
a later page of these Studies.
Several of Cibber’s comedies were translated into foreign
tongues: in German The Double Gallant appeared as Der doppellte
Liebhaber, translated by Johann Friedrich Jünger and published
in Leipzig in 1786, The Careless Husband as Der sorglose Ehemann,
published in Göttingen in 1750, and The Provoked Husband as Der
erzürnte Ehemann und der Landjunker, published in Frankfurt
in 1753; in French The Provoked Husband appeared as Le Mari
poussé à bout, ou le voyage à Londres, published in London, 1761.
The adaptations, except The Non-Juror and The Refusal, seem
to have been produced merely to furnish amusement which should
be in accordance with changed stage conditions and changed
taste. They show little originality, being merely the stringing
together of scenes without alteration, though Cibber in the prologue
to The Double Gallant says:
“Nay, even alter’d Plays, like old houses mended,
Cost little less than new, before they’re ended;
At least, our author finds the experience true.”
His method seems to have been to take two plays of an older
author, often plays which contained both a serious and a comic
action, to select such scenes as suited his purpose, and to join
them into a play, either alternating the scenes of the separate
plays with link characters, or putting the two plays end on end,
as in the case of Love Makes a Man. This latter method entailed
much greater labor, as many of the characters were made by consolidating
two characters from different plays.
Cibber’s comedies, which constitute his best and most important
work, may be divided into two general classes: comedies of
manners and intrigue, and sentimental comedies. The first class
includes two adaptations from Beaumont and Fletcher which
are not strictly comedies of manners but are more closely allied
to the “comedy of humours,” namely, Love Makes a Man and The
Rival Fools; one adaptation made out of two plays by Dryden,
The Comical Lovers; two from Molière, The Non-Juror and The
Refusal, into both of which he introduced contemporary social
and political interest; and three other plays, Woman’s Wit, She
Would and She Would Not, and The Double Gallant, the last of
which takes its title, if not its plot, from Corneille’s Le Galant
Double. The sentimental comedies, in which form Cibber was
one of the very first to write, are Love’s Last Shift, The Careless
Husband, The Lady’s Last Stake, and The Provoked Husband, the
last being a completion of Vanbrugh’s Journey to London. The
first class consists almost altogether of adaptations; the second
class is essentially original.
II
CIBBER AND THE DEVELOPMENT OF SENTIMENTAL
COMEDY
1. Cibber, not Steele, the Important Figure in its
Early Development.
The fully developed form of sentimental comedy may be said
to begin with Steele’s Conscious Lovers (1772) and to end with the
attack upon it made by Goldsmith, Foote, and their followers.
Goldsmith was “strongly prepossessed in favour of the poets of
the last age and strove to imitate them,”57 and by his reintroduction
of humor into comedy he exerted a strong influence toward the
downfall of the sentimental type. The end of this vogue is generally
well understood, but the beginning of it has not been investigated
with the same thoroughness. Steele is generally given the
credit of being the innovator who reformed the stage,58 although
Ward and others give some credit to the work of Cibber. The
importance of Cibber in the development of this form and in the
moral reformation of comedy, the effect of social conditions,
and the gradual change from the Restoration type, have not been
fully studied. Colley Cibber was the most important writer of
comedy in preparing the way for the new form, and practically
every element of the later sentimental comedy is found in his
work. But Cibber was not a reformer calling on his age to repent;
he was rather answering a general demand of his time.
Three stages may be discerned in the development of sentimental
comedy: first, that in which the morals of comedy were
purified and the new sentimental material was intermixed with the
old humorous material, represented by the work of Cibber; second,
that in which the sentimental theme is presented with very little
comic entertainment, represented by The Conscious Lovers; and
third, that in which the comedy of this second stage degenerates
and in which the work becomes artificial and lifeless, represented
by the plays of Holcroft and his school.
Sentimental comedy as seen in its second phase may be briefly
described as comedy of manners in which the main action tends to
inculcate a moral lesson, in which the incidents no longer deal
with illicit intrigues, and in which the action is complicated by
distressingly pathetic situations. The chief characters are
generally serious and supersensitive in regard to such matters as
filial duty, honor, and the like; and while these persons are in no
need of being reformed, their exaggerated conceptions of honor
have caused them to act so that they are placed in an equivocal
position and they appear to the other characters as vicious. The
language is chaste, there is constant introduction of extremely
stilted moralizing, and there is a notable absence of humor.
Cibber’s work in other lines was conventional and commonplace.
It is true that his Apology is lively and interesting, and his pamphlets
in reply to Pope’s attacks are keen and humorous though
vulgar, but the rest of his prose is extremely conventional. His
poetry, except a few songs, is inexpressibly poor. Aside from one
opera in which he takes the same stand in regard to virtue that he
does in his comedies, his operas are merely the commonplace
following of a vogue. His tragedies are generally imitative; with
two exceptions they are adaptations of Corneille or Shakspere.
His farces are about equal in merit to his poetry, and are devoid
of originality.
Nor does Cibber’s life indicate the qualities that appear in his
sentimental comedies. The moral standard he displays in his
pamphlets in reply to Pope is far from high, and from the testimony
of his contemporaries concerning his personal character it
would seem that he was far from being the sort of man who
would set about reforming anything. And in all probability he
would not have done so if there had not been a general public
movement in that direction.
2. Sentimental Comedy a Product of Various Forces.
But sentimental comedy did not spring full grown from the
brain of a single man. Nor was it the result of a single revolutionary
force. Sentimental comedy resulted from gradual modifications
of the drama of the time, developing from the prevalent
type little by little until it finally appeared as an independent form.
The reform of the stage was not an isolated phenomenon, nor was
it directly the result of the attacks made by Collier and others.
Rather are all these the result of a changed public conscience,
which was manifested not merely in literature and on the stage,
but in the Revolution of 1688 and a subsequent social reformation
as well.
Immediately after the Restoration there may be discovered
two elements in the life of the nation which had an influence both
on the form and on the content of literature. On the one side
was the court, whose standards affected both the form and content
in the direction of foreign models. Through the long period of
exile on the continent, Charles and his followers had become foreign
in their literary taste and they had great influence in the direction
of a French type as regards form; and because of the low and vicious
standards of living prevalent at court their influence stimulated
the sympathetic handling of low and vicious subjects.
On the other hand, there were the people, strictly native in
their preference, who influenced the drama in the direction of native
standards in form, and Puritan standards in content. As to the
form of comedy, there was nothing essentially antagonistic in these
two influences; the one could easily combine with the other so that
a new thing, congruous and consistent, might result; but in the
material presented antagonism was bound to arise and soon did
arise. In the development of sentimental comedy from the type
which predominated during and after the Restoration, there was
not at first any modification in structural elements; the comedy
of manners was adopted, so far as form was concerned; the change,
which was gradual and was a direct response to changed social
and moral conditions, was at first entirely in the matter of content.
This change first appears in the sincere reformation of the hero
at the end of the play; then in the attitude towards cuckoldom,
which Restoration comedy had treated as a humorous fact; and
then in the character of the language, which was altered in the
direction of moral decency.
Under Charles II and James II the court, on which the theatre
depended for its right to live and also for its patronage, was vicious
and depraved. Its one grace was wit, and that it had in a superlative
degree.
3. Progress in English Society.
The people in general, except the court and those more or less
fashionable classes of society which would naturally follow it,
were not affected by this mode. They learned to despise Charles
II personally because of his lack of honor and morals, and hated
his followers as well as their mode of life. In the city the Puritan
element, which was “at once the most substantial and sober”
part of the community, began to exercise some of the same control
of manners and morals that it had practised under the commonwealth,
and checked the constant disregard of its moral principles
by the court.
But even during this corrupt time there were manifestations
of activity on the part of other elements of society, which looked
toward the betterment of conditions. In the life of the state
there were events which made for general progress and a more
moral life among all the people. With special reference to the
regulation and restraint of the theatre, certain elements in
Parliament attempted, in 1669, to tax the playhouses, which were
situated in the disreputable part of town and had become centers
of prostitution; but the ministers of the king intervened and the
attempt to compel some restraint was unsuccessful.
In the reigns of William and Mary and of Anne a reaction
is seen in the life of the court, and there appears a still greater
progress in all classes of society.
The expulsion of the Stuarts brought about certain very positive
results which made for progress in all directions. So too the principle
of natural action and reaction was operating; but, considering
the historical circumstances, it was only to be expected that the
reaction toward a more moral and saner view of life should be less
marked and less rapid than the preceding reaction from Puritanism.
Until after the downfall of the Stuarts, the Protestants in England
had never been united; but after that event even Presbyterians
joined with ecclesiastics of the Church of England in public ceremonies
on terms of friendship. Now that the question of political
and religious supremacy was permanently settled, the Protestants
were free to turn to some of the questions which are popularly
supposed to be the real objects of religious organizations—worship
and the encouragement of right living. However far it may have
failed to measure up to modern ideas in these respects, the church
now began to be a greater moral force.
The court became a very different sort of place. However
far William might fall short of middle class standards of today,
he was a very different sort of man from Charles or James, and
had a very different influence. As opposed to the Catholicism of
the Stuarts, he was a Presbyterian. Instead of haunting the theatre,
where Charles found more than one mistress among the actresses,
William never even showed himself at the theatre. Because of
William’s prolonged absences on the continent, during which Mary
reigned in her own right, the person of the queen became more important
than in former reigns. Mary “had been educated only
to work embroidery, to play on the spinnet, and to read the Bible
and the Whole Duty of Man.”59 “Her character was unimpeachable,
and by the influence of the king and queen the whole court became
most proper, even if it was somewhat dull.” But unlike her
husband, she went frequently to the theatre, where she showed
special favor for Shadwell and where she ordered such plays as
The Old Bachelor, The Double Dealer, and The Committee. It
must be admitted that Mary’s taste in regard to plays did not
show great literary or moral discrimination.
Both under William and Mary and under Anne the court took
positive grounds on moral questions. In Evelyn’s Diary for
February 19, 1690, we read:
“The impudence of both sexes was now become so greate and
so universal, persons of all ranks keeping their courtesans publicly,
that the King had lately directed a letter to the Bishops to order
their Cleargy to preach against that sin, swearing, &c. and to put
the Ecclesiastical Laws in execution without any indulgence.”
Mary, on July 9, 1691, wrote to the justices of the peace directing
that they execute all laws against the profanation of the Sabbath,
and even went so far as to have constables stationed on street
corners to capture pies and puddings that were being taken to
the bakers to be cooked on that day. In 1697 and 1698 King
William issued two orders concerning the acting of anything
contrary to good morals or manners. Queen Anne, who never
went to the public theatre, made frequent proclamations against
immoral plays, masked women, and the admittance of spectators
behind the scenes, and in 1703 she issued a proclamation against
vice in general.
Altogether, the forces of the court and of the government were
acting in accord to suppress the abuses which their predecessors
had countenanced both by favor and by participation.
But however potent may have been the influence of the court,
the real movement for social reform came from the people, whose
will the court was really carrying out. The movement on the
part of the people was forwarded by the rise of various societies
which were established for moral, philanthropic, and religious
purposes.60
The Society for the Reformation of Manners, inaugurated by
a small number of gentlemen in 1692, was probably the most influential
and best known of these organizations. It was organized
primarily for the purpose of informing on evildoers, and that
there might be no criticism concerning their sincerity, the fines
were paid over to charity. In addition to carrying on this work
of informing, the society established quarterly lectures on moral
subjects, secured the preaching of sermons on its objects, and in
1699 it claimed to have secured thousands of convictions.61 The
church was brought into the movement by Archbishop Tenison’s
circular to the clergy encouraging them to cooperate with the
laity in the movement. This movement went farther than the
prosecution of overt acts against morality, for in 1701–2 the
players at Lincoln’s Inn Fields were prosecuted for uttering impious,
lewd, and immoral expressions.62
4. Collier.
Collier’s attack on the stage, published in 1698, was no doubt
a potent influence in crystallizing public opinion in regard to the
drama, but it does not stand alone; it is merely a sign of a movement
which the stage had begun to notice and profit by several years
previously. During the year 1698 not less than sixteen books
and pamphlets were published in the controversy. Collier’s
book had great influence in furthering the work of reformation;
but, low as was the tone of the drama at the time, one must
confess that in some particulars Collier is radical and far-fetched
in his arguments and conclusions.
Cibber, though he had two years previously written a play with
a distinct reformatory and moral purpose, did not much relish
Collier’s attack or agree with it. In the prologue to Xerxes
he intimates that Collier might prove a good index for those who
desired to read immoral literature:
“Thus ev’n sage Collier too might be accus’d,
If what h’as writ, thro’ ignorance, abus’d:
Girls may read him, not for the truth, he says,
But to be pointed to the bawdy plays.”
In The Careless Husband we find Lord Morelove saying:
“Plays now, indeed, one need not be so much afraid of; for since
the late short-sighted view of them, vice may go on and prosper;
the stage dares hardly show a vicious person speaking like himself,
for fear of being call’d prophane for exposing him.”
To this Lady Easy replies that,
“’Tis hard, indeed, when people won’t distinguish between what’s
meant for contempt, and what for example.”
Perhaps Cibber’s most interesting contribution to the controversy
is contained in his dedication of Love Makes a Man, published
in the first edition, but omitted in the collected edition
of his plays:
“But suppose the stage may have taken too loose a liberty?
Is there nothing to be said for it? Have not all sciences been
guilty? Was it to be expected in a reign of pleasure, peace and
madness, that the poets should not be merry? Did not the court
then lead up the dance? And did not the whole nation join in it?
Was it not mere Joan Sanderson,63 and did not the lawn-sleeves,
cuffs, and cassocks fill up the measure? But since those dancing
days are over, I hope our enemies will give us leave to grow wise,
and sober, as well as the rest of our neighbors: Why shall we not
have the liberty to reform, as well as the clergy, and lawyers?
I believe upon a fair examination we may find, that prophaneness,
cruelty, and passive obedience, are now less than ever the business
of the stage, the bench or the pulpit; and I doubt not, but we can
produce examples of new plays, lawyers, and pastors that have met
with success without being obliged to immorality, bribery, or
politics ...
“Now if the stage must needs down, because ’tis possible it
may seduce, as instruct; the same rule of policy might forbid the
use of physic, because not only their patients, but physicians
themselves die of common diseases; or call in the milled crowns,
because they are but so many patterns for coiners to counterfeit by,
or might as well suppress the Courts of Judicature, because some
persons have suffered for what a succeeding reign has made a new
law, that makes that law that sentenced them illegal: The same
conclusion might discountenance our religion, because we sometimes
find pride, hypocricy, avarice, and ignorance in its teachers:
So that if our zealous reformers do not stick fairly to their method
we may in time hope to see our nation flourish without either wit,
health, money, law, conscience, or religion....
“But this sort of reformation I hope will never be thoroughly
wrought, while the king, and the Established Church have any
friends: The stage I am sure was never heartily oppressed but by
the enemies of both.”
Though Cibber thought Collier extreme and unjust in his
criticism, his own attitude concerning the abuses of the stage was
hardly less censorious than Collier’s, but he blames the audiences
for the low moral standards of the entertainments:
“However gravely we may assert, that Profit ought always
to be inseparable from the Delight of the Theatre; nay, admitting
that the Pleasure would be heighten’d by the uniting them; yet,
while Instruction is so little the Concern of the Auditor, how can
we hope that so choice a Commodity will come to a Market where
there is so seldom a Demand for it?
“It is not to the Actor therefore, but to the vitiated and low
Taste of the Spectator, that the Corruptions of the Stage (of what
kind soever) have been owing.”64
His own attitude, which he held from the first of his career as a
dramatist, may be illustrated what he says in the Apology:65
“Yet such Plays (entirely my own) were not wanting at least,
in what our most admired Writers seem’d to neglect, and without
which, I cannot allow the most taking Play, to be intrinsically
good, or to be a Work, upon which a Man of Sense and Probity
should value himself: I mean when they do not, as well prodesse,
as delectare, give Profit with Delight! The Utile Dolci was, of
old, equally the Point; and has always been my Aim, however
wide of the Mark, I may have shot my Arrow. It has often given
me Amazement, that our best Authors of that time, could think the
Wit, and Spirit of their Scenes, could be an Excuse for making the
Looseness of them publick. The many Instances of their Talents
so abused, are too glaring, to need a closer Comment, and are
sometimes too gross to be recited. If then to have avoided this
Imputation, or rather to have had the Interest, and Honour of Virtue
always in view, can give Merit to a Play; I am contented that
my Readers should think such Merit, the All, that mine have to
boast of.—Libertines of mere Wit, and Pleasure, may laugh at
these grave Laws, that would limit a lively Genius: But every
sensible honest Man, conscious of their Truth, and Use, will give
these Ralliers Smile for Smile, and shew a due Contempt for their
Merriment.”
Davies tells us:66
“So well did Cibber, though a professed libertine through life,
understand the dignity of virtue, that no comic author has drawn
more delightful and striking pictures of it. Mrs. Porter, on reading
a part, in which Cibber had painted virtue in the strongest and
most lively colors, asked him how it came to pass, that a man,
who could draw such admirable portraits of goodness, should
yet live as if he were a stranger to it?—‘Madam,’ said Colley,
‘the one is absolutely necessary, the other is not.’”
Possibly this inconsistency in personal conduct and public
confession explains why comedies which aimed to teach lessons of
virtue were sentimental and did not ring true. The men who
wrote them wrote from the head and not from the heart, influenced
by a growing public demand and without real sincerity
or conviction.
5. Characteristics of Restoration Comedy.
Restoration comedy up to about 1696, while it was essentially
a native development, was influenced both in technique and in
content by the drama to which the court had been accustomed
in its exile in France. The Jonsonian comedy was developing
both in the period immediately preceding the Commonwealth
and during the Restoration into the same sort of thing that we
have here, and Shadwell, poet laureate and especial favorite of
Queen Mary, definitely took the work of Jonson as his model.
The Jonsonian satire had thrown emphasis on fundamental traits
of human nature, but in this later type satire is centered on manners,
dress, the non-essential elements of life, though the characters
continue to be embodiments of single traits. Molière, whose earliest
effective follower in England was Etherege, taught the English
writers of the comedy of manners to aim at polish, refinement
of style and dialogue, and his influence confirmed the tendency
of English comedy to follow the unities as they were then understood.
Restoration comedy, then, is native Jonsonian comedy,
influenced by the comedy of Molière.67 The chief literary
sources of its plots are the comedies of Beaumont and Fletcher,
of Molière, of Corneille, and Spanish comedies and novels.
Though the late Elizabethans had been gross in word, there
had always been in their work a tendency to punish vice and reward
virtue, or at least to make vice ridiculous. But in the Restoration
this grossness becomes grossness of word, character, and idea,
and it is not the violator of virtue that is made ridiculous, but
his victim. The Elizabethan gaiety, spontaneity, healthy overflow
of spirits, become a cynicism which is absurd in its artificiality
and deliberate pose. The Jonsonian reaction from earlier Elizabethan
romanticism continues its advance toward realism.
The Restoration dramatist lacks the power to construct effective
plots. He is able to handle his separate incidents with skill,
but when it comes to sustaining an action through five acts,
he fails. His chief fault lies in too great intricacy, excessive
elaboration, and complexity, which are due to his endeavor to tell
too many stories. In the construction of his plays he commonly
takes two, and sometimes three, plays from Molière, or Beaumont
and Fletcher, to form one play of his own. Hence there is in the
handling of the plot a lack of unity. Furthermore, in his extreme
elaboration of single situations, which one must admit have qualities
to make them lively and interesting on the stage, the dramatist
fails in the great essential quality of probability; if one regards
the unity of time, he makes his stories impossible. Lack of
sequence is caused by the constant interruption of conversation,
which is brilliant and entertaining in itself, but has nothing to do
with the story.
The dramatist tends to the elaboration of stock themes, dealing
with the pursuit of illicit pleasure, assignations, and love intrigues.
The typical story might be stated as follows: a young man is entangled
with one or more women, a widow, the wife of an elderly
or foolish husband, or a mistress whom he is keeping or who is
keeping him, and while he is carrying on these intrigues he falls
in love with the virtuous young woman he eventually wins. Sometimes
his mistresses object to his marrying some one else, sometimes
they do not, and in the latter case the opposing force is centered
in a rapacious guardian or some other complicating person or
circumstance. There are usually many minor love affairs,
sometimes legitimate, sometimes not, and usually so complicated
that it is difficult to keep the various threads separate. Collier
did no injustice when he said that “the stage poets make their
principal persons vicious and reward them at the end of the play.”
The love is mere sensuality. There is tacit acknowledgment
that the men will be untrue to their wives and a fear on the part
of the husbands that their wives will cuckold them.68 This fear
is not because of any moral scruples, but is merely because of the
ridicule that cuckoldom brought on the husband. The treatment
is frankly gross, licentious, cynical.
In a sense this treatment is highly realistic; to this extent,
that it is a general reflection of the standards and manners of the
life of the court. The fashions are contemporary, the manners
and morals are those of the upper classes. The playwrights
confine themselves to a limited section of but a part of the people.
Social and religious institutions are treated so as to make them
ridiculous and contemptible.
That any other treatment would have been difficult is seen by
considering the relationship existing between the theatre and the
court. The theatre had its authority for existence directly from
the court, one theatre receiving its license from the King, the other
from the Duke of York, while the companies of actors were known
as the King’s or the Duke’s servants.69 These licenses were moreover
revocable at the pleasure of those who gave them. Controversies
and differences within the theatre were often settled
personally by the King or Duke, and Charles is said to have suggested
subjects to the dramatists in many instances. With so
direct and personal a relation, anything other than compliance with
the taste of the court could result in nothing but the downfall of
the theatre. The theatre’s very life depended on its selection
and presentation of themes that would satisfy and reflect the taste
of the most morally degraded court that England has ever had.
The characterization in these plays is conventional and often
vague. For example, it may be laid down as an almost invariable
rule that a widow is never virtuous. In the embodiment of a
single trait there is the continued tendency to exaggeration seen
in the “humourous” characterization of Jonson, with the same
use of descriptive names—Courtall, Mrs. Frail, Lady Wishfort,
Justice Clodpate—to save the labor of characterization. The
characters are likewise lacking in complexity and development.
There is the tendency to Jonsonian division of characters into
dupes and dupers,70 but this division is not so clear as in Jonson,
nor is the division based on the essential qualities of human
nature, but is rather on the basis of wit and power in repartee.
The heroes are all witty, usually wealthy, popular, and their
life work is the pursuit of women. The women are all witty,
beautiful, and all rakes, except the heroine, and even the heroines
bid fair to become so in a few months after marriage. The hero
or heroine of one play might be the hero or heroine of any other
play so far as any distinctive characterization is concerned.
There is the pretended wit, a simpleton who apes the men
of wit and fashion, who thinks himself most clever, and who is
perfectly unconscious of the fact that he is being made a butt for
the wit of the sensible characters. Such are the Dapperwits, the
Witwouds, and the Tattles. Somewhat similar is the fop who
imitates the French, thinks only of his dress, his appearance, and
the figure he makes. He is all ostentation, is entirely self-centered
and simple in his mental processes, but is really not such a fool as
one imagines at first. Etherege’s Sir Fopling Flutter, and Cibber’s
Sir Novelty Fashion—the Lord Foppingtons of The Relapse and
The Careless Husband—are two well drawn presentations of this
character. An interesting female type is the Miss Hoyden-Prue-Hippolyta
young woman, who has been kept in secluded
ignorance of the world, but who shows a sudden ingenuity, knowledge
of the world, and desire for the sensual joys of life. There
are, of course, the elderly cuckolds, dominated and fooled by their
wives, and the wives who profess virtue but do not practise it.
That the view here given is not prejudiced by modern standards
may be seen by a description of the characters by one of the
dramatists themselves. Shadwell in the preface to The Sullen
Lovers expresses himself, not without vigor:
“But in the Plays, which have been wrote of late, there is no
such thing as perfect Character, but the two chief Persons are
commonly a Swearing, Drinking, Whoring, Ruffian for a Lover, and
an impudent ill-bred Tomrig for a Mistress, and these are the fine
People of the play; and ... almost any thing is proper for them to say;
but their chief Subject is Bawdy, and Profaneness, which they call
Brisk Writing, when the most dissolute of Men, that relish those
things well enough in Private, are shock’d at ’em in Publick.”
The dialogue, which often interrupts the movement of the
plot, and often surpasses in interest the more solid quality of
representation of life, is usually marked by the most brilliant
and biting wit, by keenly satiric repartee, and by epigrammatic
polish. The dialogue has often nothing to do with the story,
but is merely the exhibition of the author’s ability in the cynical
treatment of contemporary manners. The attitude is one of
satire and raillery against all established institutions, against
marriage, the manners of society, the Puritans, the newly developing
sciences, the court, dueling, the country and its inhabitants,
the opera, the new songs and novels, the affectation of foreign airs,
the adoption of foreign words, poetry and dilettante writing, polite
literary conversation, legal abuses, and almost everything that one
can conceive.
The locality in which the plays are set is extremely narrow at
first, being confined to the town; for most of the plays are set in
London, in localities familiar to the audiences. Within the class
and localities to which the comedy restricts itself, it is a most
interesting social document; but it must always be remembered
that it is no sense representative of the whole people. Sometimes
we are taken to Spain or Italy, but it is Spain or Italy only in
name, the people and the customs are all English. The scene may
sometimes be one of the fashionable watering places in England;
but it is never in the despised country.
Whether one agrees with it or not it is well to keep in mind
Lamb’s defense in his essay On the Artificial Comedy of the Last
Century:
“We have been spoiled with ... the ... drama of common life; where
the moral point is everything; where, instead of the fictitious
half-believed personages of the stage (the phantoms of old comedy)
we recognize ourselves, our brothers, aunts, kinsfolk, allies, patrons,
enemies,—the same as in life....
“I do not know how it is with others, but I feel the better always
for the perusal of one of Congreve’s—nay, why should I not add
even of Wycherley’s—comedies. I am the gayer at least for
it; and I could never connect those sports of a witty fancy in any
shape with any result to be drawn from them to imitation in real
life. They are a world of themselves almost as much as fairyland....
But in its own world do we feel the creature is so very bad?—The
Fainalls and the Mirabels, the Dorimants and the Lady Touchwoods,
in their own sphere, do not offend my moral sense; in fact
they do not appeal to it at all. They seem engaged in their proper
element. They break through no laws, or conscientious restraints.
They know of none. They have got out of Christendom into the
land—what shall I call it?—of cuckoldry—the Utopia of gallantry,
where pleasure is duty, and the manners perfect freedom. It is
altogether a speculative scene of things, which has no reference
whatever to the world that is.... He [Congreve] has spread a privation
of moral light ... over his creations; and his shadows flit
before you without distinction or preference. Had he introduced a
good character, a single gush of moral feeling, a revulsion of the
judgment to actual life and actual duties, the impertinent Goshen
would have only lighted to the discovery of deformities, which now
are none, because we think them none....
“... When we are among them [the characters of Congreve
and Wycherley], we are amongst a chaotic people. We are not to
judge them by our usages. No reverend institutions are insulted
by their proceedings,—for they have none among them. No
peace of families is violated,—for no family ties exist among them.
No purity of the marriage bed is stained,—for none is supposed to
have a being.... There is neither right nor wrong,—gratitude
or its opposite,—claim or duty,—paternity or sonship....
“The whole is a passing pageant.... But, like Don Quixote,
we take part against the puppets, and quite as impertinently....
We would indict our very dreams.”
6. Beginnings of the Change in the Drama.
Such had been the conditions surrounding the drama and in
the drama itself before the reformation began. When one comes
to look at the stage and the audiences, one finds very little indication
of change at first. In 1682 there seems to have been objection
to London Cuckolds on the ground of indecency, and Ravenscroft
in the prologue to Dame Dobson (1682) claims to have
complied with the objections which had been raised by making his
own play dull and civil. In 1684 appeared Southerne’s first
comedy, The Disappointment, which he calls a “play,” and in this
we have the serious treatment of the marriage relations and the
preservation of a wife’s chastity. Throughout, Southerne’s
tendency was towards morality.
In 1696 there begins a real and easily discernible movement
towards the moral treatment of dramatic themes. The She
Gallants (1696) was so offensive to the ladies that it had to be
withdrawn; in She Ventures and He Wins (1696) the man who would
carry on an amour with a married woman is exposed and tricked
and made the butt; and in Mrs. Manley’s The Lost Lover (1696)
there is the noticeable introduction of a virtuous wife.
In 1697, the epilogue to Boadicea, a tragedy, tells us that
“Once only smutty jests could please the town,
But now (Heav’n help our trade) they’ll not go down.”
Waterhouse71 finds traces of sentimentality in Vanbrugh’s
Aesop, which appeared the same year. Then in 1698 matters
were brought to a head by Collier, and we find Congreve’s Double
Dealer advertised to be acted “with several expressions omitted,”
while in The Way of the World (1700) his muse is somewhat
more chaste. The Provoked Wife was altered, probably in 1706,
so that the clergy might not seem to be attacked.
From this time on the changed attitude was increasingly
manifest in the new plays, though the old were still acted with
little or no change.
In The State of the Case Restated72 it is contended that the royal
patent to the Drury Lane Theatre was given to Sir Richard Steele
for the purpose of correcting the abuses of the theatre, but that
Sir Richard had not done this; in fact that
“The same lewd plays were acted and reviewed without any
material alteration, which gave occasion for that universal complaint
against the English stage, of lewdness and debauchery,
from all the sober and religious part of the nation; the whole business
of comedy continuing all this time to be the criminal intrigues
of fornication and adultery, ridiculing of marriage, virtue, and integrity,
and giving a favorable turn to vicious characters, and
instructing loose people how to carry on their lewd designs with
plausibility and success: thus among other plays they have
revived The Country Wife, Sir Fopling Flutter, The Rover, The
Libertine Destroyer, and several others, and it is remarkable, that
the knight, or coadjutors, had condemned Sir Fopling Flutter,
as one of the most execrable and vicious plays that ever was performed
in public.”
The change that was occurring may be fairly illustrated by
quotations from plays by Etherege and Steele, which are characteristic
of the alterations not only as to morals but as to moralizing.
In speaking of marriage Etherege says, “your nephew ought to
conceal it [his marriage] for a time, madam, since marriage has
lost its good name; prudent men seldom expose their own reputations,
till ’tis convenient to justify their wives;”73 while Steele’s
sentiment is that “wedlock is hell if at least one side does not love,
as it would be Heaven if both did.”74
7. Cibber’s Comedies.
Cibber at the very outset of his career as a dramatist, in Love’s
Last Shift (1696), deliberately attempted to reform the stage,
and that the audience was ready for the innovation is shown
by the way it was received, for we are told that “never were
spectators more happy in easing their minds by uncommon and
repeated plaudits. The honest tears, shed by the audience,
conveyed a strong reproach to our licentious poets, and was to
Cibber the highest mark of honor.”75 Davies further gives Cibber
the credit of being the first in reforming the English stage, and
of founding English sentimental comedy. “The first comedy,
acted since the Restoration, in which were preserved purity of
manners and decency of language, with a due respect to the honor
of the marriage-bed, was Colley Cibber’s Love’s Last Shift, or The
Fool in Fashion.”76 Cibber himself makes no claim to decency
of language, nor is it found to any greater extent in this play than
in the other plays of the period. Certainly there can be nothing
bolder than the first act, or the epilogue, which reads as follows:
“Now, gallants, for the author. First, to you
Kind city gentlemen o’ th’ middle row;
He hopes you nothing to his charge can lay,
There’s not a cuckold made in all his play.
Nay, you must own, if you believe your eyes,
He draws his pen against your enemies:
For he declares, today, he merely strives
To maul the beaux—because they maul your wives.
Nor, sirs, to you whose sole religion’s drinking,
Whoring, roaring, without the pain of thinking,
He fears he’s made a fault you’ll ne’er forgive,
A crime beyond the hopes of a reprieve:
An honest rake forego the joys of life,
His whores and wine, t’ embrace a dull chaste wife!
Such out-of-fashion stuff! but then again,
He’s lewd for above four acts, gentlemen.
* * * * *
Four acts for your coarse palates were design’d,
But then the ladies taste is more refin’d,
They, for Amanda’s sake, will sure be kind.”
The main action, that which deals with the reformation of
the wandering husband, seems to be original with Cibber in every
respect. It deals with the reformation of a husband who eight
or ten years before has deserted his young wife for a dissolute
life on the continent, and who returns to England still more degenerate
in mind and morals than when he left, and so entirely
depleted in purse that he has not money enough to buy a meal
or pay for a night’s lodging for himself and his servant. The
husband is finally led to return to his wife, whose appearance has
so changed that he does not recognize her, by her pretense of being
a new mistress. This subterfuge is more or less remotely suggestive
of Shakspere’s All’s Well that Ends Well and Shirley’s Gamester,
both of which have been suggested as its source; but it owes nothing
to them in the working out of the situation.
The theme is practically that of The Careless Husband: the
reformation of a husband not entirely spoiled at heart. The
moral teaching is that there is the same pleasure in legitimate
enjoyment as in the baser and illicit sort.
The innovation consists in the very moral ending of the piece,
particularly in the definite decision of the hero to reform, a
determination which he expresses as follows:
“By my example taught, let every man, whose fate has bound
him to a marry’d life, beware of letting loose his wild desires:
for if experience may be allow’d to judge, I must proclaim the
folly of a wandering passion. The greatest happiness we can
hope on earth,
And sure the nearest to the joys above,
Is the chaste rapture of a virtuous love.”
It is to be noticed that the illicit affair of Sir Novelty Fashion
and Mrs. Flareit is made ridiculous and not happy at the end,
nor does Sir Novelty acquire a mistress or a wife who has previously
been chaste. Likewise there is no husband who is made ridiculous
by being cuckolded, and the only amour, if it can be called an
amour, that which Amanda’s maid unwillingly has with Snap,
is made right the next morning by the marriage of the two.
On the other hand, the play, aside from these particulars,
exhibits the technique and the material of the typical Restoration
comedy. The chief incident deals in most frank style with the sex
relations of the hero and heroine, treated essentially in the Restoration
way, with the exception that the audience knows they are
man and wife while the characters do not. The cellar incident
is as frank and gross as anything of the sort in the earlier drama,
though in this case the final outcome is a wedding. There is the
same succession of lively and disconnected incidents, incidents
which would go well on the stage, and which make up five separate
threads of story. The substitution of the name of one person for
another in the marriage bond is the same sort of thing that occurs
over and over again in the earlier comedy.77
The characters represent the same more or less stiff drawing
of conventional figures. Sir Novelty Fashion is of the same family
as Sir Fopling Flutter; Lovelace and Young Worthy are the same
drunken rakes as those who make the principal characters in the
unreformed drama, with the exception that here they are not
presented to us as carrying on their amours. Snap is the witty
servingman who is invariably paired with the maid of the heroine
in Restoration comedy. There is the same presentation of local
scenes, particularly that in the park; there is the same coarse
speech; and there is the same interruption of the story by raillery.
But the play as already suggested is a very distinct step in advance
in its treatment of fundamental morality, and marks a conscious
beginning of a new mode; not an inconsiderable achievement for
the first play of an author twenty-four years old.
The two plots of Woman’s Wit (1697) are entirely dissimilar
in tone and dramatic handling, and, moreover, have no essential
connection with each other. The main plot, which gives the name
to the piece, is in the Restoration manner, while the sub-plot,
which deals with the Rakishes, is in the mould of the minor late
Elizabethans. In its portrayal of manners it belongs to the type
represented by the plays of Brome, marked by coarseness rather
than finish, and implying about the same standard of morals.
The main plot consists of a series of complications caused
by the efforts of Longeville to unmask Leonora’s unfaithfulness
to Lovemore, to whom she is engaged. She convinces Lovemore
that Longeville’s efforts are the result of a plot, the purpose of
which is to alienate Lovemore and Leonora so that Longeville
may have her to himself; and there then follows one complication
after another, until the characters are at last gathered together
and Leonora is made to confess her duplicity.
The situation on which the main action is based is original
and highly dramatic, but in order to maintain the intrigue Cibber
has had to use incidents which are marked by improbability and
dramatic blindness to such an extent that the action becomes
wearisome. Cibber seems to be groping for something different
from the conventional Restoration intrigue. His conception is
worthy of more success than he attained, but he lacked the dramatic
skill and experience to carry it out.
Some of the character drawing is good. Longeville and Lovemore
are rather decent young men, but are no doubt too sentimental
for success on the stage at this time. The Rakishes are
overdrawn and farcical. The women, with the exception of
Leonora, are lacking in the spontaneity and wit demanded of
seventeenth and early eighteenth century heroines, and like the
men are possibly too sentimental. Leonora is the intriguer and
is the best drawn and most important personage in the play. Her
downfall is the result of her own character and conduct, and in
the disapproval of her character and actions Cibber has repeated,
to some extent, views he expressed in his first play.
The vulgar sub-plot which deals with Old Rakish and Young
Rakish, when separated from Woman’s Wit and acted in 1707 as
The School Boy, was a greater success than the original play.
With the exception of the change in the names of some of the personages,
minor alterations of the dialogue, the omission of parts
of the incidents, and the addition of such incidents as are necessary
to make it stand by itself, the play is verbatim as it appeared when
a part of Woman’s Wit.
From the point of view of the reformation of the stage it must
be confessed that Woman’s Wit was not of great importance. The
moral tone of the main action is high; at least virtue is rewarded
and vice disgraced, and there are no amours carried on. But the
sub-action, which was later transformed into The School Boy,
is entirely opposed to both good taste and good morals, and after
a series of low comedy scenes, ends with the promise of Young
Rakish to Master Johnny that he will take Johnny to the playhouse,
where the latter may satisfy his disappointment in the
failure to marry his mother’s woman. Although notable progress
in the morality of the drama had been made, as we have seen,
the fact that this sub-action was successfully presented by itself
shows that the taste of the theatre-going public was not yet
entirely regenerate.
Love Makes a Man (1701) is a rather close adaptation of two
of Beaumont and Fletcher’s plays,78 in which Cibber does not pretend
to any serious purpose. “For masks, we’ve scandal, and for
beaus, French airs.” And yet his moralizing and sentimental
tendency cannot be entirely restrained, for when Carlos, the
hero of the play, does turn from his books to love, he speaks in a
most heightened and sentimental strain. So too the efforts of
Louisa to seduce him are met with sentiments of lofty morality
which are actuated by his sincere love for Angelina. The Restoration
lover would not have hesitated in the slightest degree to enjoy
all that Louisa offered and his wife-to-be would have taken it
as a matter of course, probably would have joked with her confidante,
if not with the hero, on the subject. But with Cibber
not only is the attitude concerning this sort of thing changed,
but in his alteration he has omitted one incident79 that would
have been a source of great delight to a Restoration audience,
and has softened the language throughout, so that the coarseness
which marks his original has largely disappeared. No one undergoes
a moral reformation, for Louisa has not been evil in her life,
and this one unsuccessful effort at seduction cures her. But the
play has two characteristics of the sentimental type; it is perfectly
moral in action, and it has some expression of sentimental philosophy.
She Would and She Would Not (1702) is probably more in accordance
with modern taste than any other play Cibber wrote.
In this regard for good taste as well as good morals it is significant
of the change in English comedy, and though it is not sentimental,
it indicates Cibber’s readiness to adopt and lead the new mode.
In its technique it reminds us of the Spanish intrigue plays of
Dryden; but it is perfectly moral, and the two lovers do not employ
their time, when away from the main business of winning their
wives, in carrying on intrigues with other women.
The Careless Husband (acted 1704) is Cibber’s masterpiece
in sentimental comedy. In it he has reached greater excellence
than in his former plays in plot and in character presentation,
and in the ability to make his plot and moral purpose work out
consistently and logically. The reformation of Loveless in Love’s
Last Shift strikes one as not in keeping with his character; one
feels that his relapse80 is quite the natural thing to happen. In
this play, however, the hero’s character is presented from the
first in a way that prepares one for the final reformation. In
this particular Cibber rises above his contemporaries in comedy.
In The Careless Husband Cibber lays claim to deliberate and
serious moral purpose and deals, as he did in his first play, with the
reclaiming of a licentious husband by a virtuous wife. Dibdin
extravagantly says of it that “it was a school for elegant manners,
and an example for honorable actions.” Cibber expresses himself
in regard to his purpose, in the dedication, as follows:
“The best criticks have long and justly complain’d, that the
coarseness of most characters in our late Comedies, have been unfit
entertainments for People of Quality, especially the ladies: and
therfore I was long in hopes that some able pen (whose expectation
did not hang upon the profits of success) wou’d generously
attempt to reform the Town into a better taste than the World
generally allows ’em: but nothing of that kind having lately appear’d,
that would give me the opportunity of being wise at
another’s expence, I found it impossible any longer to resist the
secret temptation of my vanity, and so e’en struck the first blow
myself: and the event has now convinc’d me, that whoever sticks
closely to Nature, can’t easily write above the understandings of
the Galleries, tho’ at the same time he may possibly deserve applause
of the Boxes.”
But in The Careless Husband, in contrast with what he had
previously written in this field, the tone of the entire play is moral,
not merely that of the fifth act, the play is worked out consistently,
and the offensive effect of an incongruous mixture of
standards is lacking. It belongs distinctly to the sentimental
type, and is the best of the early school.
In the prologue Cibber gives a summary of the kind of characters
that should illustrate the moral the comedy writer has as his
theme:
“Of all the various Vices of the Age,
And shoals of fools expos’d upon the Stage,
How few are lasht that call for Satire’s rage!
What can you think to see our Plays so full
Of Madmen, Coxcombs, and the drivelling Fool?
Of Cits, of Sharpers, Rakes, and roaring Bullies,
Of Cheats, of Cuckolds, Aldermen and Cullies?
Wou’d not one swear, ’twere taken for a rule,
That Satire’s rod in the Dramatick School,
Was only meant for the incorrigible Fool?
As if too Vice and Folly were confined
To the vile scum alone of human kind,
Creatures a Muse should scorn; such abject trash
Deserves not Satire’s but the Hangman’s lash.
* * * * *
We rather think the persons fit for Plays,
Are those whose birth and education says
They’ve every help that shou’d improve mankind,
Yet still live slaves to a vile tainted mind.”
In this play Cibber continues the general practice of basing
dramatic technique upon that of the Restoration drama. We
find the same multiplicity of plots, though there is here a material
reduction in their number. But here the various plots are more
consistently bound together and more logically worked out.
The hero is a somewhat refined Restoration character; he has more
gentleness and goodness in him, but the course he pursues is
typical of the earlier plays in that he is carrying on two amours
during the play and at the end he abandons those intrigues; with
this difference, however, that the reformation of the hero of
The Careless Husband is felt to be permanent.
The love story of Lord Morelove and Lady Betty, which forms
the sub-action, is in the best style of the comedy of manners.
It, as well as the main action, reminds one in its finished workmanship
of the best plays written during the latter part of the
preceding century.
There is a distinct effort to teach the advantage of moral living,
in the unhappy outcome of the illicit affairs and in the happy
outcome of the legitimate. The situation in which Edging and
Sir Charles are discovered asleep, which proved too gross for
Cibber’s audience, is nevertheless handled in a manner to show
disapproval; the Restoration dramatist would have been salacious
and humorous. Sir Charles’s feeling of guilt after this scene,
however, is an entirely new note.
Some of the characters are stock figures. Lady Betty is the
usual coquette, is a Millamant type, but is altogether more
human and modern; Lord Foppington is the continuation of Sir
Novelty Fashion, whom we recognize as a type which appears
in Etherege and Crowne; and Sir Charles, until his reformation,
is, in his conduct, the Restoration rake, with, however, distinctly
more humanity. His whole-heartedness and inherent honor
make one forgive his lapse in conduct.
Other characters indicate a new mode. Lady Easy is a modest,
virtuous, capable wife, full of moderation and tact, with the
gentleness of the modern ideal woman. She belongs to the patient
Griselda type, and her situation, which contains not a little pathos,
is handled in a way to gain the sympathy of the audience. This
is a new and noteworthy contribution in the direction of the fully
developed type of sentimental comedy. Even in spite of Sir
Charles’s defection in conduct, we recognize an inherent goodness
in his nature. Lord Morelove is the preaching, sentimentalizing
type, serious minded and upright, the sort of character that Cibber
has presented in Lord Lovemore in Woman’s Wit and Elder
Worthy in Love’s Last Shift; a character who seldom appears in the
Restoration period, or, if he does appear, is ridiculed. In this
presentation of a successful lover, lacking in wit and inconstancy,
Cibber was not following the convention of the preceding drama,
which usually made its heroes witty scamps.
While we still have light banter and raillery, they are primarily
used to display character or further the plot, functions which
they disregard in the Restoration plays. The theme and its working
out not only deal with the reformation of the loose character,
but also endeavor to present an admirable example of womanhood
who shows a proper fidelity to her husband in spite of all his
delinquencies. In the presentation of this high type of character
Cibber has again become an innovator and has made a positive
contribution to the drama of the period.
In his adaptation of the plays by Dryden81 in The Comical
Lovers (1707) Cibber has not attempted any changes, and the play
is of no importance in the development of comedy. It was regarded
merely as a revival of Dryden’s work, and was acted along
with other old plays during the same season, largely because
of an antiquarian interest.
The two plays from which this is made go well together and
present something of the best that Dryden did in the line of satiric
comedy, and no doubt the social satire was almost as pertinent
in Cibber’s time as it had been forty or fifty years earlier.
But the moral standard, which is almost always present, even
if in the background, in Cibber’s own plays, is almost entirely
lacking here. Celadon expects to be cuckolded, but would rather
be cuckolded by Florimel (who reminds one very strongly of
Congreve’s Millamant even in the stipulations before their agreement
of marriage), than by any one else. So too in the complications
in the second story in the play, the moral defections
are humorous merely because they are immoral, and there is no
disapproval expressed or implied. In Cibber’s own work he may
retain his disapproval until the last act, but the moral standard
always appears in some way or other, so that this play is essentially
uncharacteristic of Cibber’s work.
The Double Gallant (1707) is an adaption of the same sort as
The Comical Lovers, derived from Restoration plays,82 but it does
have more significance. It is marked by the same general tone
of moral irresponsibility and lightness, but without the actual
culmination of delinquencies; there is the same raillery, somewhat
curtailed, and the hero, as in those plays, involves himself in
intrigue with several women at once. There is more respect for
morals in the general conduct of the piece. The change is indicated
in the handling of the source. Burnaby83 has made use of what is
probably the most notorious and grossest incident in Restoration
comedy, Horner’s subterfuge in The Country Wife, but has modified
some of the elements of the intrigue. Cibber has prevented the
successful outcome of the intrigue, and has entirely omitted the
unpleasant features.
The Lady’s Last Stake (1707), in the handling of a serious theme,
seems the most modern of Cibber’s comedies; it represents almost
an approach to the modern problem play in the Lord and Lady
Wronglove story and in the theme of the Lord George and Lady
Gentle story. It is a fully developed comedy of the sentimental
type of this period, with its four acts of intrigue, its reconciliation
at the end, and its extremely moral teaching. Cibber makes two
statements of his theme, first in the dedication, and then in
the prologue. His statement in the dedication is as follows:
“A Play, without a just Moral, is a poor and trivial Undertaking;
and ’tis from the Success of such Pieces, that Mr. Collier was furnish’d
with an advantageous Pretence of laying his unmerciful
Axe to the Root of the Stage. Gaming is a Vice that has undone
more innocent Principles than any one Folly that’s in Fashion;
therefore I chose to expose it to the Fair Sex in its most hideous Form,
by reducing a Woman of honour to stand the presumptuous Addresses
of a Man, whom neither her Virtue nor Inclination would let
her have the least Taste to. Now ’tis not impossible but some Man
of Fortune, who has a handsome Lady, and a great deal of Money
to throw away, may, from this startling hint, think it worth his
while to find his Wife some less hazardous Diversion. If that should
ever happen, my end of writing this Play is answer’d.”
The plot centers around a most lively intrigue, but shows a
departure from the Restoration type. Cibber seems to have
devised his own plot from observation rather than to have taken
it from the work of some one else, though in his characters he shows
some imitation of characters in older plays. Miss Notable is a
Miss Prue type, but the action of the play preserves her virtue
and indicates disapproval of the effort to seduce her. There is a
wide difference between this and the course of Congreve’s character
who rushes eagerly to her bedroom followed by Tattle.84 So too
in the relations of Lady Wronglove with her husband there enters
a new note. Not only does Cibber show her a virtuous woman,
but he recognizes the infidelity of the husband as grave enough
to merit not only condemnation but punishment; and though he
does not carry his story so far as to inflict on him his just deserts,
he recognizes the right of the wife to resent Lord Wronglove’s
action, although he clearly feels her resentment is unwise.
Sir Friendly Moral, who reconciles the various couples, furnishes
the somewhat sentimental moralizings, and seems to be the mouthpiece
of the author.
One does not waste much sympathy on either Lord or Lady
Wronglove in their bickerings, and their reconciliation at the end
through the good offices of Sir Friendly is decidedly lacking in
probability, in view of the way in which they have been previously
presented. This dénouement is brought about by a typical
deus ex machina device, in which Sir Friendly, by supplying money
to one of the characters, and by using his exceeding wisdom and
knowledge with another set of characters, brings about the happy
ending. Cibber was not unlike the other late seventeenth and
early eighteenth century writers in his inability to bring his plays
to a logical and probable conclusion. He was hampered by his
theory that the element of surprise should enter into the happy
ending, and hence he often seems to feel compelled to introduce
a new force very late in the play.
The characters in the main action are somewhat serious and
lacking in attractiveness. But those in the comic action, Lord
George, Mrs. Conquest, and Miss Notable, are much more lively
sources of interest. Miss Notable, as already stated, is a Miss
Prue type, though she is probably not to be described as a “silly,
awkward country girl.” She is essentially a sophisticated city
miss, but her desires and ambitions, as well as some of her ingenuous
characteristics, are similar to those of the Miss Prue type. She
starts a flirtation with each new man she meets in order to pique
the last new man, who in like manner had his turn. The discomfiture
of Lord George when Miss Notable avows her love for
Mrs. Conquest, who is in the disguise of a man, is very clever.
It is hard to believe that an honorable gentleman, as Sir George
is described as being, would cheat at cards even for the purpose
of seducing another man’s wife. It is in just such conceptions as
this that Cibber’s superficiality is shown, a superficiality which
prevented him from writing great drama notwithstanding his
knowledge of technical requirements.
In the situations of Lady Gentle and Mrs. Conquest, especially
in that of the latter, there is a distinct element of pathos,
similar to that in The Careless Husband. As in The Careless Husband,
this pathos is due not merely to the situation, but depends
likewise on the nature of the persons presented. In this respect
it is superior to the later sentimental comedy, in which the pathos
depends more largely on the situation alone.
In its serious elements The Lady’s Last Stake attacks what are
without doubt notable human failings, and the dialogue at its
best reminds us of some of the best Congrevian sort. But Cibber’s
practice as to the happy outcome and his theory that there must
be a surprise at the end of a play, have prevented what might
have been, in the hands of a more serious and larger minded dramatist,
a most important handling of a new theme in a new way.
When he wrote The Rival Fools (1709), Cibber seemed, if
one may judge from the prologue, to feel that his efforts for reform
were not meeting with sufficient response and appreciation,
and therefore tells the audience that
“All sorts of Men and Manners may
From these last Scenes go unreprov’d away.
From late Experience taught, we slight th’ old Rule
Of Profit with Delight: This Play’s—All Fool.”
But though this comedy is not didactic in its purpose, it is morally
clean in its action.
In The Non-Juror (1717), a play written with an avowedly
political purpose, he cannot avoid moralizing and sentimentality,
qualities which appear slightly in the story of Charles, and in
the relations of Dr. Wolf to Lady Woodvil and Maria. It cannot
be claimed that the play has any important bearing on sentimental
comedy, however.
The Refusal (1721) might be called a purified Restoration comedy,
without any positive bearing on the sentimentalizing tendency
except that it shows the tendency to make the drama more moral.
The Provoked Husband (1728), Cibber’s completion of Vanbrugh’s
A Journey to London, is typically sentimental in treatment,
with the happy ending, the reformation of the vicious,
and the true but dull expression of moral sentiments by the serious
characters. In it Cibber has departed from Vanbrugh’s original
intention by reforming the wife, whom he has preserved as perfectly
true to her husband, though unduly given to gambling. In the
love affair of Mr. Manly and Lord Townley’s sister we likewise
have sentimental treatment, and in the expression of pious thoughts
no one could be more prolific than Mr. Manly. In this play Cibber
does not strike any note he has not used before; it is merely significant
of the permanence of the changed manner of writing
in English comedy generally.
In the first plot Cibber has somewhat softened the characters
of Vanbrugh’s Lord and Lady Loverule in Lord and Lady Townley,
giving to the husband a much less dictatorial and more sentimental
and uxorious character. Lady Townley, though she does not show
any signs of softer qualities, is made to see the error of her course
of late hours and gambling, and undergoes a somewhat improbable
but characteristic conversion. Cibber tells us85 that it had been
Vanbrugh’s intention to turn the lady out of doors, as would have
been natural and logical, giving to the play a serious interest
which it lacks under Cibber’s management.
The characters are shorn of their rough virility in Cibber’s
version. Squire Richard is a sort of rough study of the Tony
Lumpkin type,—without his wit, however,—but the credit of
the portrayal is due to Vanbrugh rather than to Cibber.
While the play is far from lacking in interest and power to
amuse, there is a very decided inferiority to Vanbrugh’s play,
even in its unfinished and imperfect state. Cibber’s play is a
typical sentimental comedy, with its undeserved happy ending,
reformation of the vicious, and commonplace expression of sentiment
and morals on the part of the serious characters.
Although it does not exhibit any startling new qualities, in its
theme attacking the evils of gambling which Cibber has previously
attacked, the play is a good example of eighteenth century
comedy; fully as good, indeed, as the work of the other dramatists
of the time, but suffering in comparison with Cibber’s own best
work.
It may be interesting to note that Cibber is said to have added
the parts of Tom and Phillis to Steele’s Conscious Lovers.86
When Steele submitted this play to him, Cibber felt that it would
not satisfy the desire of an audience to laugh at a comedy. According
to the account in The Lives of the Poets, Steele gladly accepted
Cibber’s suggestion that a comic action be inserted and even
proposed that Cibber make such additions to the play as he saw
fit. The absence of humor is a mark of the form of sentimental
comedy inaugurated by Steele, while the form represented by Cibber’s
work is closer to the Restoration type, is indeed really a modification
of that type, and the element of humor is consequently found
in it.
8. Typical Quality of Cibber’s Work.
Cibber’s work typifies the change that was going on in the
moral reformation of the drama, as it likewise shows the development
characteristic of the time in other elements of the drama.87
In him, as in others, we see that while the general type of Restoration
comedy was adopted in the construction of the plot, there
was a tendency to simplify the plot. Moreover, Cibber further
departed from the Restoration type by the selection of themes other
than mere sex relations. Other dramatists were able to present
such themes without reference to moral degeneration, but Cibber,
when he takes such a subject as the dangers of gambling, for
instance, cannot entirely avoid dealing with sex immorality.
In the dull, chaste lover, the sober, moral, worthy gentleman
who is largely a result of the sentimental tendency in the drama,
such as Lord Morelove in Woman’s Wit and Elder Worthy in
Love’s Last Shift, Cibber developed and made more important a type
which had appeared but had been relatively unimportant in earlier
drama. In the comedy of Steele and his followers this character
was further developed so that it became the central figure.
Cibber and his predecessors seem to have been guided by some
such formula as that interesting personality and morality appear
in inverse ratio in male characters.
The precocious Miss Prue type, the young woman who is
destined to have a lover or a husband, perhaps both, in a short
time, is represented by Miss Jenny in The Provoked Husband and
Miss Notable in The Lady’s Last Stake. This type of character
soon disappeared from the drama, as did likewise the Millamant
kind of coquette, who appears as Maria in The Non-Juror and as
Lady Betty in The Careless Husband. Snap and Trappanti are typical
menservants, witty and graceless, and we find the mercenary
serving woman in The Provoked Husband and She Would and She
Would Not. Characters of this type continue occasionally in the
succeeding drama, where they furnish the comic relief.
9. General Characteristics of Cibber’s Comedies.
Cibber’s themes are taken from contemporary life and its
more obvious problems. Of course so far as any serious purpose
is concerned, a distinction must be made between those plays
designed merely to afford the pleasure of an evening’s entertainment
and those written with more serious intent. Cibber often
distinguishes between these two classes, and frankly states his
purpose in the prologue or dedication to the separate plays.
His attitude toward his audience is somewhat naïve. He
frankly states that his “sole dependence being the judgment of
an audience, ’twere madness to provoke them.”88 He again
says89 that “every guest is a judge of his own palate; and a poet
ought no more to impose good sense upon the galleries, than dull
farce upon undisputed judges. I first considered who my guests
were, before I prepared my entertainment.” This would seem to
indicate that at times he had no high respect for his audiences;
especially when he wrote The School Boy and Hob in the Well,
if the latter is by him. In this connection one may note that he
consciously distinguished stage and closet drama, and made no
attempt to write the latter. In his “Remarks to the Reader” of
Ximena he says, “though the reader must be charmed by the tenderness
of the characters in the original, I have ventured to alter,
to make them more agreeable to the spectator.” These statements
would seem to indicate that Cibber wrote his sentimental
plays because he thought the audiences desired something of the
sort.
As a playwright Cibber was a strong upholder of religion and
the established church. He points out that the only religious sect
to close the theatre was also opposed to the established church.90
But in treating religious subjects he does not use the Puritans
for dramatic material, for they were no longer a political menace,
but he turns to the Roman Catholics, whose activities were not
merely religious, but political. In The Non-Juror we have a play
almost entirely built on anti-Catholic feeling; in King John we
have another attack on the Church of Rome; and in the fourth act
of Woman’s Wit we again have satire, but in this case primarily of
the Catholic clergy, rather than the church itself. We do not have
any references to party politics, aside from this Catholic problem.
His original plays in comedy, other than farces and operas,
deal with moral problems. In the case of Love’s Last Shift
and The Careless Husband we have presented the reformation
of husbands not yet entirely spoiled at heart; in The Provoked
Husband the reformation of a wife who has not committed
any serious breach of the moral code; and in this last, as well as
in The Lady’s Last Stake, we have plays dealing with the evils resulting
from women’s gambling. It is curious to find one who
was so notorious a gambler as Cibber choosing such a theme.
The language shows great change from that of the Restoration
in regard to moral refinement. Cibber’s plays become less and
less coarse in speech. His earlier plays have a grossness almost
equal to that of Restoration comedy, but gradually grow purer.
This change in the language is found in English comedy generally,
and as it progresses a new element enters, the expression of moral
sentiments, extravagantly and artificially stated. This last
shows a gradual increase, reaching its height in the later sentimental
comedy of the middle of the century.
Merely as literature, three of Cibber’s plays, at least, are well
worth while: The Careless Husband, She Would and She Would Not,
and The Non-Juror. They lack the briskness and sureness of
touch that characterized Congreve, but compare most favorably
with the work of men in the next rank, and are not only delightful
and profitable reading, but are thoroughly representative of the
period in which they appear. Grouped with these as possessing
permanent literary value are the Apology and not more than half
a dozen songs. Outside of these three plays, one prose work, and
a few songs, Cibber produced nothing that is worth preserving
because of its merit as literature. His greatest importance to the
student of literary history lies in his contribution to the development
of sentimental comedy.
10. Place of Steele in the Development of Sentimental
Comedy.
In view of the place that is always given to Steele as the originator
of sentimental comedy, a discussion of any phase of the subject
would be incomplete without at least a reference to his relation
to the particular question under discussion. We may grant that
Cibber does not represent the culmination of the sentimental type:
that is to be found in Steele’s Conscious Lovers (1722). He is,
rather, the most prominent figure in the first stage of the development
of sentimental comedy, during which the Restoration type
was transformed by the addition of a moral purpose, by the purification
of the language, and by the addition of the pathetic element;
so that the new form in his hands has much of the old as well as
the new, while Steele’s Conscious Lovers has almost entirely
broken away from the old and looks forward. But the movement
in which Cibber was so prominent a figure did make the way possible
and contributed the most important elements which later
developed in the hands of Steele and his followers.
A commonplace of literary history is that it was Steele who
purged English comedy of its vileness and was the first to write
sentimental comedy. This, as we have seen, is not true; for
though The Conscious Lovers is probably the best of its type,
it merely lays more stress upon the pathetic element and carries
forward another step the sort of thing that Cibber had done in
such comedies as The Careless Husband and The Lady’s Last
Stake, which are as truly sentimental comedies as this, and which
possess the pathetic interest, but in a less marked degree. In
Steele’s other plays, The Funeral (1701), The Lying Lover (1705),
The Tender Husband (1705), Steele, except in the matter of the
purity of the language, does not show as fully developed examples
of the type as does Cibber in his work of the same period and
earlier.
Steele’s first play to be acted, The Funeral, lacks sentimental
quality; it is merely a comedy which, when compared to the
Restoration type, has a higher moral tone. Steele had no higher
motive, he tells us, in writing this play than the purpose of reinstating
himself in the opinion of his fellow soldiers who had
ostracized him as a moral prig after the appearance of The Christian
Hero (1701). In his preface he mentions two themes as those
around which the comedy is written, namely, the practices of
undertakers and “legal villanies.” Lady Brumpton, who had
bigamously married Lord Brumpton, is discredited by being ejected
from Lord Brumpton’s household, but there is no suggestion that
she is in any way reformed, and in the rest of the action none of
the other elements of sentimental comedy are prominent.
The Lying Lover goes a little further and reforms the hero at
the end, as is done in the comedies of Cibber. But even this
similarity is only superficial, for the hero is not really vicious,
being guilty only of some entertaining lying, and the reformation
is brought about, not by approved sentimental feminine means,
but by the fact that the hero finds himself in prison. But even
though the hero is humiliated by temporary imprisonment, his
delinquencies are so diverting that the reader is entirely in sympathy
with him. Our sympathy for him, indeed, is so great that it is a
distinct disappointment that the lady is given to the honest and
jealous lover instead of to him. Steele lays no claim to originality
in the reform, “compunction and remorse” of his hero, for
in his preface he says that such things had been “frequently applauded
on the stage.” Nor is the versifying of the elevated
portions of the play a new thing; it is found both earlier and later
than sentimental comedy and is not a distinctive mark of that
type.
The Tender Husband was indebted to Cibber’s Careless Husband,
which had recently appeared, but is not to be compared
to it in its sentimental qualities. In both plays, however, we
have the reconciliation of an estranged husband and wife. In
Cibber it is the husband who is the offender, and he is recalled
from his vices by the patient fidelity of his wife; a reformation
based on sentiment. In The Tender Husband, the wife is reformed
from extravagance in her expenditure of time and money on
trivialities, and from failure in her duty to her husband, but the
reformation is brought about by a mere trick that the husband
plays upon the wife rather than by the interaction of personality
on personality. Steele shows nothing of the serious grasp of the
situation that Cibber shows in his play on the same theme, The
Provoked Husband. Steele’s handling is distinctly less artistic and
distinctly less sentimental than in either of Cibber’s plays. This
is seen also in Steele’s light treatment of the wife’s equivocal action
toward Fainlove, whom she mistakenly supposes to be a man,
and toward whom she makes questionable advances. Not only
in regard to such situations as this, but in the attitude toward
actual breaches of morality, Steele shows a lower standard than
Cibber. In both The Careless Husband and The Tender Husband
the hero keeps a mistress, but while Cibber brings the illicit
amour to an end with the disgrace of the mistress and a distinct
moral, Steele not only shows none of this disapproval but provides
the mistress with a husband of means and gives her a good dowry.
Seventeen years later, though according to Genest91 the play
had been written some years before it was acted, Steele produced
his fully developed comedy of the sentimental type, The Conscious
Lovers. It is entirely different from the preceding plays, for
instead of containing a lively intrigue with clever satire and wit,
such as we have in The Lying Lover, the tone throughout is fixed
by the pathetic and didactic elements. Steele rightly felt that he
was doing something new, and took credit to himself in the prologue:
“But the bold sage—the poet of tonight—
By new and desperate rules resolved to write.
* * * * *
’Tis yours with breeding to refine the age,
To chasten wit, and moralise the stage.”
Not only does this moral and sentimental note appear throughout,
but in Mr. Sealand, especially in his dialogue with Sir John
Bevil in the fourth act, there appears the exaltation of the tradesman
class which culminated in the work of Lillo. Bevil Junior is a
pattern of propriety and goodness, but his lack of virility and
brilliance contrasts him most disadvantageously with the heroes
of the preceding period. He is the dull, chaste lover, the hero
of the second intrigue of the Restoration and Cibber type of comedy,
the Lord Morelove sort, exalted to the first place. Indiana is
the patient Griselda type, the Lady Easy sort of person, but in
The Conscious Lovers her gentleness and goodness are not used to
recall the erring, but are presented merely as desirable qualities
for a virtuous young woman to possess. The witty rake has
disappeared. The Wildairs, Lovelesses, Millamants, and Lady
Betties are no more, and in their places are maudlin, sickly
sentimentalists, whose goodness and sufferings are all that commend
them. Parson Adams was right, it does contain “some things
almost solemn enough for a sermon.”
This sentimental didacticism becomes still more conspicious
in the work of Holcroft and his school, whose plays are rendered
degenerate and emasculate thereby. If the historians of literature
mean that Steele was the originator of this type, whose essential
characteristic is the centering of the action around a pathetic
situation, they are probably right; but any statement that
it was he who introduced the sentimental or pathetic element
into English comedy, or that he began the reformation of the
drama in the direction of morality, is easily seen to be false by
a comparison of his work with the earlier and contemporary
work of Cibber.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
1. Cibber’s Works.
Prose.
An Apology for the Life of Colley Cibber, Comedian, and
Late Patentee of the Theatre-Royal. With an Historical View
of the Stage during his Own Time. Written by Himself. London,
1740. (I have used the fourth edition, London, 1756. Best
edition is that of Lowe, London, 1889.)
A Letter from Mr. Cibber, to Mr. Pope, Inquiring into the
Motives that might induce him in his Satyrical Works, to be so
frequently fond of Mr. Cibber’s Name. London, 1742.
The Egoist: or, Colley upon Cibber. Being his own Picture
Retouch’d, to so plain a Likeness, that no One, now, would have
the Face to own it, but Himself. London, 1743.
Another Occasional Letter from Mr. Cibber to Mr. Pope.
Wherein the New Hero’s Preferment to his Throne, in the Dunciad,
seems not to be Accepted. And the Author of that Poem His
more rightful Claim to it, is Asserted. With an Expostulatory
Address to the Reverend Mr. W. W............n, Author of the new
Preface, and Adviser in the curious Improvements of that Satire.
By Mr. Colley Cibber. London, 1744.
The Character and Conduct of Cicero, Considered from the
History of his Life by the Reverend Dr. Middleton. With Occasional
Essays and Observations upon the most memorable Facts
and Persons during that Period. London, 1747.
The Lady’s Lecture, a Theatrical Dialogue, between Sir Charles
Easy and his Marriageable Daughter. Being an Attempt to
Engage Obedience by Filial Liberty: and to Give the Maiden
Conduct of Virtue, Chearfulness. By C. Cibber, Esq: Servant
to his Majesty. London, 1748.
Non-Dramatic Poetry.
Gentleman’s Magazine. London, 1731—
London Magazine. London, 1732—
A Rhapsody on the Marvellous: Arising from the First Odes
of Horace and Pindar. Being a Scrutiny into Ancient Poetical
Fame, demanded by Modern Common Sense. By Colley Cibber,
Esq. P. L.
Fame then was cheap, and the first comer sped:
Which they have since preserved by being dead. Dryden.
. . . . . . . liberius si
Dixero quid, si forte jocosius, hoc mihi juris
Cum venia dabis. Hor. Sat. 4. L 1. London, 1751.
Dramatic Works.
(Arranged in the order of stage presentation. The dates are those of publication.)
Collected editions of his Plays appeared in 1721, in two volumes;
in 1636, in five volumes; in 1760, in four volumes; in 1777, in five
volumes. The last named is the edition I have used.
Love’s Last Shift; or, The Fool in Fashion. 1696.
Woman’s Wit; or, The Lady in Fashion. 1697.
Xerxes. 1699.
The Tragical History of Richard III, altered from Shakespear.
1700.
Love Makes a Man; or, The Fop’s Fortune. 1701.
She Would and She Would Not; or, The Kind Impostor. 1703.
The Careless Husband. 1705.
Perolla and Izadora. 1706.
The Comical Lovers. 1707.
The School Boy; or, The Comical Rival. 1707.
The Double Gallant; or, The Sick Lady’s Cure. 1707.
The Lady’s Last Stake; or, The Wife’s Resentment. 1708.
The Rival Fools. 1709.
The Rival Queans, with the Humours of Alexander the Great,
a Comical-tragedy. Dublin, 1729.
Ximena; or, The Heroick Daughter. 1718.
Cinna’s Conspiracy. 1713.
Venus and Adonis. A Masque. 1715.
Myrtillo, a Pastoral Interlude. 1716.
The Non-Juror. 1718.
The Refusal; or, The Ladies Philosophy. 1721.
Caesar in Aegypt. 1725.
The Provok’d Husband; or, A Journey to London. 1728.
Love in a Riddle. A Pastoral. 1729 [misprinted 1719].
Damon and Phillida; a Ballad Opera. 1729.
Papal Tyranny in the Reign of King John. 1745.
2. General Bibliography.
Actor, The, or, A Treatise on the Art of Playing. London, 1750.
Age of Dullness, The, a Satire. By a Natural Son of Mr.
Pope. London, 1757.
Baker, D. E., I. Reed and S. Jones. Biographica Dramatica.
London, 1812.
Beaumont and Fletcher. Works. London, 1843.
Besser, R. Colley Cibbers The Double Gallant und seine
Quellen. Halle, 1903.
Betterton, T. The History of the English Stage, from the
Restoration to the Present Time. London, 1741.
Betterton, Thomas, Life and Times of. Reprint, London, 1888.
Blast upon Bays, A; or, A New Lick at the Laureat. London,
1742.
Booth, Barton, Life of. London, 1733.
Boyle, Roger, Earl of Orrery. Parthenissa. London, 1676.
British Theatre, The. London. 1750.
Brown, Hawkins. A Pipe of Tobacco. London, 1744.
Burnaby, C. The Reformed Wife. London, 1700.
Burnaby, C. The Ladies Visiting Day. London, 1701.
Canfield, Dorothea Frances. Corneille and Racine in England.
New York, 1904.
Carlile, J. The Fortune Hunters; or, Two Fools Well Met.
London, 1689.
Case of the Present Theatrical Dispute Fairly Stated, The.
London, 1743.
Centlivre, Susanna. Dramatic Works. Reprint, London, 1872.
Charke, Charlotte. A Narrative of the Life of Mrs. Charlotte
Charke. Written by Herself. London, 1755; reprint, London,
1827.
Chetwood, W. R. General History of the Stage. London, 1749.
Cibber, Theophilus, editor. Lives of the Poets of Great Britain
and Ireland. London, 1753.
Cibber, Theophilus. Two Dissertations on the Theatres.
London, 1756.
Corneille, Pierre. Oeuvres. Paris, 1862.
Crowne, John. Dramatic Works, in Dramatists of the Restoration,
ed. by Maidment and Logan. Edinburgh, 1873.
Davies, T. Dramatic Miscellanies. London, 1784.
Davies, T. Memoirs of the Life of David Garrick, Esq.
Third ed., London, 1781.
Difference between Verbal and Practical Virtue, The. London,
1742.
Dogget, T. The Country Wake. London, 1696.
Dohse, R. Colley Cibbers Bühnenbearbeitung von Shakespeares
Richard III. Bonn, 1897.
Doran, J. Their Majesties’ Servants. London, 1888.
Downes, J. Roscius Anglicanus. London, 1708; reprint,
London, 1886.
Dryden, John. Works. London, 1889.
Egerton, T. and J. The Theatrical Remembrancer. London,
1788.
Fielding, Henry. Historical Register for 1736. Works, London,
1852.
Fielding, Henry (?). An Apology for the Life of Mr. T.... C....
London, 1740.
Genest, J. Some Account of the English Stage from the Restoration
in 1660 to 1830. Bath, 1832.
Granger, J. Biographical History of England. London, 1779–1806.
Hermann, A. Colley Cibbers Tragicomedy Ximena und ihr
Verhältniss zu Corneilles Cid. Kiel, 1908.
Hutton, Laurence. Literary Landmarks of London. Boston,
1885.
Jacob, G. The Poetical Register. London, 1719–1723.
Johnson, T. Tryal of Colley Cibber for Writing a Book Intitled
An Apology for his Life. London, 1740.
Kilbourne, F. W. Alterations and Adaptations of Shakespeare.
Boston, 1906.
Köppe, K. Das Verhältniss von Cibbers Papal Tyranny zu
Shakespeares King John. Halle, 1902.
Krüger, W. Das Verhältniss von Colley Cibbers Lustspiel
The Comical Lovers zu J. Drydens Marriage à la Mode und
Secret Love. Halle, 1902.
Laureat, The; or, The Right Side of Colley Cibber, Esq. To
Which is Added, The History of the Life, Manners and Writings
of Aesopus the Tragedian. London, 1740.
Learned, J. The Counterfeits. London, 1679.
Lee, W. L. M. History of Police in England. London, 1901.
Letter to Mr. C....b....r, A, on his Letter to Mr. P........ London,
1742.
Lounsbury, Thomas R. Shakespeare as a Dramatic Artist.
New York, 1901.
Lowe, R. W. A Bibliographical Account of English Theatrical
Literature. London, 1888.
Macaulay, T. B. History of England. Boston, 1900.
Man of Taste, The. London, 1733.
Marks, Jeannette. The English Pastoral Drama. London, 1908.
Medbourne, M. Tartuffe. London, 1670.
Michels, E. Quellenstudien zu Colley Cibbers Lustspiel The
Careless Husband. Marburg, 1908.
Miles, D. H. The Influence of Molière on Restoration Comedy.
New York, 1910.
Molière. Oeuvres. Paris, 1873–1900.
Molière. Dramatic Works, translated by H. Van Laun.
Edinburgh, 1878.
Molloy, J. F. Famous Plays. London, 1886.
Mountfort, W. Greenwich Park, a Comedy. London, n. d.
[1691].
New Theatrical Dictionary. London, 1742.
Nichols, J. Illustrations of the Literary History of the Eighteenth
Century. London, 1817.
Nichols, J. Literary Anecdotes of the Eighteenth Century.
London, 1815.
Ost, G. Das Verhältniss von Cibbers Lustspiel Love Makes a
Man zu Fletchers Dramen, The Elder Brother und The Custom
of the Country.
Pepys, Samuel. Diary. London, 1897.
Philips, Katherine. Poems. London, 1669.
Pilkington, L. Memoirs. London, 1748.
Quin, Mr. James, Comedian, Life of. London, 1766; reprint,
1887.
Rowe, N. Pharsalia. London, 1718.
Sanger, W. W. History of Prostitution. New York, 1899.
Schneider, W. Das Verhältniss von Colley Cibbers Lustspiel
The Non-Juror zu Malias Tartuffe. Halle, 1903.
Shakspere, William. Richard III, Variorum edition, ed. by
H. H. Furness, Jr. Philadelphia, 1908.
Steele, Richard, and John Dennis. The Theatre, by Sir Richard
Steele; to which are added, the Anti-Theatre; the Character of
Sir John Edgar; Steele’s Case with the Lord Chamberlain.
Illustrated with Literary and Historical Anecdotes by John
Nichols. London, 1791.
Stone, E. Chronicles of Fashion. London, 1845.
Stoye, M. Das Verhältniss von Cibbers Tragödie Caesar in
Egypt zu Fletchers The False One. Halle, 1897.
Strickland, Agnes. Queens of England. New York, 1851.
Temple of Dullness, The, with the Humours of Signor Capochio
and Signora Dorinna; A Comic Opera in Two Acts. London,
1745.
Theatrical Correspondence in Death. An Epistle from Mrs.
Oldfield, in the Shades, to Mrs. Br.ceg....dle, upon Earth. London,
1743.
Theobald, L. The Happy Captive, an English Opera, with
an Interlude, in Two Comick Scenes, betwixt Signor Capochio,
a Director from the Canary Islands; and Signora Dorinna.
London, 1741.
Thorndike, Ashley H. Tragedy. Boston, 1908.
To diabebouloumenon; or, The Proceedings at the Theatre
Royal in Drury Lane. London, 1722.
Tönse, L. Cibbers Comedy The Refusal in ihrem Verhältniss
zu Molières les Femmes savantes. Kiel, 1900.
Traill, H. D. Social England. New York, 1902.
Vanbrugh, John. Works, ed. by W. C. Ward. London, 1893.
Victor, B. History of the Theatres of London and Dublin
from 1730 to the Present Time. London, 1761.
Waterhouse, O. The Development of Sentimental Comedy
in the Eighteenth Century, Anglia, XXX.
Whincop, T. Scanderbeg; or, Love and Liberty. London,
1747.
Wilkes, T. A General View of the Stage. London, 1759.
Wilks, Robert, Esq., The Life of that Eminent Comedian.
London, 1733.
Woman of Taste. London, 1733
Wood, A. I. P. Stage History of Shakespeare’s Richard III.
New York, 1909.
In the second part of this essay material from two papers published
in the Journal of Philosophy, Psychology and Scientific
Methods has been laid under contribution, and also from my
doctor’s thesis. Much of this material was written in 1909, since
which time a number of views which some of mine resemble more
or less have been published. It has not seemed to me necessary
always to note these agreements of thought arrived at independently
by myself and others.
I have reported a part of the brilliant critique of Bergson’s doctrine
of freedom by Monsieur Gustave Belot. This expresses with
elegance and force much of my own reaction to the doctrine.
Indebtedness to Belot and other authors is acknowledged
throughout the essay. Except possibly Professor Bergson himself,
there is no one who has influenced my thinking so much as Professor
Ralph Barton Perry, my teacher who introduced me to
Bergson’s philosophy. Professor Perry’s writings are full of
finished renderings of less articulate convictions of my own; and,
though I have often referred to and quoted from his work explicitly,
his instruction and stimulus have had so much to do with the
history of my thinking that I could never say just what I owe him,
but only that I owe him much.
Professor Bergson has permitted me to translate from a private
letter some comments of his on certain of my criticisms.
Professor Edmund H. Hollands has given the first two parts a
careful reading, in the manuscript, and his able criticisms and
suggestions, mainly concerning the matter itself, have been of
great benefit.
I am no less obliged, for help in improving the literary form,
to Professor S. L. Whitcomb, whose critical ability has been
patiently applied to a careful revision, page by page, of the whole
manuscript.
I have tried, in the third part, to justify explicitly the great and
unique value which I attach to Professor Bergson’s work, antagonistic
though my own convictions are to his results. And, besides
this aim, it has seemed to me interesting and instructive, in view
of the very considerable literature which has grown up about
Bergson’s philosophy, to bring together in a comparative view the
judgments of a number of his exponents.
For literature by and about Bergson, the reader is referred to
the exhaustive bibliography prepared last year by the Columbia
University Press under the direction of Miss Isadore G. Mudge, the
Reference Librarian. “The bibliography includes 90 books and
articles by Professor Bergson (including translations of his works)
and 417 books and articles about him. These 417 items represent
11 different languages divided as follows:—French 170, English
159, German 40, Italian 19, Polish 5, Dutch 3, Spanish 3, Roumanian
2, Swedish 2, Hungarian 1.” This work is invaluable to
the student of Bergson. It is incomparably the fullest Bergson
bibliography extant.
Arthur Mitchell.
University of Kansas,
January, 1914.
PART ONE — Chapter I
BERGSON’S PHILOSOPHIC METHOD
79
THE RELATION OF PHILOSOPHIC METHOD TO THE DEFINITION OF
PHILOSOPHY
One of the problems of philosophy is the nature of philosophy
itself. In recognizing such a problem at all, I suppose, the beginning
of its solution has been made. For the very question, what
is this or that? is conditioned on an incipient definition of the subject
of it, a discriminating acknowledgement of it as something in
particular, and, so, as something already more or less qualified or
defined. Certainly there would be no common problem and no
difference of theory without such initial agreement as a point of
reference in disagreeing.
But the explicit statement of this starting point of agreement
encounters a practical dilemma. On the one hand, anything can
be defined in terms so general that the thing is bound to be included:
make the genus large enough and it includes anything.
The limit, in this direction, would be to define the object as a case
of being; which would be safe, but hardly a start toward determining
anything about it. On the other hand, the least advance
toward narrowing the meaning incurs a very rigorous obligation
to produce a principle of selection which shall be a satisfactory
logical warrant for narrowing it in just the way selected, since this
way excludes others whose claims may be in question. The
situation is thus beset with the pitfall of logical presumption.
There are three quite distinct conceptions of philosophy, in the
form of ill criticized assumption, each of which is taken by its
adherents to be unquestionable—as safe as the concept “being.”
I will word them thus: (1) An absolute evaluation of reality; (2)
A revelation of reality in its essential nature; (3) A comprehension
of the meaning of reality.
The first of these conceptions is that of Kant and Fichte and
those philosophers to whom reality seems unrelated to apprehending
consciousness, related only to will. Reality is neither
directly nor indirectly perceivable. Knowledge of it is possible—if
the term is proper at all—only in the broadest sense of “knowledge,”
the sense equivalent to “consciousness,” within which
will is sharply distinguished from two more or less receptive or
cognitive modes, thinking and feeling. Knowledge of reality is
thus, for this type of philosopher, a practical, personal evaluation
of it, only; a moral disposition or attitude.
The second conception is Professor Bergson’s; its meaning is a
peculiarly intimate acquaintance with reality. It is a relationship
between reality and consciousness in the æsthetic mode, consciousness
as the quality-knowing faculty, very explicitly distinguished
by Bergson, under the name “intuition,” from the
relation-knowing or intellectual faculty.
The third conception, the analytic or intellectualistic, means
knowledge about reality, such knowledge as may be relatively
independent of acquaintance. The second and third conceptions
are distinct from each other only in emphasis, and may be indefinitely
approximated toward each other, to the limit of mutual
identity. But, historically, the philosopher’s besetting sin of
hypostasis has pushed the emphasis, in each of these two conceptions,
to so vicious an extreme that they contrast with each
other sharply. Pushed to such extreme, the third conception has
been stigmatized by adherents of the second as “vicious” conceptualism
or intellectualism. By the same right, the intellectualist
may denounce intuitionism as equally “vicious.”
To these three conceptions of philosophy this is common: a
relationship between reality and consciousness which is apogeal.
Philosophy is at any rate a supreme experience, a mode of consciousness
which is eminent over other modes. But this initial
generalization is too indeterminate to constitute a satisfactory
theory of the nature of philosophy; whereas (for the other horn of
the dilemma), the above attempts at greater specificity appear to
invoke no logical principle, but rather to follow a deep-lying
personal instinct, without due critical reflection on it; in other
words, without logical justification of it. They all beg the
question.
Such ill criticized assumption concerning the nature of philosophy
is what determines a philosopher’s “method” in distinction
from his “doctrine.” The names voluntarism, intuitionism and
rationalism have been applied to philosophies whose method is one
or other of the three outlined above. Religion, art and science
are their models, respectively. Under voluntarism fall the romantic
and the pietistic philosophies, wherein value is all that is
real, and personal attitude towards value is the only mode of
consciousness that illuminates reality. Intuitionism includes radical
empiricism, temporalism and mysticism. Such philosophies are
based on the conviction that only quality is real, only intuition is
knowledge. And under rationalism are positivism and absolutism,
in which reality is order and knowledge is reason.
If art, science and religion correspond to the ancient triad feeling
(intuition), thought (intellect) and will, it would seem either that
philosophy must be consciousness employed in one or more of
these modes, or else that a fourth mode of consciousness, coordinate
with these, must correspond to philosophy. Such a mode
has not been discovered. Philosophy must therefore be one
or two or all three of the above things. Can analysis of that
generalization which was derived above from the more specific
definitions produce a logical principle capable of determining the
genuine philosophic method among the three modes of consciousness,
feeling, thought and will? Yes, such analysis of the
supremacy which is a feature common to all three conceptions
of philosophy proves unequivocally that philosophy must be
a function of intellect, and cannot be a function either of will or
of intuition.
This would not be the case, needless to say, if “supremacy”
were here a eulogism. Eulogistically, either of the three modes
of consciousness has equal claim to supremacy. That mode of
consciousness to which reality is most interesting is supreme, in
the eulogistic sense, and this depends on the philosopher’s personal
constitution. To the man of dominating intuition, the relations
and teleology of things may be incidental characters of them; but,
by comparison with reality’s qualitative aspect, those other aspects
are relatively extrinisic and accidental. In whatever sense
it may not be true, in the eulogistic sense it is true that such a
man’s supreme experience is intuitional rather than intellectual
or ethical. Bergson’s psychological life seems to be of such a
type. But, for the man of ethical, and for the man of intellectual
prepossession, supreme experience cannot be intuitional, in this
sense of supreme. Yet, if an intuitional bent be regarded by anyone
as a hopeful qualification for effective philosophizing, no intuitionist
denies to the man in whom reason or will, instead, is
paramount, the possibility, by proper effort, of achieving the
genuinely philosophic—that is to say, intuitional—activity. And
when such a man does, in spite of difficulty, achieve it, it has the
same supremacy, as philosophy, that it has for the intuitionist,
for whom it is, more fortunately, also supremely congenial and
“worth while”. It is not this latter supremacy, therefore, but
the other, which distinguishes philosophy, on the intuitionist
conception; and that other supremacy has a meaning which is
thus proved to be independent of relation to any constitutional
prepossession or aptness. If philosophy is intuitional, this is not
because intuition is any man’s most characteristic faculty.
And so of the two other modes of consciousness, reason and will,
in which, in different beings, according to their constitution,
life most naturally and best finds realization: for each of these
modes of consciousness, as for the intuitional mode, there is one
sort of experience, called philosophy, which is distinguished by
a certain supremacy of self-same nature, independent of any distinction
of personal constitution among philosophers. The voluntarist,
indeed, might claim a peculiarly eulogistic supremacy
for volitional experience over any other kind; for it is ethically
supreme for all, whatever one’s constitutional bent. But its
ethical supremacy is no more the philosophic quale of volitional experience,
on the voluntaristic conception of philosophy, than is
its other eulogistic supremacy, its mere congeniality, for the
strongly volitional type of character. For, men of such character
may be conspicuously deficient in philosophic faculty in the judgment
of all, including the voluntarist philosopher.
Reason, finally, commands recognition of supremacy, among the
modes of consciousness, in another sense, a sense distinct from the
imperative or ethical supremacy of will. The supremacy of reason
is its exclusive reflectiveness; and reflectiveness as the quale of
reason is the same character as criticalness; that is, it is the faculty
of judgment. It is important to note that this critical reflectiveness
is a differentia of reason; it is not a character of intuition nor
of will. The proof is that reflection is the substitution of a relational
for a substantive object of consciousness, and relationality
is nothing else than rationality. Thus, if feeling, will and rational
thought are conceptually distinct, reflectiveness is foreign to the
first two, and to anything coördinately distinct from rational
thought. When consciousness is employed with an emphasis on
the qualities of its object, in distinction from aspects of value and
relation (which also belong to any object), consciousness is intuitive,
in the intuitionist sense of the term. In entering a consciousness,
the qualities become, ipso facto, content of that
consciousness, taking their place in this setting under the name
“sensations,” or “sense data.” It is the act of reflection which
“sets” the mind’s data in contexts; which is aware of contexts,
that is, and of the setting of data in them. It is the reflective act
which names its data accordingly, as “quality” or “sensation”,
and is conscious of them as elements of their relational setting.
Consciousness is volitional when its focus is a value. In the context
of the subject’s consciousness, the value becomes a purpose.
Thus value as substantive object of consciousness, again, is object
of will just as the substantive quality was object of intuition;
while value as element in the relational complex in which it is
known as “purpose,” is object of reflection. Reason, then,—that
is to say, mind active in the relation-knowing way—is the
mode of consciousness in virtue of which mind is reflective, critical,
judgment-forming; and it is a confusion among definitions
of intuition, will and reason, to attribute reflectiveness to
intuition or to will, as such. The peculiar supremacy of reason
which inheres in reason’s reflectiveness is due to the inclusion of
consciousness itself in the content of relational consciousness and
of no other mode of consciousness.
Intuitionists and voluntarists, the same as intellectualists, do,
as a fact, always characterize that supremacy which distinguishes
philosophy, in no other way than the critical way. There is no
dissent, in intuitionist or voluntarist schools of philosophic method,
from this residual core of meaning in the conception of philosophy:
by universal consent philosophy is consciousness (in whatever
mode) sitting in judgment on its own findings; philosophy is
critical reflection. And therein is an ultimateness and absoluteness—in
a word, a supremacy—which belongs to philosophy, on
any view of philosophy, and to no other type of mental activity.
But in rationalism, or intellectualism, alone, it is recognized that
reflection, as such, is essentially and distinctively rational.
It is, then, the contention of this essay that the supremacy
peculiar to philosophy—which, by common consent of voluntarism
and intuitionism, is no eulogistic nor even ethical supremacy,
but critical—decides absolutely, among the three modes of consciousness,
against will and intuition in favor of intellect, as the
organ of philosophy, of intellectualism as the sole genuinely
philosophic method. Kant called his voluntarism the “Critical
Philosophy,” to distinguish it, as genuine philosophy, from what
would be but failed (because it was not critical) to be philosophy.
Critical his philosophy is; but because it is critical, it contradicts
its own voluntarism—the assertion that reality is knowable only
in obedience of will, and not in judgment. A contradiction; for
this (the gist of his voluntarism) is a judgment whose subject is
reality. The inevitable fundamental intellectuality of noumenal
knowledge is concealed, for Kant, under the phrase “postulate
of will.” A postulate, so far as it is genuine knowledge, has
indeed the character of necessity, but its necessity is simply
the fact of logical implication.
With the intuitionist variety, and particularly the Bergsonian
variety of anti-intellectualism, this essay is largely to be concerned.
At this point I merely note the inevitable contradiction
in Bergson’s intuitionism, as in Kant’s voluntarism. Intuition,
Bergson explains, is “instinct that has become disinterested, self-conscious,
capable of reflecting upon its object and of enlarging it
indefinitely.”92 Now, consciousness reflecting upon its own data is
criticism, predication, classification, judgment—whatever it is,
it is the objectifying of the data of consciousness, a thing which
it is essential to instinct or intuition, on Bergson’s own conception
of them, never to do, and which, precisely, on his conception, is
the distinguishing function of intellect. “Instinct is sympathy,”
says Bergson, in the same passage; and the sense in which instinct
is sympathy is lucidly and emphatically explained as just
this, that there is no distinction of subject and object, in instinct;
they are identical. Whereas, intelligence or intellect is explicitly
distinguished by him from instinct primarily in the disjunction
of subject and object. It is merely to turn his back on his own
use of these terms to describe philosophy as instinct extending
its object and reflecting upon itself.
* * * * *
That the case of philosophical anti-intellectualism is a hopeless
paradox, whether in voluntarism or in intuitionism, each of these
methods itself best proves by its own inevitable intellectualism.
The terms voluntarism, intuitionism, and rationalism express no
real distinction of psychological mode, in philosophizing, since
the psychology of every philosophy is necessarily characterized
by that critical reflectiveness which constitutes philosophy a
function of intellect. Philosophy is always interpretation, a
function alien to what anybody ever meant either by will or by
intuition; a function whose essential distinctness from both those
functions is attested universally in such synonyms of “interpretation”
as judgment, conception, understanding, reason.
There are, it is true, voluntaristic and intuitionistic, philosophies
of the highest importance. And the intention of their
authors is to distinguish their method from the rationalistic
method. Are they foredoomed to futility on this account? So
far as this intention is realized—yes, unquestionably. No philosophy
that were itself a function either of will or of intuition is
conceivable, since it would then lack the essence of philosophy,
which is critical primacy. That philosophies designated by these
methodological terms may be invaluable products, it is necessary
only that these terms apply in fact not to the psychological method
of the philosophy but to its psychological starting-point. They
express a constitutional bias in the philosopher, who, after all,
is human. To some the qualities of things; to others, value;
and, finally, to other some, the order of reality is the “essence” of
reality. Such essentialness is eulogism, of course. For it is an
irreducible psychological fact that there are religious, æsthetic
and scientific types of mind. Each to his bias; each to his taste.
The apogee of living is religion to the first, art to the second,
science to the third. Hence the illusion that philosophy, which
must needs be experience supremely critical, is experience eulogistically
supreme. Is not this illusion chargeable to failure to
see in these three modes of consciousness three emphases or
biases of living? To the æsthete, certainly, quality must be
realest essence. But it cannot be so to the zealot; for, to him,
that is value: nor to the intellectualist; to him it is order.
If æsthete and zealot will philosophize, they are at this disadvantage
with the wise man, that their philosophy can do no
more, in expressing the nature of this “realest essence” of reality,
than the wise man’s rationalism may do—discourse about it,
interpret it. Philosophy indeed never can, and never should
aspire to enter into the inner nature of reality in any such sense as
the immediatism of Bergson and James summons it to do. There
is art and there is religion for that. It is not clear how the qualitative
or how the teleological aspect of reality is more internal to
it than its relational aspect; but, at any rate, philosophy has its own
interest, and that is distinct from those of art and religion.
Wherefore the own proper interest of art or of religion is not
served in their philosophy; in their philosophy they deny themselves.
The efforts of such philosophies to wrest from reality, in
a non-intellectual way, its secret, must be rather superhuman.
This characterization is hardly a burlesque of Bergson’s own
observations on his method, for it is little less than the repudiation
of our natural constitution, to which he exhorts us.93 But, as
with Kant, so with Bergson, prodigies of subtlety fail to produce
a revelation of truth that is so subtle as to be inarticulate because
immediate, or that does not lend itself to discussion and interpretation.
Or, if this is not to be looked for in a philosophy which is
‘a method rather than a doctrine,’ neither is there any suggestion
how such revelation may be socialized, rendered human; or
even, in fact, how it can assume meaning, meaning to the philosopher
himself (which is surely indispensable to truth), without becoming
predication—assertion and denial;—that is to say, without
becoming judgment. If humans make superhuman effort, it
should not be surprising if the result is self-contradiction.
Chapter II
BERGSON’S CRITIQUE OF PURE REASON
What, then, is called philosophic “method” and is distinguished
thereby from “doctrine,” is really, in fact, always the cardinal
principle of the content of the philosophy in question, its fundamental
doctrine. If this doctrine is acceptable to reason, if it is
reasonable, logical principles must determine it. No anti-intellectualist
philosophy legitimately evades the rules of the game
of dialectic by the representation that it is a ‘method rather than
a doctrine.’ For this is the game that anyone plays who undertakes
to show, by reasonable discourse, why reality and knowledge
conform to a certain definition, or (the same mental procedure)
why they do not conform to other definitions. Since dialectic
is just significant discourse with a meaning to be judged, it may
vary in form between any degree of syllogistic baldness, at one
extreme, and of suggestive subtlety at the other. It is dialectic
if it is constituted of statements, explicit or implied, which relate to
each other.
There is, therefore, I say, a misleading irrelevance in the characterization
which Bergson himself has set the fashion of attributing
to his philosophy, the characterization of it as rather a method
than a system of doctrine. A method implies a system, that is
to say an ordered conviction about the nature of reality and
knowledge. Such a system is essential to any meaning in Bergson’s
method.
* * * * *
Intellectualism in philosophy implies the conviction that the
parts of reality are connected together in thinkable ways; that a
comprehensive understanding of things as a connected system or
unity is therefore theoretically possible; if actually impossible,
this is merely because of the endlessness of relationships and the
limitedness of any actual thinker’s time and strength. But in
fact even human finitude is no obstacle to a comprehension of
the principles of reality. Detail is immaterial to the unity of
such a view.
One of the sayings attributed to Professor James is that there
is one thing you can always pronounce with assurance, upon
any philosophical system, in advance of hearing a word of it,
and that is that it is false. This suggests at any rate, very
well, the meaning of philosophical anti-intellectualism, which implies
the conviction contradictory to intellectualism, to wit that
the parts of reality are not connected in thinkable ways.
The connectedness of the intellectualist’s universe may have
any degree of significance or casualness. A mere “and” may
express much of it.94 Intellectualism may be as pluralistic in this
sense as you like, or as monistic. But if things are a universe in
any such sense that they are comprehensible in intellect’s discursive
way, which anti-intellectualism denies—on such a hypothesis
anti-intellectualism and intellectualism have commonly
agreed that some principle is embodied in this total comprehensibleness,
a supreme induction, which would constitute the final
interpretation of any fact. Like a master-key, it would open
all the chambers of the many-mansioned universe. Every philosopher,
as a fact, has some controlling thought which has the
value, for him, of such a supreme principle. But always, it seems,
there are doors which the master-key will not unlock. It is the
conviction of intellectualism that this is because the maker of
the key has missed them, and so left them out of account in
fashioning it; while anti-intellectualism believes it is an illusion
to see the situation as a case of locks to be turned by a key,
at all. Entrance into possession of reality is otherwise conditioned,
altogether; the procedure, in consequence, is radically
different from this. But it is, I think, a true historical generalization
that the success with which a philosopher, of whatever
method, avoids a supreme principle of interpretation, corresponds
exactly with the success with which he avoids being a philosopher
at all. I suppose Omar Khayyam and Aristippus the Cyrenaic
are two of the least unifying philosophers of history; yet their
philosophy, like that of any absolutist, can be resumed in a single
idea. Omar has uttered it in one of his own famous sentences:
“Oh take the cash, and let the credit go!”
Aside from the presence, in each, of a generative principle,
there is little enough in common between the anti-intellectualism
of Omar and that of Henri Bergson. If critics have been able
to find seeds of skepticism and of pessimism in Bergson,95 these
characters are at any rate foreign to any intention visible in its
author. No more positive philosophy, in its intention, was ever
composed. The positiveness of its name, intuitionism, is altogether
proper. Its significance, to be sure, is sharply defined by
its negative relation to intellectualism, and therefore I stated it
negatively above as the thesis that the parts of reality are not
connected in a thinkable way. But the intuitionist would readily
admit: if not in a thinkable way, then in no way, evidently.
And, again, if not connected at all, no more are the parts of
reality disconnected, since any disconnection between things is
only their particular mode of connection. The fact is, reality
has no parts, and that is just why intellect, which sees parts in
everything, is alien and blind to the true nature of reality. Still
one may object that intellect is itself a fact. What possible
meaning can there be in saying that any fact is alien to reality?
As Bergson himself has said, we swim in reality, and cannot
possibly get clear of it. We cannot talk, we cannot think, we
cannot act about nothing.
The answer to this objection is the master principle of Bergson’s
metaphysics: reality is life. Knowledge is “sympathetic” living.
If intellect is real, so is every abstraction, e. g., the inside of your
hat. The inside and the hat itself are at any rate real in senses
so importantly different that “real” and “unreal” hardly exaggerate
the contrast. Intellect, says Bergson, is the cross-sectioning
of reality. There is no thickness, no concreteness in
it. It exists as much in inert matter as in consciousness; in fact,
it exists in neither except in the sense in which a surface can be
said to exist in a solid body. What is the surface in itself? Why,
nothing; it is an abstract aspect of the body. The body is real,
but its aspects are not real, because they do not constitute the
body—no multiplication or addition of them does so. No millions
of surfaces make any thickness. In this sense the surface is other
than and alien to the real nature of the body. And so other manifestations
of intellect—space, juxtaposition, extension, number,
part out of part—have no existence, as the surface has none.
As facts, nevertheless, what are they? How are they facts?
What is their raison d’ être? Their raison d’ être is a faculty life
has, the faculty of action. They are the ways in which life acts.
They are not concrete entities. In this, they are alien to the
concreteness of reality. Try to reconstruct reality out of such
abstractions, and the result is a construction like that of
geometrical imagination. You have constructed an abstract
symbol of the reality, which symbol the mind, preoccupied with
its practical bias, can mistake for the reality only because it is
so preoccupied.
When we physically take apart and put together, our manual
activity has the same unreality of abstractness as that of our
intellectual analyses and syntheses. It is the latter outwardly
expressed, intellect externalized. Wherever we find life, we are
experiencing reality. But when this occurs, we are never analyzing
nor synthesizing. The more one divests himself of practical
bias, and regards his object not as an object for the realization of
any possible activity of his own, but as it is in itself—in proportion,
that is, as one gets its character as a case of life—those unreal,
spatial aspects of it yield to an aspect which has nothing in common
with them. The parts of an anatomical model, a papier maché
manikin, you may separate and put together again. An organism,
as such, a manifestation of life, could not be dissected and
recomposed in its living reality. What is it that makes an organism
alive, a true reality? This, that every so-called part
has a function which is so essential to the true function of the
whole that one is present or absent with the other. They coincide.
How, then, could you possibly dissect out a part of an organism?
Once recognize, what is unquestionable, that any function of it
coincides in this way with the function of the whole, and your
analyzing operation is prevented absolutely. Obey the rule that
everything which contributes at all to the function of the part
shall be taken, and everything else left, and you are in Shylock’s
position after Portia’s judgment: if you want the flesh you will
have to take blood with it; but you are not entitled to the blood.
It is even more hopeless than that. It is not a matter of skill
with your hand. You cannot make the analysis mentally, intellectually.
It is not a matter of impairing or destroying the
function, of injuring or killing the organism. You cannot begin
the operation, not even on the corpse. The first incision separates
cells whose functions were inseparably one, for there is no cell
in the body that is not in organic union with every other cell.
If there is nothing of the nature of mosaic composition in the
living structure, this fact is one with the fact that there is nothing
mechanical in its functioning. It is not actuated from without,
as every machine is actuated which is not alive; nor is its functioning,
like that of such machines, an assemblage of functions predetermined
so far as the machine itself is concerned—predetermined,
that is to say, except for intervention from without;
unalterable, as unstartable, without external cause. The character
of living function is suggested by the word “focalization.” There
is a perfectly indivisible concert of function throughout the organism,
in every one of its infinite varieties of activity. When
the engineer reverses his engine, or otherwise alters its mode of
operation, what he really does is to alter the structure of the
machinery. The machinery has been specially constructed with
a view to unmaking and remaking its nature more or less quickly
and conveniently; that is, its parts can be displaced and replaced
with reference to each other. Some parts are “thrown out of
gear” and shifted back. And then everything returns to its former
state. Not so in life. The functioning of an organism never
remains quite the same in two consecutive instants. There is
an incessantly moving emphasis or focus in it. Now one of its
potentialities of function is primary or focal, now another. But
none can ever cease and then be resumed. In this case, to cease
is not to be thrown out of gear, but to die, to perish, to be
annihilated. In every phase of the life activity of the organism,
all its functions are operative, subsidiary and subservient in
varying degrees to that one which for the moment is the focus
of all. Thus the organic or vital focus, in its physiological aspect
of activity and in its psychological aspect of attention, is never
at rest. The modulation is not like the sudden transformations
in a kaleidoscope. The evolutions do not take place in the manner
suggested by the phrase “Presto, change!” Modulation is the
word that describes the process. Or, as Bergson phrases it,
the change is continuous, incessant, an interpenetrating flow of
processes, in which analysis can make no beginning and no separation;
in which analysis, in fact, is absolutely impotent. If
the eye is that which sees, the ear that which hears, and so on,
it is really the organism entire, and no special, locally differentiated
part of it that is the organ. Those so-called parts which,
with our false intellectualism, we name the eye or other organ,
are, in their reality, focal aspects of the entire organism, the
organism seen with a certain restriction or limitation of interest.
But, now, how can one make any discourse about, say, an
animal organism—indeed, how can this become an object of
perception at all—without its lending itself to that sort of division
into real parts which Bergson says is an intellectual falsification
of its true nature, and therefore not true knowledge of the thing?
When I look at a living body, do I not see it occupying space?
Is it not, then, measurable? Is not one such body larger than
another? Suppose cutting out parts of a body does alter or kill
the organism: they can, neverless, be cut out, and are therefore
parts? If, after, and because of, being cut out, they are then not
parts of the organism from which they were cut, still, they are
constituents of its volume. Surely, our ordinary speech about
this part and that part of our bodies, is not all false?
Bergson’s answer is uncompromising: our ordinary perception
and speech does falsify the nature of reality, but (in spite of the
apparent paradox) does not mislead. For our ordinary perception
and speech have nothing to do with knowing. Perception is
a different function of life—it is action. Our percepts are the
ways in which reality can factor in our activities. Those dissected
organs, you say, are at least so much of the entire volume
of the organism: but the words are no sooner spoken than their
falseness shows itself. If the organism ever had volume, it certainly
has not, now—neither volume nor anything else. The
fact is, the only meaning there is in its ever possessing volume
while it still exists, is just that you might enter into activity with
it in such and such ways—as that, for instance, of hacking it up.
Perception, our “virtual” or potential activity on reality, is an
abstract aspect of it; what it is in itself is another matter, and
the only knowledge of this is that sympathetic union with it in
which space and parts disappear in an “interpenetrating flow”
not of things nor of parts, but of process, of ceaseless change.
Now, quality is just the fact of change, as anyone may test for
himself by introspection. Reality as it is in itself, therefore,
the true nature of reality, is quality. Relations are external
views or aspects, no multiplication of which makes any start at
constituting a concrete reality.
There is one more reflection on Bergson’s account of intellect,
which, like those made above, he anticipates and tries to meet,
so far as it seems an objection to denying cognitive validity to
intellect. The attempt at this point, however, is not very convincing.
The point I mean is this: The ways in which reality
can factor in my activities are by that warrant true characters of
reality. One may cheerfully add: even as the inside of my hat
is, after all, a true character of my hat. For, if reality were
different, it could not factor so in my activity—in other words,
which would also be the words of plain common sense, I should
perceive it differently, on Bergson’s own conception of what it
means to perceive. The situation is this: Reality does, indeed,
possess those interesting aspects of changing process and undividedness
which Bergson is so preoccupied with and which he has
brought to light with exquisite skill. This is one of two equally
important truths about reality. The other Bergson is simply
blind to, and that is that reality also possesses an aspect of permanence
and divisibility. Does this seem a contradiction? It
is no more a contradiction than that a curve is both convex and
concave. It is not only not a contradiction: each of these antipodally
opposite aspects of reality is absolutely indispensable
to the very conception of the other, just as concavity is indispensable
to the conception of convexity, east to the conception
of west, right to the conception of left— and vice versa. This
point is resumed below (pp. 77–9, 96). The object in view at present
is to see how the philosopher’s method is really his primary
doctrine, in which object I am not in controversy with anyone,
so far as I know; but also to see how an anti-intellectualist method
depends upon a purely arbitrary, or rather constitutional, psychological
prepossession for a certain emphasis of living.
I said that Bergson is entirely awake to the aptness of the
objection just raised to his account of intellect. In a sense,
in certain passages, he even seems to grant the truth of the contention. Action, he acknowledges, for instance,96 can be involved
only with reality; and consequently the forms of perception and
the categories of intellect (which are those forms rendered elaborately
precise) “touch something of the absolute.” Sound truth,
assuredly! The fitness of reality to enter as object into those
active relationships which are the perceptive and intellectual
categories makes the categories as genuinely own to the true,
essential nature of objective reality as to the nature of subjective
intelligence. That the categorization of reality depends on the
real object’s being in relation to something else than itself is
nothing peculiar to this (the categorical) character of reality.
The same condition is common to every character of reality.
The qualitative aspect of reality, which Bergson usually regards
as the nature of reality “in itself,” depends no less than its relational
or categorical aspect on the relatedness of the object.
For the qualities of things are nothing but the differences they
make—to consciousness or to other things. Reality not in relation
is simply a phrase without a vestige of meaning. Reality
“in itself” in such a sense is merely nonsense. It would seem,
therefore, as if Bergson should account the intellectual mode of
consciousness, which does indeed “touch something of the absolute,”
as knowledge of precisely the same metaphysical status
as a mode which touches anything else of the absolute. It is
one thing for a mode of consciousness to be uncongenial or uninteresting
to you or me; it is another for it to be invalid. The
uncongeniality of a mode of consciousness depends on personal
idiosyncrasy; the invalidity of a mode of consciousness depends
on the logical nature of being.
As a fact, however, perhaps because this preference between
two aspects of the nature of reality depends so obviously on personal
bias instead of logical principles, Bergson vacillates, in
a hopelessly confused and confusing way, all through his writings,
between two conceptions of reality. First, reality is of one nature,
namely life, which is pure quality, change, or duration (the four
terms are actually synonyms to Bergson), and knowledge of which
can be only sympathetic intuition of it, while intellect is merely
“an appendage of action,” and not knowledge at all. In the
other conception reality is cleft into a dualism more unutterably
absolute than that of Descartes. Life is one kind of reality;
inert matter is the other. Intuition knows the former; intellect
really does know the latter (‘touching something of the absolute’),
and knowledge is therefore not intuition only. Although this
vacillation confuses issues in every one of Bergson’s books, the
first conception is more characteristic, upon the whole, of Time
and Free Will and of Creative Evolution; the other conception is
pretty consistently expounded in Matter and Memory. The sphere
of intellect is restricted; its cognitive validity is not explicitly
denied within this sphere, but only within the domain of life.
To be sure, since life exhausts reality, the sphere allotted to intellect
is not real, which would seem to imply that intellect fails
to know. The validity of intellectual consciousness is thus, in
effect, denied equally in either case. The only difference is that
the denial is conscious and explicit in one case, more or less unconsciously
implied in the other.
Chapter III
THE ANCIENT PREJUDICE AGAINST ANALYSIS
The restrictive conception of intellect is a very old one. The incompatibility
of intellect and life, as cognitive organ and object,
is certainly as old a belief as the era of the Sophists. It can be
said, that is, with historical certainty, that, from the time of
Protagoras—and I have no doubt it has been true ever since the
first philosopher, whoever he was, undertook to make an examination
of the universe as one thing—it has always been true that
many of the best minds have been convinced, by the futile results
of such undertakings, that the universe as one thing, on one
hand, and intellect, on the other, make a pair as incompatible,
in the relation of cognitive organ and object, as the faint star
and the fovea: you have an organ and an object which by nature
are unsuited to each other. That kind of organ cannot see that
kind of object. Not that the faint star is invisible, but, to see
it, you musn’t look! Then it will swim into the field of the organ
that is made to see it, the retinal tissue surrounding the fovea.
Thus it is not a question of human finitude or limitation. The
formulæ of intellect, applied to such an object, are mere silliness,
reducible, as Kant showed, to all manner of antinomy and paradox.
Not only that, but whatever is most important and interesting
within this whole, everything concerning the nature and
meaning of concrete cases of life, eludes and baffles conceptual
statement,—which is the only kind of statement there is,—inevitably
eludes it, like smoke in a child’s hand who tries to catch
it. Your essences or definitions, of life or any of its manifestations,
are stuff and nonsense, not inadequate, but absurd. What
logical sentence has ever been uttered that, upon the least reflection,
does not fail to develop into a grotesquely false caricature
when applied to any genuine phase or interest of life,
great or small—whether God, freedom, immortality, or the heart
of a woman, or of a child, or of a man (to take them in a descending
order of their unsearchableness)? You may labor your conception
with prodigious precision—the truth of the matter is always
beyond, when you are speaking of matters that are real.
This is the artist’s temper of mind when the artist has inadvertently
gulped down a noxious dose of metaphysics. It is the
feeling of the novelists, the dramatists, the poets, that Bergson
voices: life may be lived—nobly or basely, courageously or cowardly,
truly or falsely;—and the flavor and significance of life may be
heightened, life may be realized more abundantly, in artistic
activity, which is putting oneself into one’s object, making it
become not an object, identifying oneself with it. But one
thing is not given to man, and that is to interpret life.
Everyone is familiar with the telling dramatic force of the device
which consists in involving a philosophical hero, a man addicted
to principles of high generality, in sudden overwhelming emotional
chaos, in which all his philosophy goes to smash. The refractoriness
of sexual love, for instance, to all his theories is such a
delicious reductio ad absurdum of the theories. First you make
your philosopher develop his maxims, in a besotted, fatuous conviction
of their infallibility: then a particularly impossible she
enters, one who is conspiciously unfitted, by artlessness or disabilities
of worldly station, for the upsetting of principles great
and high. The philosopher goes through his paces, eating his
maxims whole, with unction; and you have the spectacle of Life
rising serene, untouched, above the futilities of theory. The
theory doesn’t work. The obvious conclusion is that there is
some fundamental incommensurability between it and the simple
facts of life that can flout it so. Simon the Jester is a very
delightful example of what I mean. Simon is bound to come to
grief, he is so smugly philosophical. The wise novel-reader
knows what to expect. Not that philosophy is not an ornament
to a man, a civilizing, disciplining exercise. All that is one thing,
but acting as if such notions apply is quite another. This good
philosophical chap gives the result of his philosophy in regulating
his life, as follows:
“Surely no man has fought harder than I have done to convince
himself of the deadly seriousness of existence; and surely
before the feet of no man has Destiny cast such stumbling-blocks
to faith ... No matter what I do, I’m baffled. I look upon
sorrow and say, ‘Lo, this is tragedy!’ and hey, presto! a trick of
lightening turns it into farce. I cry aloud, in perfervid zeal, ‘Life
is real, life is earnest, and the apotheosis of the fantastic is not its
goal,’ and immediately a grinning irony comes to give the lie to my
credo.
“Or is it that, by inscrutable decree of the Almighty Powers,
I am undergoing punishment for an old unregenerate point of
view, being doomed to wear my detested motley for all eternity,
to stretch out my hand forever to grasp realities and find I can
do naught but beat the air with my bladder; to listen with strained
ear perpetually expectant of the music of the spheres, and catch
nothing but the mocking jingle of the bells on my fool’s cap?
“I don’t know. I give it up.”
Giving it up is obviously the moral, here. The change of attitude
implied in the last words marks the beginning of an era
of glorious fulfilment of life in the former philosopher’s history.
What was necessary was that he should stop theorizing and learn
to live. That is, philosophy, as supreme experience, is the art
of living. It is the artist that really knows, that knows inwardly
and truly. The genuine philosopher is the artist in living. The
intellectualist philosopher is a dissector of life’s defunct remains.
The nature of the opposition between the two modes of consciousness
called intuition and intellect is discussed in the chapter
on Bergson’s epistemology. The intuitionist philosopher is such
never for logical reasons, always for temperamental reasons. He
is a man to whom life is richer and fuller, more self-fulfilling, more
natural, in the intuitional mode of consciousness than in the
intellectual. Hence the suspicious and disparaging disposition
toward the intellectual mode of consciousness, in a very numerous
class of minds of the highest order. From a personal feeling of
safety and security in intuition and of dissatisfaction with intellectual
efforts, the transition is natural to a conviction that
the trouble is in the essential nature of intellect. A mode of consciousness
which is so inveterately and (presumably) inevitably
beset with self-frustration cannot be knowledge. It is too obviously
the opposite of knowledge, to wit error and delusion.
But once the opposition has reached this point, where not only
the convenience but the very validity of intellect is impugned,
one is involved in a disjunction between these two modes of
consciousness that is demonstrably false, both logically and psychologically.
It is surely a false hypostasis of terms whose distinction
is merely abstract, to set over against each other in this
way two aspects which are equally essential to any conception of
the nature of consciousness. For intuition and intellect can be
seen to imply each other with the same necessity with which
quality and quantity imply each other. And there is the same
absurdity, on the side of epistemology, in regarding intuition as
valid knowledge and intellect as not valid, as, on the side of ontology,
in regarding quality as real and quantity—or relation in
general—as not real. As if either were conceivable except as
a co-aspect or coefficient with the other, in the nature of reality.
This would be to conceive of quality as quality of nothing, or
relation as relation between no terms.
If philosophy must be reflective (and reflectiveness to some
degree is undoubtedly an inevitable condition of human consciousness,
perhaps of any consciousness), it must be, quatenus
philosophy, intellectual, and not, quatenus philosophy, intuitional.
Intuition will assuredly be there, in any philosophy, as the pole
is inseparable from its antipodes. But the philosophicalness of
philosophy is just its reflectiveness; that is, once more, quatenus
philosophy, it is intellectual.
I am recording a protest against false reification of what is
abstract, the very fault which intuitionism is insistent to lay to
the charge of intellectualism. If intuitionism were to conceptualize
intuition and intellect, instead of reifying them, it could not
appropriate validity to either mode of consciousness and deny it
to another. The satisfactoriness and richness of a given mode
of consciousness depend no doubt on the constitution of the subject.
The validity of consciousness in any mode has nothing to do with
such personal idiosyncrasy.
James is less rigorous concerning the validity of relational
knowledge than Bergson. Having found relations in the immediate
content of conscious data, James cannot deny them an
essential constitutiveness in the nature of reality. But such
knowledge is “thin” and “poor”, in his homely and human
phraseology. This is only a more naïve and genial expression
than Bergson’s of the purely eulogistic primacy of quality over
relation. Relations are thin and poor aspects of reality, no doubt,
if you find them so. Otherwise they may be supremely interesting.
That depends on your interests, which depend on your constitution.
In any case, they are the aspect of reality primarily
indispensable to reflective thought, which is philosophy.
* * * * *
The characteristic which is most sedulously imputed by the
philosophy of instinct to intellect is usefulness, but this characteristic
is treated as evidence of cognitive invalidity! In point
of fact, serviceableness to action in no way distinguishes intellect
from instinct. Each alike is a reactive state resulting in a new
situation, a new arrangement of matter; and the only thing that
can give true finality to the intelligent act is the affective value of
the conscious state arising out of this new situation. But the
same is true of the situation which is the outcome of the instinctive
act.
The distinction sometimes seems to mean that it is only acquaintance
with objects (intuitive knowledge of them) that has
affective value, and that this kind of consciousness is therefore
an end in itself in a sense in which intellect is not. For knowledge
about the object (intellectual knowledge of it) will then be supposed
to have no affective value in itself, but only as it may subserve
action upon the object, which action will be accompanied by acquaintance
with the object. But if knowledge about an object
subserves acquaintance with it, the converse is no less true. If
knowledge of the location and price of a tennis ball subserves my
use of it and acquaintance with it, the latter in turn subserves my
knowledge about it in an indefinite number of respects. True,
acquaintance with an object may not always lead to knowledge
about it so obviously as in the case of the tennis ball; but again
it is equally true that knowledge about certain things, for instance
lines drawn upon the blackboard, has no obvious leading toward
utility; the utility of a certain mathematical equation may seem
quite inscrutable. But how obvious the leading may be, or how
interesting the utility, is nothing to the point. The question
whether or not the connection is necessarily there in all cases is
answered peremptorily a priori by the polar character of knowledge
by virtue of which acquaintance-with is only an aspect of knowledge-about,
and vice versa.
It is flagrantly untrue, as a fact, that knowledge-about is without
affective value in itself. Experience is as emphatic to the
contrary as reason. If a characteristically intellectual state of
mind gives you less satisfaction, or more, than one that is characteristically
intuitive, the reason is quite personal and accidental
in either case. It may just as well give you more as less. Being
knowledge in each case, awareness at least, it has its affective
value in some degree necessarily, of whichever character it may
be predominantly.
* * * * *
Since relation is not divorcible from quality, nor intellect from
intuition, it results that, if the artist blunders through critical
defect, even better art would, of itself, have saved him in spite of
his critical defect. If the mustiness of the philosopher is expressible
as lack of a facile instinct, merely a truer theory of life would
have corrected him. No doubt life is too intricate for the most
robust capacity for ratiocination. Sanity balances securely between
the two biases of consciousness. Art and criticism are
equally long, and the middle course a is short-cut and an economy
of living. But condemnation of the validity of consciousness
in any mode is a theoretical proposition irrelevant to maxims of
practical sagacity. And it implies either condemning the validity
of all consciousness (if intuition and intellect are aspects of each
other) or else it presupposes that reality is not categorical, which
Bergson fails to show. On page 24 of the present essay, we have
seen that he seems, in an inconsistent way, even to maintain the
contradictory thesis.
In a former paper97 I have written as follows:
“Now, Bergson’s idea of the philosopher—an artist in life—is
probably no one’s else. He is of that opinion, decidedly; a considerable
part of the book [Creative Evolution] is a demonstration
that actual philosophers, from Plato on, are intellectualists all,
dissectors, not artists. But if Bergson’s enterprise is to be a
substitute for philosophy and appropriate its name, we who are
much addicted to the old enterprise will be careful to know why
it is futile and illusory.”
Monsieur Bergson comments on this in a private letter from
which I translate:
“It would be so, I recognize, if these intellectualist philosophers
had been philosophers only in virtue of their intellectualism. But
whereas intelligence pure and simple professes to solve the problems,
it is intuition alone that has enabled them to be put. Without
the intuitive feeling of our freedom, there would be no problem
of freedom, hence no determinist theory; thus, the different forms
of determinism, which are so many forms of intellectualism, owe
their very existence to something which could not have been
obtained by the intellectualist method. For my part, I find,
more or less developed, the seeds of intuitionism in most of the
great philosophic doctrines, although the philosophers have always
tried to convert their intuition into dialectic. Yet it is
chiefly in the former that they have been philosophers.”
This seems to me an absolute inversion of intuition and intellect.
Does intuition ‘put problems’? It is, certainly, intuition that
gives us the material of our problems. But the formulating of
a problem—what can be meant by intuition’s formulating anything?
Giving forms, I should say, just defines the work of
intellect. Intuition gives us our facts, our material. Surely,
the putting of problems is an intellectual operation continuous,
even identical, strictly, with their solution? A problem well
put is rather more than half solved. Certainly the remainder
of the solution is not a different order of activity. It carries out
the ‘putting’ in its implications. A problem put is only a problem
incompletely solved.98 Solving it is putting it with a satisfactory
perspicacity.
Without the intuitive feeling of our freedom there would be
no problem of freedom, certainly, but you might easily have the
intuition without the problem. In the preface to the Essai sur
les données immédiates de la conscience, Bergson insists that it is
the aberrations of intellect that give rise to the problems of freedom.
Intellect, then, at any rate, not intuition, puts the problem.
As correlative modes of consciousness, neither is independent,
nor primary, of course. Even in the putting of our problems,
intellect is only a co-factor, a coefficient with intuition. And
in the most abstract reasoning, the intuitive coefficient of thought
is indispensable. So far as intellect is actual, concrete knowledge,
it must be intuitively correlated, and so far as intuition is the real
intuiting of anything, it must be intelligently correlated.
In what respect are the philosophers of whom Monsieur Bergson
speaks intuitionists? Does this mean anything more than that
they are wide-reaching and far-reaching instead of narrow and
dull in their apprehension? Is not philosophy interpretation of
experience? Is not the philosopher’s vision, therefore, always
necessarily, just so far as he is a philosopher, a vision of the formal
aspect of reality? To be sure, that is just what Monsieur Bergson
is denying. But his reason is that reality is pure quality, a
proposition whose logical faultiness and temperamental genesis
I have sufficiently noted.
In view of the temperamental basis of the artistic and the
philosophical or critical attitudes, it were fatuous for either to
propose a reform in the other by way of conformity to a mode
distinguished from it thus radically. It is this fatuity which it
seems to me Bergson commits in regarding the success of any
philosophy as due, by any possibility, to its becoming art instead.
As well conceive that the virtue of an artistic product consists
in its conformity to critical canons.
Philosophy that is false to art would therein necessarily be
false to philosophy; and art that is false to philosophy is false to
art; but art is not philosophy, nor philosophy art.
PART TWO — Chapter I
BERGSON’S SYSTEM OF DOCTRINE
107
ONTOLOGY AND EPISTEMOLOGY
My reason for coupling these two subjects in one heading is
suggested by the following words quoted from the Introduction
to Creative Evolution: “... theory of knowledge and
theory of life seem to us inseparable.” For Bergson, reality is
life; and knowledge, of course, is a function of life. “The fundamental
character of Bergson’s philosophy,” writes H. Wildon
Carr,99 “is ... to emphasize the primary importance of the
conception of life as giving the key to the nature of knowledge.”
All the essential principles of this metaphysics are contained
in the first of Bergson’s philosophical books, Time and Free Will.100
The two later books, Matter and Memory and Creative Evolution,
have not modified it, and have hardly even developed it—in the
sense, that is, that no vital corrections or additions to the principles
of the Essai have been made.
* * * * *
In discussing anti-intellectualistic philosophies, in the first part
of the present essay, their suspicion and distrust of intellect was
attributed to a logical illusion. The philosopher, finding life preeminently
satisfactory in an intimate acquaintance with the
qualitative aspect of experience, acquires an instinctive faith in
the preeminent reality of quality, a faith which is the deepest
root of his being. Now, this faith is absolutely justified, of
course. It is only necessary that it should be understood. Illusion
and error enter in with the neglect of the very preeminence
of this character of reality. For evidently nothing can be preeminently
real and at the same time real in any sense for which
the adverb “preeminently” is either false or meaningless. The
sense of “important” is a well accredited, proper meaning, in our
language, of the word “real.” But it is a sense perfectly distinct
from the metaphysical sense. Teleologically, anything is preeminently
real according to circumstances. Teleologically, “real”
is a synonym of “important,” a relative term capable of degree.
Metaphysically, circumstances are irrelevant to the realness of
anything. This is a different statement from the statement that
circumstances are irrelevant to the nature of anything. It may
be that there is nothing whose nature can be independent of,
wholly undetermined by, circumstances. That is another question.
We have nothing to do with it at present. For in either
case, circumstances make it neither more nor less real. Metaphysically,
then, “real” is an absolute term, incapable of degree,
and the adverb “preeminently” has no meaning when applied
to it. The very fitness of the adverb “preeminently” to the
intuitionist’s meaning of the realness of quality determines this
meaning as a teleological eulogism, and the ultimate significance
of intuitionism is not the germination of a logical principle, but
an instinctive propagandism in the direction of a favorite emphasis
of living, an enthusiasm which has become involved in a logical
illusion concerning its own foundation in the nature of things,
an illusion which is clearly traceable, on analysis, to this ambiguity
in the use of the word “real.”
Later in this study it will appear that Bergson’s interest
centers, as the interest of French philosophy has centered ever
since the Renaissance, in the problem of freedom. No doubt
that very enthusiasm which motivates modern anti-intellectualism
and gives it so positive a character, is a prime factor in its
popular success. And in the case of Bergson, both the significance
of his philosophy itself and the brilliant vogue it has achieved can
be rightly appreciated only in the light of this central passion
whose appeal to human nature is so universal and so profound.
Anti-intellectualism and anti-determinism are one and the same
thing. It will appear as we go on that a deep-lying tychism, a
horror of determinism, is the specific trait of that motive (described
above as a natural affinity for the qualitative aspect of
reality, as distinguished from its relational aspect) which strenuously
endeavors, in Bergson, to eliminate relation from reality,
judgment from knowledge. He protests that freedom cannot
be defined without converting it into necessity; for definition is
determination. A would-be indeterminist theory of will is as
futile as a determinist theory is false: on any theory, will is prejudged
in favor of determinism. The nature of freedom cannot
be known independently of the nature of will, and then attributed
or denied to will, as one might attribute or deny redness to an
apple. To say, Will is free, would be like saying, Will is voluntary,
or, Freedom is free—not, indeed, an untruth, but without meaning
and hence not a truth, either.
The one way, then, of getting the true nature of will truly
comprehended which is doomed to necessary failure, is to write
a psychological treatise on the subject. For, since will has no
such determinate character as intellect finds in it or gives to it,
a treatise conveying the true nature of will would have to be unintelligible!
Now, see in will, as Leibniz101 and Schopenhauer, as
well as Bergson, have seen in it, the whole of life and of reality,
and you see how it is Bergson’s tychism that constitutes the
specific motive for his anti-intellectualism, and how this so-called
method forms, in his philosophy, the supreme doctrine which is
the objective of all his discourse.
* * * * *
Bergson’s critique of intellectualism proceeds by applying to
traditional metaphysics and epistemology his purely qualitative
criterion of reality. Whether science, the product of intelligence,
is physical, biological, or psychological, it is knowledge-about,
and not acquaintance-with; its object is relation, and not reality;
its objective is action, and not vision; its organ is intelligence,
not instinct. But the object of philosophy is reality; its objective
is vision; its organ instinct. The timeless, intellectual way in
which science knows about, but never knows, is not the way of
true philosophy. The philosopher, to know reality, must achieve
a vital, sympathetic concurrence with its flow. To be known,
reality must be lived, not thought. In Creative Evolution Bergson
traces the genesis of instinct and intelligence to a primitive tendency,
effort or spring of life (the élan vital) whose path bifurcates
indefinitely in the course of its evolution. These elementary
tendencies, instinct and intelligence, having issued from the same
primitive tendency, are both present, at least in rudiment, in all
forms of life; and it is the presence, though in a suppressed state,
of instinct in man that must save philosophy from the cognitive
emptiness of science, and give it a hold on the living fulness of
reality.
In Time and Free Will the theory of “real duration,” which
is a synonym for intuition, and for life, and for reality, and is the
foundation of the Bergsonian philosophy, is enunciated, and in
the light of it intellect is shown to falsify the nature of consciousness
in applying to conscious states such categories as magnitude,
plurality, causation. Each of these categories, in its traditional
application, is a quantifying and a spatializing of consciousness.
The intensity of a conscious state is nothing but the state itself;
the state is pure quality or heterogeneity, incapable of measure
and degree. The variousness of conscious states has no analogy
with plurality. Plurality is simultaneity and juxtaposition;
but conscious states prolong each other in an interpenetrating
flow. Finally, the organization of conscious states is nothing
like the traditional systematic “coördination” of associationistic
psychology. It does not lend itself to laws and principles. It
cannot be adequately expressed by words, nor artificially reconstructed
by a juxtaposition of simple states, for it is always an
absolutely new and original phase of our duration, and is itself
a simple thing.
The first chapter of Time and Free Will consists of analyses of
all sorts of psychological states, in order to justify the above
thesis concerning intensity. They are masterly analyses, and
their interest for psychology is great. So far as Bergson’s object
is concerned, of showing how intellect falsifies the nature of consciousness
in conceiving of sensations as more or less intense, what
the chapter proves is no more than that whenever a conscious
state varies—which every conscious state does continuously—it
varies qualitatively. Which hardly needed to be proved. For
the argument does not show that, along with the qualitative
change, a quantitative change may not occur; that is, it does not
exclude the proposition which Bergson is trying to refute, namely
that there is something in the nature of a conscious state that is
capable of increasing and decreasing.102
In saying that conscious states are pure quality, Bergson means
that when one compares a sensation, for instance, with another
which is regarded as of the same “kind,” but of greater or less
intensity, both the sameness of kind and the difference of magnitude
are illusions of intellect, due to attributing the category of
magnitude, or quantity, to that whose nature admits of no such
determination. A so-called more intense odor, say, it is mere
nonsense to call same in any sense with another, supposed to be
less intense. The two are distinguishable, that is all; they are
not comparable, properly speaking. They are comparable in
just the sense, and in no other (it would seem, from Bergson’s
treatment of the subject, although the statement is not his, explicitly)
that either of the odors can be compared with a sound or
a taste. The difference is not one of degree; it is what Bergson
calls absolute.
But what, then, exactly, according to Bergson, do we mean
when we compare psychic states as more or less intense? In
simple states, he says, magnitude of cause is associated, by a
thousand experiences, with a certain quality or shade of effect
in consciousness, and the former is attributed to the latter. The
quantitative scale rubs off color, so to speak, by the operation
of association, from the material cause to the psychic effect. In
complex states intensity means the amount of our inner life which
the state in question colors with its own quality. A passion is
deep and intense in the fact that the same objects no longer produce
the same impression. In this statement of the case of
complex states it will be seen that Bergson fails to avoid attributing
quantity to the inner life of consciousness, since the intensity of
complex states is measured, by him, by a quantitative standard,
the amount of that inner life colored or affected by the quality
in question.
The attempt is equally hopeless whether the state in question
be simple or complex. Bergson attempts, but fails,103 to prove
that magnitude is a character peculiar to space, and that homogeneity
and space are two names for the same conception. Two
odors, two sounds are more than one, however; and that homogeneity
in them by virtue of which they are more, and two, is
not space. Bergson would object that number itself, the twoness
of the odors or sounds, is indeed a spatial attribute falsely imputed
to them. They are not plural, in themselves; it is conceptualization
that accounts for the plurality imputed to them. One
evolves continuously, in the flow of consciousness, out of the other.
It would be a sufficient answer that such a doctrine contradicts
itself in every breath by the terms necessary to any utterance of
it,—such terms as sounds, they, them, one, the other—all imputing
to the objects of discussion the plurality which it tries to deny.
And to fall back on the disabilities of language, due to its being
the work of intellect, is only to declare one’s philosophy ineffable.
But not only ineffable—unthinkable. Yes, Bergson would admit,
unthinkable in the narrow sense of conceptual thought, but not
unknowable to immediate intuition. The final rejoinder, I think,
is that immediacy is a vanishing-point, a limiting conception of
the relation between subject and object, a phase of consciousness
in which to use the mathematical analogy, the “coefficient” of
consciousness vanishes into zero. We return later in this essay
to the amplifying of this point.104 In brief, if there is no distinction
between subject and object, there is no object (as, likewise, no
subject, of course); hence, no truth; and Bergson could not have
made these ineffable discoveries about the sounds and odors, for
he could not have discovered themselves.
It is clear enough that nothing needs to occupy space, in order
to be a magnitude. A line, which occupies no space, is even a spatial
magnitude, nevertheless. That it is spatial, Bergson would say, is
just the fact that it is homogeneous. But is homogeneity the only
character of a line, and is its spatiality therefore necessarily the same
thing as its homogeneity? Evidently a line has a quale perfectly
distinct from its homogeneity, and essential to its linear nature;
that quale is its direction. If an interval of time, then, or a mental
state, seems not to be spatial, this does not compel us to deny that
there is any homogeneity about it: if the interval or the state of
mind lacks the determination—the character of direction—which is
indispensable to a line and to spatiality as such, this lack determines
these objects of thought as non-spatial without the
slightest detriment to their homogeneity. But all the evidence
of homogeneity in space applies equally to homogeneity in time
and consciousness. The evidence is their additiveness: all seem
to present numerically distinct cases and quantitative differences.
No logical ground has been indicated, for discrimination, in the
validity of this seeming, as a warrant for the homogeneity of space
and not of time and consciousness. Time and consciousness are
homogeneous by the same warrant as space and matter.
I think it is not irrelevant to Bergson’s theory of the associative
transfer of quantity in the stimulus to the sensation, to observe
that, in the stimulus, there is kind as well as amount. If the
shade or quality of the sensation corresponds to the degree of
the cause, is there no further determination of the sensation distinctively
correlative with the kind of the cause? Such correlate
seems indispensable to Bergson’s, as to any, reactive conception
of sensation, but, in Bergson’s theory of intensity, it seems to
be preempted for correlation with the aspect of quantity in the
stimulus.
The case of plural odors and sounds, the case of the line, and an
infinity of other cases prove that magnitude is intensive as well
as extensive. The contradictory thesis, that of Bergson, reduces,
at bottom, to the self-contradiction that consciousness discovers
what is no object of consciousness.
* * * * *
In admitting that sensations are comparable in this sense, that
two odors, for instance, regarded as of the same kind, can be compared
with each other in the same way as either can be compared
with a sound or a taste, Bergson evidently means that they can
be distinguished as different; and he regards this as implying that
sensations are absolutely heterogeneous with each other, absolutely
different. This phrase, I am sure, conceals a bald contradiction.
It seems to mean a relation, namely difference, in which, however,
the terms are absolute, that is not in relation. Difference cannot
be so conceived. Difference, I submit, cannot be conceived without
that (common to the differing terms) in respect of which they are
different. Monsieur Bergson, therefore, in admitting that sensations
are comparable in any sense, is still confronted with an
element common to all sensations; he has still to eliminate the
character of homogeneity from sensation, by virtue of which
a purely subjective evaluation of their relative intensities is
possible.
The root of the difficulty Monsieur Lévy-Bruhl has shown105
to be a reific separation of quantity and quality, which are separable
in truth only by abstraction of attention. Real existence
in absolute homogeneity or space, as Bergson represents the
existence of the external world, is as unthinkable as real existence
in absolute heterogeneity, which existence is consciousness or life,
for Bergson. External things, he says, which do not lapse (“ne
durent pas”), seem to us, nevertheless, to lapse like us because to
each instant of our lapsing duration a new collective whole of
those simultaneities which we call the universe corresponds.
“Does this not imply,” writes Lévy-Bruhl, “a preestablished
harmony much more difficult to accept than that of Leibniz?
Leibniz supposes a purely ideal concord between forces of the
same nature. Monsieur Bergson asks us to admit an indefinite
series of coincidences, for each instant, between ‘a real duration,
whose heterogeneous moments compenetrate,’ and a space which,
not lapsing, has no moments at all. Monsieur Bergson really
places external reality, which does not lapse, in a sort of eternity.
He ingeniously shows that everything in space may be treated
as quantity and submitted to mathematics. Now, mathematical
verities, expressing only relations between given magnitudes, are
abstracted from real lapsing duration. All the laws reduce to
analytical formulæ. But then they are, according to the saying
of Bossuet, eternal verities, and how shall the real be distinguished
from the possible?”
This sundering, in Bergson’s theory of reality, of what rightly
is one, is already implied, in his theory of knowledge, in the mutual
exclusion of the two cognitive modes, intuition and conception.
The predicaments into which philosophy falls in reasoning conceptually
(and there is no other reasoning) about the subjective
“world,” are due. Bergson thinks, not to faults in the use of
logic, but to an essential incongruity between the matter and the
logical mode of being conscious of it. But such an essential incongruity
between any mode of consciousness and what it is aware
of would imply that the modes of consciousness, on the one hand,
are parts of consciousness, of which accordingly, you can have
one without the other (theoretically if not actually); and, on the
other hand, there is the corresponding implication for ontology,
that what consciousness is aware of is also composed of two parts,
which match, respectively, the parts of consciousness. Divide
consciousness into two parts, then divide what it is aware of into
two parts; suppose that each of your parts of consciousness suits
one, and not the other, of your two parts of what it is aware of—all
this is necessary before there can be any possibility of incongruous
mismatching between consciousness and being. Therefore uneasiness
about this incongruity, the very motive of intuitionism,
presupposes first the sharpest conceptual treatment of the
subjective “world,” and then the flagrant reification of the resulting
abstractions. In other words, the indispensable precondition
of dialectical defense of intuitionism is an intellectualism
of the “vicious” type.
* * * * *
The first chapter of the Essai having criticized the application
of magnitude to consciousness, and found that psychological intensity
has nothing quantitative about it, the second chapter
proceeds with an analogous criticism of number, and finds that
psychological variousness has nothing plural about it. The multiplicity
of material objects is number or plurality; the variousness
of the facts of mind is nothing of the sort. Numerical
multiplicity is distinct and objective, given or thought in space;
subjective variousness is indistinct and compenetrating.
The medium of the facts of consciousness being lapsing duration,
and not extension, they are never simultaneous in the same
consciousness. But then they cannot be counted; to count is
to have things together, simultaneously. That, again, is to have
them in space. And that, finally, is to have them as objects.
Now, the essential nature of psychic facts is to be subjective and
not objective. If, therefore, you find yourself counting facts
within a consciousness, you are deluded; they cannot be what
you take them for; they can only be (spatial) objects, symbols by
which you are representing facts that are not objective,—because
they are subjective!—and not spatial but temporal.
This statement of the case will satisfy few people as it stands.
Professor Bergson is aware of this, and he will grant that such
alleged facts of consciousness as you distinguish and count may
be set in the medium of time rather than in space, if time, as
well as space, is a homogeneous medium; but time so understood,
he thinks, turns into space. And time is so understood very
generally, without any doubt. When we speak of time, says
Bergson, we are usually thinking of space; that is, we are thinking
of a homogeneous medium, a medium, therefore, in which psychic
states are aligned or juxtaposited, as things are in space, forming
a distinct multiplicity.
This is, of course, another aspect of what Bergson regards as the
same vice, conceptualism, that is discussed in the first chapter of
the Essai. An intensive magnitude is a distinct concept, sharply
bounded; all within is the concept, all without, its other. But no
psychic fact is sharply bounded; it penetrates the whole consciousness.
The whole consciousness is one with it. We work quantitatively
with concepts, always, arithmetically and geometrically.
But then we work in space, which is enough, says Bergson, to show
that intensity applied to a psychic fact is not a magnitude, since
psychic facts are not in space. So here, in the second chapter,
the elements which one pretends to count and add in time are, in
order to be counted and added—in order merely to be distinguished—distinct
concepts. Then they are not in time but in space.
The application of intensive magnitude and of numerical multiplicity
to psychic facts is thus the same fallacy in two aspects,
the fallacy of conceptualism, the nature of which is to substitute
space for time as the form of mental existence.
But Professor Bergson is not altogether dogmatic in saying
that conceptual time is a spatialized symbol of real time. He
goes on now to show how it is that the nature of real time is
nothing like conceptual time. Durée, his name for real time,
seems a bad term for such a use; for the essence of Bergson’s
“durée” is change, while duration in every other connection
means just the waiting or standing still of the flow of time. Some
term like “lapse” seems nearer the idea.
The genetic or empirical theory of space perception regards
the sensations by which we succeed in forming the notion of space
as themselves unextended and purely qualitative; extension results
from their synthesis, as water results from the combination
of two elements. Bergson remarks that the fact that water is
neither oxygen nor hydrogen nor merely both is just the fact
that we embrace the multiplicity of atoms in a single apperception.
Eliminate the mind which operates this synthesis and you
will at the same time annihilate the water qualities so far as they
are other than oxygen and hydrogen qualities; you will, that is,
annihilate the aspect under which the synthesis of elementary
parts is presented to our consciousness. For space to arise from
the coexistence of non-spatial qualities, an act of the mind is
necessary, embracing them all together and juxtapositing them—an
act which is a Kantian a priori form of sensibility.
This act is the conception of an empty homogeneous medium.
It is a principle of differentiation other than qualitative differentiation,
enabling us to distinguish qualitatively identical simultaneous
sensations. Without this principle, we should have perception
of the extended, but we should not have conception of
space. That is, simultaneous sensations are never absolutely
identical, because the organic elements stimulated are not identical.
There are no two points of a homogeneous surface that produce
the same impression on sight and touch. So there is a real
qualitative difference between any two simultaneous points.
This, Bergson says, is enough to give us perception of the extended.
But the conception of space is en outre. The higher one rises in
the series of intelligent beings, the more clearly the independent
idea of a homogeneous space stands out. Space is not so homogeneous
for the animal as for us. Directions are not purely
geometrical; they have their quality. We ourselves distinguish
our right and left by a natural feeling. We cannot define them.
Now, the faculty of conceiving a space without quality is not at
all an abstraction; on the contrary, to abstract presupposes the
intuition of a homogeneous medium. We know two realities of
different order, one heterogeneous, that of sensible qualities, the
other homogeneous, which is space. The latter enables us to
make sharp distinctions, to count, to abstract, perhaps even to
speak. Everybody regards time as an indefinite homogeneous
medium, and yet everybody regards it as different from space.
Is one, then, reducible to the other?
The genetic or empirical school tries to reduce the relations of
extension to more or less complex relations of succession in duration.
The relations of situation in space are defined as reversible
relations of succession in duration. But succession in duration
is not reversible. Pure duration is the form of succession of conscious
states when one refrains from reflectively setting up a
distinctness between the present state and former states. This
does not mean being wholly absorbed in the passing sensation or
idea, nor forgetting former states; but it means organizing them
instead of juxtapositing them; they become like the notes of a
melody, which, though they succeed each other, are apperceived
in each other; they interpenetrate like the parts of a living being.
Succession, then, can be conceived without distinctness, as a
mutual penetration, a solidarity, an intimate organization of
elements each of which, representative of the whole, is distinguished
and isolated therefrom only for a thought capable of abstraction.
We introduce the idea of space into our representation of pure
succession; we so juxtaposit our states of consciousness as to
perceive them simultaneously, not in, but beside each other; we
project time upon space, we express duration in terms of extension.
Succession then takes the form of a continuous line or of a chain,
whose parts touch without interpenetration, which implies a simultaneous
before and after instead of a successive—that is, a
simultaneous succession, which is a contradiction.
Now, when the genetic school defines the relations of situation
in space as reversible relations of succession in duration, it represents
succession in duration in this self-contradictory way. You
cannot make out an order among terms without distinguishing the
terms and comparing the places they occupy, without perceiving
them, therefore, as juxtaposited. Then to make out an order in
the terms of a succession is to make the succession a simultaneity.
So this attempt to represent space by means of time presupposes
the representation of space. Of space in three dimensions, moreover;
for the representation of two dimensions—that is, of a line—implies
that of three dimensions: to perceive a line is to place
oneself outside it and account for the void surrounding it.
Pure duration is nothing but a succession of qualitative changes
fusing, interpenetrating, without outlines or tendency to externality
by interrelation, without any kinship with number.
Pure duration is pure heterogeneity.
No time that can be measured is duration, for heterogeneity
is not quantity, not measurable. When we measure a minute
we represent a quantity and ipso facto exclude a succession. We
represent sixty oscillations of a pendulum, for instance, all together,
in one apperception, as we represent sixty points of a line.
Now, to represent each of these oscillations in succession, just
as it is produced in space, no recollection of a preceding oscillation
can enter the representation of any one, for space has kept no
trace of it. One is confined to the present, and there is no more
succession, or duration, in such a representation than in that of
the group as a whole. A third way of representing these oscillations
is conceivable. Like the first, it involves retention of preceding
oscillations; but, unlike the first, it retains preceding oscillations
in succeeding ones, instead of alongside of them; they interpenetrate
and interorganize, as was just said, like the notes of a
melody. Like the conceptual representation, the intuitional
involves a multiplicity. A conceptual multiplicity is distinct,
homogeneous, quantitative, numerical; an intuitive multiplicity is
indistinct, heterogeneous, qualitative, without analogy with number.
Now, it is the latter that characterizes reality; and the multiplicity
that we represent conceptually is only a symbol of the reality
known to intuition.
Oscillations of a pendulum measure nothing; they count simultaneities.
Outside of me, in space, there is only a single position
of the pendulum; of past positions none remains. Because my
duration is an organization and interpenetration of facts, I represent
what I call “past” oscillations of the pendulum at the same
time that I perceive the actual oscillation. Eliminate the ego, and
there is only a single position of the pendulum, and no duration.
Eliminate the pendulum, and there is only the heterogeneous duration
of the ego. Within the ego is succession without simultaneity
or reciprocal externality: without the ego, reciprocal externality
without succession, which can exist only for a conscious spectator
who remembers the past, and juxtaposits the symbols of the two
oscillations in an auxiliary space.
Now, between this succession without externality and this
externality without succession a kind of endosmotic commerce
goes on. Although the successive phases of our conscious life
interpenetrate, some of them correspond to simultaneous oscillations
of the pendulum; and since each oscillation is distinct—that
is, one is no more when another is produced—we come to make
the same distinctness between the successive moments of our
conscious life. The oscillations of the pendulum decompose it,
as it were, into mutually external parts: hence the erroneous idea
of an internal homogeneous duration analogous to space, whose
identical moments follow each other without interpenetrating.
On the other hand, the pendular oscillations benefit by the influence
they have exerted on our conscious life. Thanks to the
recollection of their collective whole, which our consciousness
has organized, they are preserved and then aligned; in short, we
create a fourth dimension of space for them, which we call homogeneous
time, and which enables the pendular movement, although
produced in a certain spot, to be juxtaposited with itself indefinitely.
There is a real space, without duration, but in which phenomena
appear and disappear simultaneously with our states of consciousness.
There is a real duration, whose heterogeneous moments
interpenetrate, but each of which can touch a state of the external
world contemporaneous with it, and so be made separate from
other movements. From the comparison of these two realities
arises a symbolic representation of duration drawn from space.
The trait common to these two terms, space and duration, is
simultaneity, the intersection of time and space. This is how
duration comes to get the illusory appearance of a homogeneous
medium. But time is not measurable.
Neither is motion, the living symbol of time. Like duration,
motion is heterogeneous and indivisible. But it is universally
confused with the space through which the movable passes. The
successive positions of the movable are in space, but the motion
is not in space. Motion is passing from one position to another,
which operation occupies duration and has reality only for a
conscious spectator. Things occupy space; processes occupy duration,
because they are mental syntheses and are unextended.
The synthesis which is motion is obviously not a new deploying
in another homogeneous medium, of the same positions that have
been perceived in space; for if it were such an act, the necessity
for resynthesis would be indefinitely repeated. The synthesis
which is motion is a qualitative synthesis, a gradual organization
of our successive sensations with each other, a unity analogous
to that of a melodic phrase. The space traversed is a quantity,
indefinitely divisible; the act by which space is traversed is a
quality, and indivisible. Again that endosmotic exchange takes
place, as between the melodically organized perception of the
series of the pendulum’s motions and its distinct objective presence
at each instant. That is, we attribute to the motion the divisibility
of the space traversed; and we project the act upon space,
implying that outside as well as inside of consciousness the past
coexists with the present. In space are only parts of space.
In any point of space where the movable may be considered,
there is only a position. You would search space in vain for
motion.
From the fact that motion cannot be in space, Zeno concluded
wrongly that motion is impossible. But those who try to answer
his arguments by seeking it also in space, find it no more than he.
Achilles overtakes the tortoise because each Achilles step and
each tortoise step is not a space but a duration, whose nature is
not addible nor divisible, and whose production therefore does
not presuppose productions of parts of themselves, ad infinitum.
Their development is not construction. They are entire while
they are at all, and since the intersections of their terminal
moments with space are not at equal distances, these intersections
will coincide, or their spatial relations will be inverted, after a
certain number of these simultaneities—whether of Achilles’ steps
or of the tortoise’s—with points of the road have been counted;
in other words, Achilles will have overtaken or outrun the tortoise
after a certain number of steps.
To measure the velocity of a motion is simply to find a simultaneity;
to introduce this simultaneity into calculation is to use
a convenient means of foreseeing a simultaneity. Just as in
duration there is nothing homogeneous except what does not
lapse, to wit space in which simultaneities are aligned, so the
homogeneous element of motion is that which least pertains to
it, to wit the space traversed, which is immobility.
Science can work on time and motion only on condition of first
eliminating the essential and qualitative element, duration from
time, mobility from motion. Treatises on mechanics never define
duration itself, but call two intervals of time equal when
two identical bodies in circumstances identical at the commencement
of each of these intervals, and subjected to identical actions
and influences of every kind, have traversed the same space at
the end of these intervals. There is no question, in science, of
duration, but only of space and of simultaneities between outer
change and certain of our psychic states. That duration does
not enter into natural science is seen in the fact that if all the
motions of the universe were quicker or slower, then, whereas
consciousness would have an indefinable and qualitative intuition
of this change, no scientific formulæ would be modified, since the
same number of simultaneities would be produced again in space.
Analysis of the idea of velocity proves that mechanics has
nothing to do with duration. If, on a trajectory AB, points M,
N, P ... such that AM = MN = NP ... are reached
at equal intervals of time, as defined above, and AM etc. are smaller
than any assignable quantity, the motion is said to be uniform.
The velocity of a uniform motion is therefore defined without
appeal to notions other than those of space and simultaneity.
By a somewhat complicated demonstration106 the same is shown
to be true of the velocity of varying motion. Mechanics necessarily
works with equations, and equations always express accomplished
facts. It is of the essence of duration and motion to be
in formation, so that while mathematics can express any moment
of duration or any position taken by a movable in space, duration
and motion themselves, being mental syntheses and not things,
necessarily remain outside the calculation. The movable occupies
the points of a line in turn, but the motion has nothing
in common with this line. The positions occupied by the movable
vary with the different moments of duration; indeed, the movable
creates distinct moments merely by the fact that it occupies
different positions; but duration has no identical nor mutually
external moments, being essentially heterogeneous and indistinct.
Only space, then, is homogeneous; only things in space are
distinctly multiple. There is no succession in space. So-called
“successive” states of the outer world exist each alone. Their
multiplicity is real only for a consciousness capable of preserving
it and then juxtapositing it with others, thus externalizing them
by interrelation. They are preserved by consciousness because
they give rise to facts of consciousness which connect past and
present by their interpenetrating organization. But one ceases
when another appears, and so consciousness perceives them in
the form of a distinct multiplicity, which amounts to aligning
them in the space where each existed separately. Space used in
this way is just what is meant by homogeneous time.
The spatial and the temporal kind of multiplicity are just as
different as space and the real time that lapses. Spatial multiplicity
is always substituted for the temporal kind, in discourse;
their distinction cannot be expressed in language, because language
is a product of space so that terms are inevitably spatial. Even
to speak of “several” conscious states interpenetrating is to characterize
them numerically, and so interrelate and mutually externalize
or spatialize them.107 On the other hand, we cannot form the
idea of a distinct multiplicity without considering, parallel to it,
a qualitative multiplicity. Even in counting units on a homogeneous
background, they organize in a dynamic, qualitative
way. That is the psychological explanation of the effect of a
“marked-down” price. The figures $4.98 have a quality of their
own, or rather the price has, that is quite inexpressible by the
formula “$5 minus 2¢.” Quantity has its quality.
In a succession of identical terms, then, each term has two
aspects, spatial and temporal, objective and subjective, one always
identical with itself, the other specific because of the unique
quality its addition gives the collective whole of the series. Now,
motion is just such a “qualifying,” the subjective aspect of what,
objectively, is a succession of identical terms, to wit the movable
in successive positions. It is always the same movable, but in
the synthesis, the images of it that memory calls earlier interpenetrate
with the actual image; the synthesis, the interpenetration,
is motion. Motion is real, and absolute; it is subjective, however,
not objective. To represent motion is to objectify it. That is
what Zeno did, and what everyone must do for practical purposes.
But Zeno’s purpose was speculative, and that, Professor Bergson
thinks, is fatally different. When you objectify motion you deny
it, for its essence is subjective. Strictly speaking, Zeno was
right in finding motion unthinkable; he was wrong only in supposing
that what is unthinkable is ipso facto impossible.
Evidently, the ego has these two aspects. The ego touches the
external world; and its sensations, though fused in each other,
retain something of the reciprocal externality which objectively
characterizes their causes. Now, in dreaming, the ego does not
touch the external world, and, in dreaming, time is not homogeneous;
we do not measure time, in dreams, but only feel it.
For sleep retards the play of organic functions and modifies the
surface of communication between the ego and external things.
But we need not sleep, to be thus withdrawn from environment.
As I compose this train of thought, the hour strikes. When I
notice the striking, I know some strokes have sounded which I
did not notice. I know even their number, four. I know it by
filling out the “melody,” as it were, of which I am now conscious.
I found the “four” in a way that was not counting, at all. The
number of strokes has its quality, and anything but four fails to
suit, differs in quality. A counted four and a felt four are absolutely
different forms of multiplicity, and each is multiplicity. Under
the ego of clearly-defined and countable states is the real ego
which it symbolizes, in which succession implies fusion and organization.
The states of this real ego language cannot seize,
for that were to objectify it and fix its mobility. In giving these
states the form of those of the symbolic ego, language makes
them fall into the common domain of space, where they straightway
become common and impersonal. This common and impersonal
ego is the social and practical ego; this is the ego that
uses language.
To language is due the illusion that qualities are permanent.
But objects change by mere familiarity. We dislike, in manhood,
smells and tastes which we call the same as those we liked in
childhood. But they are not the same. It is only their causes
that remain the same. The interpenetrating elements of conscious
states are already deformed the moment a numerical multiplicity
is discovered in the confused mass. Just now it had a
subtle and unique coloration borrowed from its organization in
developing life; here it is decolored and ready to receive a name.
This is the error of the associationistic school. Psychology
cannot reason concerning facts being accomplished, as it may
concerning accomplished facts. The accomplishing of a fact can
in no wise enter into discourse. It is unthinkable in precisely
the same way as motion; or rather, it is the same case. Psychology
cannot present the living ego as an association of terms mutually
distinct and juxtaposited in a homogeneous medium.108 And association
is just conceptualism applied to psychology. Its problems
of personality have to be absurdly stated, in order to be stated
at all. The terms of such problems deny what the problem posits,
merely by being terms or names; they name the unnamable and
define the indefinable. The solution is to cease thinking spatially
of that which is temporal, to take the other attitude.109 Or, the
author says here, using merely a different phrase, the solution is
to substitute the real and concrete ego for its symbolic representation.
* * * * *
This second chapter of Time and Free Will undertakes to show
that the successiveness of conscious states makes them uncountable.
Simultaneity is indispensable to distinctness, and so to
number. One can count the spatialized symbols of conscious
states because these are not successive, but simultaneous.
Psychic multiplicity is non-numerical in the same sense and for
the same reason that psychic intensity is non-quantitative, namely
that it is pure heterogeneity and temporality. In the foregoing
report, I have sometimes mitigated the baldness of the paradox
as it is stated by Bergson, by substituting the term “variousness”
for “multiplicity,” in speaking of psychic facts. After all, it
was a thankless subterfuge—an impertinence, perhaps, since
Bergson himself is frank enough to insist that psychic multiplicity
is as genuine multiplicity as the spatial and material sort. The
difference is that the former is indistinct and the latter distinct.
But this difference is abysmal—indeed, it is absolute. All the
power of Bergson’s forceful style is concentrated on it. The point
is turned and re-turned in every variety of expression. At the
same time, the common multiplicity belonging in both conceptions
is emphasized as much as their difference. The thesis thus
reduces to this, that two varieties of the same genus are “absolutely
different;” for we are explicitly advised, on one hand,
that there is a multiplicity which is distinct, and a multiplicity
which is indistinct; each is multiplicity. And, on the other hand,
one is numerical and the other “has no analogy with number.”
In view of the superior qualities of the mind that is guilty of
this unreasonableness, the conviction of sincerity which it carries
tortures the conscientious critic. One cannot approve of the
intolerant scorn of a certain book, in which Bergson’s arguments
are vilified as vain display, mere word-play; but patience is overtaxed
in finding one’s way through the plausibility of this chapter.
The thesis, certainly, may be dismissed from any consideration
whatever. Because of it, one knows in advance, beyond peradventure,
that there is no validity in any argument in its defense.
Yet, in spite of all, the chapter challenges study; and thorough
study of it cannot fail to put the truth in clearer light, just because
its error is so plausible.
Counting is synthesis, the argument goes; but a synthesized
succession is not a succession, it is a simultaneity. And simultaneity
presupposes spatial determination in the coexistent
elements. From Bergson’s point of view, it is a radical error,
however universal an error, to regard the relation of simultaneity
as a temporal determination. In fact, there is no such thing as
a temporal determination; and every determination, for Bergson,
not only is not temporal, but is spatial. Like the argument
about non-quantitative intensity, this argument for non-plural
multiplicity (save the mark!) turns on the equation of homogeneity
with space. But the present argument involves its own
peculiar fallacy, as well, namely the fallacy which Professor Perry
describes110 as confusion of a relation symbolized with the relation
between symbols. “It is commonly supposed,” Perry writes,
“that when a complex is represented by a formula, the elements
of the complex must have the same relation as that which subsists
between the parts of the formula; whereas, as a matter of fact, the
formula as a whole represents or describes a complex other than
itself. If I describe a as ‘to the right of b,’ does any difficulty
arise because in my formula a is to the left of b? If I speak of a
as greater than b, am I to assume that because my symbols are
outside one another that a and b must be outside one another?
Such a supposition would imply a most naïve acceptance of that
very ‘copy theory’ of knowledge which pragmatism has so severely
condemned. And yet such a supposition seems everywhere to
underlie the anti-intellectualist’s polemic. The intellect is described
as substituting for the interpenetration of the real terms
[in an “indistinct” psychic multiplicity] the juxtaposition of
their symbols; as though analysis discovered terms, and then
conferred relations of its own ... Terms are found in relation,
and may be thus described without any more artificiality, without
any more imposing of the forms of the mind on its subject-matter,
than is involved in the bare mention of a single term.
“... one may mean continuity despite the fact that the
symbols and words are discrete. The word ‘blue’ may mean
blue, although the word is not blue. Similarly, continuity may
be an arrangement meant by a discontinuous arrangement of
words and symbols.”
So of the simultaneity or coexistence among the conceptual
symbols by which successive psychic states are counted: there is
nothing in such a relation among the symbols to falsify the process
of counting as a cognitive process whose meaning is a non-simultaneous
relation among the psychic facts symbolized. As was
noted above,111 the quantitative determination of psychic
facts depends solely on an aspect of homogeneity essential
to such facts, for which aspect no better evidence is possible than
that other aspect which Bergson attributes to them, of heterogeneity;
for the two conceptions, instead of excluding each other,
imply each other absolutely. All that is necessary, in order that
psychic facts should be countable, is that they should possess an
aspect of homogeneity. And for this, spatiality is unnecessary; for
spatiality is a conception distinct from homogeneity.
Bergson’s identification of homogeneity with spatiality is a case
of what Professor Perry calls “definition by initial predication.”112
Space is homogeneous; therefore homogeneity is space. As if
the fact that homogeneity is a character of space were anything
against its being a character also of time or anything else. The
following is the justification offered by Bergson for identifying
homogeneity with space: “If space is to be defined as the homogeneous,
it seems that inversely every homogeneous and unbounded
medium will be space. For, homogeneity here consisting in the
absence of every quality, it is hard to see how two forms of the
homogeneous could be distinguished from one another.”113 The
first clause begs the question by defining space as “the” homogeneous.
Such identification of space and homogeneity is the
point to be proved. The second sentence begs the question again,
where homogeneity is supposed “here” (i. e. in the case of space)
to consist in the absence of every quality. Moreover, as we have
noted above (p. 43), space possesses a very determinate quality,
direction, which differentiates it from other homogeneity.
Finally, it can be true that homogeneity is absence of quality only
on the Bergsonian assumptions that quality is exclusively subjective,
that homogeneity is exclusively objective, and that only the
subjective is positive. Now, if quality is not objective, judgments
cannot be made concerning it; but Bergson is constantly making
such judgments. And to distinguish, in point of homogeneity
or of positivity, between “the subjective” and “the objective”
is to reify two equally abstract aspects of positive reality. The
quality of the homogeneous is doubtless simple, and so indefinable.
But Bergson nowhere shows how the homogeneous is less positive
than the heterogeneous, although the thesis is the sum and substance
of his philosophy. Lacking further light on the point, one
can only invoke such experiences as the simple colors, for instance,—or,
for that matter, any simple quality—for cases of reality as
positive as any heterogeneity, and, obviously, no less qualified.
And nothing seems easier than the distinction between
redness, for instance, and spatiality. Bergson’s whole dialectic
rests on reification of such correlative abstractions as homogeneity
and heterogeneity, quality and relation etc. in a
“purity” which not only is not concretely experienced, but
is not even capable of being conceived, because each concept
drags the other ineluctably into its own definition. If
either space or homogeneity were indeed absence of quality,
they could not be distinguished from time, nor from heterogeneity,
nor from anything else; in short, they could not be
conceived at all.
The present essay aims to report Bergson’s own work with a
fair degree of fulness; but it is beyond my plan to follow exposition
with criticism point by point in the details, even, in some cases,
when these are of important and wide implication. For discussion
of Bergson’s contention (based on analysis of the idea of velocity,
as outlined above) that mechanics has nothing to do with time,
the reader is referred to pages 255–61 of Perry’s Present Philosophical
Tendencies. Perry shows, in this passage, that such a contention,
again, depends on “confusing the symbol with what it
means. To one who falls into this confusion, it may appear that
an equation cannot refer to time because the structure of the
equation itself is not temporal; because the symbols are simultaneously
present in the equation. But if t is one of the terms of
the equation, and t means time, then the equation means a
temporal process. Furthermore, an equation may define a
relation, such as =, <, or >, between temporal quantities, in which
case the full meaning of the equation is still temporal. For
changes, events, or even pure intervals, may stand in non-temporal
relations, such as those above, without its in the least vitiating
their temporality.”
Bergson’s solution of Zeno’s paradoxes is another detail of this
chapter which is of a good deal of interest; but it applies no new
principle to the support of the impossibility of counting psychic
facts. Without a clearer conception of the commerce or intersection
between time and space, which he characterizes only by
the name of “simultaneity,” his reply to Zeno leaves the question
of the divisibility of time as problematic as ever. Achilles out-strips
the tortoise, he says, “because each of Achilles’ steps and
each of the tortoise’s steps are indivisible acts in so far as they are
movements, and are different magnitudes in so far as they are
space.”114 They are indivisible in the same sense in which a
living organism is indivisible: if you divide them, no division is a
part of that which was. But the trouble is that they are divisible
also in the same sense in which the organism is divisible. It is the
most extravagant of assumptions that analysis of a living body
into right and left etc.—which, to be sure, is serviceable to activity
upon it—is, because of its service to action, not a character of the
object itself. And of motion the same sort of analysis is a patent
fact of experience: there is an earlier, middle and latter phase.
The possibility of this patent fact is the crux of the problem. No
extant answer to Zeno is satisfactory to everybody. I shall
refer the reader to Professor Fullerton’s treatment of the paradoxes,
in Chapter XI of his System of Metaphysics, as the solution
which seems to me to be at the same time the most closely related
of any that I know, to Bergson’s, and free of Bergson’s error.
Bergson’s solution has at least this element of truth, that Zeno
confuses the space traversed with something else concerned in
every case of motion. Fullerton makes a distinction between
any actual experience of space or time, and the possibility of
indefinitely magnified substitutes for such experience; and shows
a way in which motion can be relegated to the former (“apparent”
space) and denied to the latter (“real” space) without either
denying reality to motion or infinite divisibility to real space and
time.
Bergson’s differentiation of temporal succession from spatial
seriality gets all its cogency from an exclusive attention, when
consciousness is concerned, to the aspects of heterogeneity (quality)
and compenetration (continuity) which consciousness shows; and,
when space is concerned, to its aspects of homogeneity (quantity)
and juxtaposition of parts (discreteness). As always, with correlative
abstractions, Bergson reifies them: they exclude each other,
for him, whereas, in truth, they imply each other, entering into
each other’s definition so that each is unthinkable except by means
of the other. Time is continuous, Bergson insists rightly; but
jumps to the conclusion that therefore time is not discrete. Time
is heterogeneous, therefore not homogeneous. Space is discrete
(its parts spread out), therefore not continuous; homogeneous,
therefore not heterogeneous. If any demonstration is necessary
that these terms do imply each other, instead of excluding each
other, the case of heterogeneity and homogeneity is only the case
of resemblance and difference (cf. page 44). In regard to the
heterogeneity of space, its differentiation by way of direction
must not be forgotten. As for the other pair of terms, continuity
can manifest itself only in extenso, and discreteness requires a
separating medium.
Wherever Bergson objects to expressing time in terms of space,
the real objection is to the expression of time in terms of homogeneity.
This he would not only admit, but insist upon. But
his demonstration that homogeneity is a character exclusively
spatial is a petitio principii.115 Of the attempt to measure a minute,
he writes as follows: “I say, e. g., that a minute has just elapsed,
and I mean by this that a pendulum, beating the seconds, has
completed sixty oscillations. If I picture these sixty oscillations
to myself all at once, by a single mental perception, I exclude by
hypothesis the idea of a succession. I do not think of sixty strokes
which succeed one another, but of sixty points on a fixed line,
each one of which symbolizes, so to speak, an oscillation of the
pendulum. If, on the other hand, I wish to picture these sixty
oscillations in succession, but without altering the way they are
produced in space, I shall be compelled to think of each oscillation
to the exclusion of the recollection of the preceding one, for space
has preserved no trace of it; but by doing so I shall condemn
myself to remain forever in the present; I shall give up the attempt
to think a succession or a duration.”
Notwithstanding his acuteness as a psychologist, Bergson misses
the nature of the apperception both of sixty points on a line and of
sixty oscillations of a pendulum. And the impossibility of counting
psychic facts depends on this misapprehension. He misses
the fact that an apperception of sixty points on a line includes,
as an essential feature, the serial order, the here-and-there determination
(a distinctive qualitative determination) of this spatial
fact. And he misses the fact that an apperception of a non-spatial
rhythm includes, as an essential feature, the successive
order, the earlier-and-later determination, of this psychic fact.
Now, seriality is not succession, if you like, except in so far as
each is order. But this is no more than to say that the two
orders, time and space, are distinguishable—are two, in fact.
It is not the slightest obstruction to conceiving each as order, and
as numerically determined. For there is no evidence except
Bergson’s fundamental fallacy of “definition by initial predication,”
to show why homogeneity and order, as such, are exclusively
spatial. The discreteness of parts of space is thinkable
only by the intervening spaces: space is as continuous (as “compenetrative”)
as time.116 On the other hand, the compenetration of
time is not only nothing against its divisibility, but divisibility
and compenetration (in the only rigorous meaning the word will
bear, that is, continuity) are indispensable to each other, inverse
aspects of each other. You can divide only what is connected,
as you can connect only what is distinct. Time, then, is as
discrete as space.
For every instance of temporal “compenetration,” and “solidarity,”
its perfect spatial analogue is plain to the inspection of
anyone who will only look that way, to anyone whose attention
is not hypnotized by an ulterior purpose to its exclusion.117 Thus
the melodic phrase is present in each of its parts as much as, and
no more than, the mosaic figure is present in each of its parts.
The “felt four” of the clock strokes is felt as four not otherwise,
I think, than a four which might figure in the pattern of a frieze.
The same limitations, moreover, apply to such felt multiplicity,
whether of rhythm or of pattern. It must be a relatively simple
complex, to be apperceived, in either case. You could not feel
fifty, and the difficulty is the same difficulty in time as in space.
One measures a minute or a century just as one measures an inch
or the distance from the earth to the sun: the indispensable condition
is the continuity and homogeneity which belong to both
quantities.
The proposition that oscillations of a pendulum measure
nothing, but count simultaneities apparently means that oscillations,
as physical facts, have no duration of their own, and so
cannot overlie duration as a unit of measurement. This would
at least be an intelligible, even if a false, representation; but, if
oscillations cannot measure, how can they count? What is just
that difference between counting and measuring, by virtue of
which that which can count cannot measure? Simultaneity
Bergson defines as the intersection of space and time. Now,
counting, as well as measuring, implies a continuum. Measuring,
certainly, if it is theoretically perfect, can apply only to a continuum;
but counting, which obviously presupposes discreteness,
then requires also the indispensable condition and correlative of
discreteness, which is continuity. The intersection of space and
time thus evidently involves equal continuity and discreteness in
both; if they can intersect, and their intersections are countable,
each is both countable and measurable. The “purely” temporal
phenomena of our conscious life, although interpenetrating,
“correspond individually” to an oscillation of the pendulum,
which, though a “purely” spatial phenomenon, “occurs at the
same time with” the former. Such “endosmotic commerce”
between psychical and physical events seems to be decisive for a
real community of nature between their respective forms, time
and space—such, for instance, as common homogeneity and
continuity.
Chapter II
MIND AND MATTER, SPIRIT AND BODY
Bergson regards knowledge of oneself as the optimal case of
knowing; oneself, he thinks, is the sample of reality which best
serves for an acquaintance with the nature of reality in general.
“The existence of which we are most assured and which we know
best is unquestionably our own, for of every other object we have
notions which may be considered external and superficial, whereas,
of ourselves, our perception is internal and profound.”118 It is this
perfect or optimal relation of identity or inwardness—which one
bears to oneself—that is the condition of true (i. e. intuitive)
knowledge. And in this case we find existence to be a perpetual
flow of transition. That we think of our states as distinct from
each other is due to the fact that reflection on one’s own existence
is, unlike the flow of that existence itself, necessarily discontinuous.
It is only now and then that motives arise which turn the attention
to the self as an object, like others, for examination. The flow of
change is not uniform, to be sure. It is quite imperceptible to
our reflective attention most of the time, but if it ever ceased, we
should at that moment cease to exist. Only the relatively sudden
and interesting periods of transition get our attention. Then we
see a new “state of consciousness” which we add to the others
that we have mentally strung together in a temporal line. So we
conceive of our history as the sum of elements as distinct as beads
on a string.
This intellectualistic view of the self eliminates the peculiar
characteristic of its reality, namely, its duration, or the flow of its
change, like a snowball, accumulating its substance as it rolls,
duration goes on preserving itself in incessant change that accumulates
all its past. Time, Bergson says, is the very stuff the psychological
life is made of. “There is, moreover, no stuff more resistant
nor more substantial.”119
Life and inertia or matter are two antagonistic principles or
tendencies. Life is the positive and active principle; reality and
duration are predicable only of life. Matter is an “inversion” or
“interruption” of life; its value is negative to life and to reality.
“All that which seems positive to the physicist and to the geometrician
would become, from this new point of view, an interruption
or inversion of true positivity, which would have to be defined
in psychological terms.”120 Matter is a determination of reality in
much the same sense as that in which the reality of the Platonic
idea suffers diminution under the influence of the principle of
not-being, resulting in a world of sensible experience or of appearance.
Bergson points out that the real in Plato is the timeless,
motionless, definite idea, and the relatively unreal is the ever-changing
“infinite” or indefinable datum of experience, to which
duration is essential. Bergson reverses the Platonic metaphysics:
reality is the ever-changing and indefinable; rather, it is change
itself. “There are no things, there are only actions.”
“... things and states are only views, taken by our mind, of
becoming.”121 The principle antagonistic to reality gives rise to
the timeless, definite concept, which is a view or appearance of
reality operated by intelligence in the service of action. As our
practical interests break up the continuum of time into discrete
states, so they break up the continuum of matter into distinct
bodies. The active antagonism of time, which is pure quality or
heterogeneity, and space, which is pure quantity or homogeneity,
results in the world of our experience, comprising “states” of
consciousness and things or objects.
The relation between life and matter in the evolution of the
world, Bergson represents by the figure of a generation of steam in
a boiler.122 Life, the positive principle, streams or flows, like the
steam, by the force which is its very nature. In its course, this
vital impetus is checked, as a jet of steam is checked, by its condensation,
and falls back upon itself in drops, retarding, but not
annihilating, the flow. But we are warned that the figure must be
corrected in that the interruption or inversion of the impetus is
due to a principle inherent in the impetus itself, not to an external
determination. If there were such an external principle, the two
would seem coördinate in reality, but the reality of matter is as
the reality of rest, which, as the negation of motion, is nothing
positive, yet is not a mere naught.
Sometimes, in reading Bergson, it seems very clear that reality
and matter must exclude each other, since one is the negation of
the other; and perception and conception, whose object is matter,
are not knowledge, because that object is unreal. Moreover, not
only is the stuff of reality that psychic process which is life and
lapsing time, but there is no stuff more resistant nor more substantial.
And in numerous other ways the mutual exclusion of
reality and matter seems quite fundamental to Bergsonism. One
can never remain long in any security about this, however. If
Bergsonism is Platonism reversed, it is natural that the peculiarities
of the latter should reappear in some form. Platonic not-being
is much too important and too active to be denied a coequal
positivity with being. Over and above these “worlds,” moreover,
there is that one in which we live, with a third status. Perhaps it
is this which is most like Bergsonian matter—“nothing positive,
yet not a mere naught”! In the letter from which I have already
quoted, Monsieur Bergson wrote me, concerning a previous paper
of mine:123 “You give me the choice between ‘yes’ and ‘no,’
whereas I cannot respond with either, but must mix them. In
each particular case, the ‘yes’ and ‘no’ have to be apportioned,
and this is just why the philosophy I adhere to is susceptible of
improvement and progress. For instance, you find that my
premises lead to this conclusion: ‘Matter has no duration; but
duration is synonymous with reality; therefore matter is not real.’
But, to my mind, matter has exactly the same reality as rest, which
exists only as negation of motion, yet is something other than
absolute nothingness. All that is positive in my ‘vital impetus’
is motion; stoppage of this motion constitutes materiality; the
latter, therefore, is nothing positive, yet not a mere naught,
absolute nothingness being no more stoppage than motion.”
If one seek (it is not to be found, I think, in Bergson’s writings)
an explanation of this abatement or diminution of the élan vital,
this tendency toward rest, the problem turns into the very ancient
problem of the polarity of being in subject and object. In Platonism,
matter arises as product of an eternal antagonism between two
coeval principles, the Idea and Not-being. Not-being is thus
something efficient, something that is capable of entering as a
factor, together with the Idea, into a product, the Sensible Object.
The truth is, therefore, that Not-being is something very real: it
is something because it does something. It is as real as the Idea,
because it is as efficient as the Idea. And in the Bergsonian
creative evolution there often seems just such an antagonism as
this, between two coördinate, efficient, and therefore real
principles. Thus: “The impetus of life ... is confronted
with matter, that is to say, with the movement that is the inverse
of its own.”124 And: “Life as a whole ... will appear as
a wave which rises, and which is opposed by the descending
movement of matter.”125 But, as with Plato, so with Bergson,
dubbing the hated principle “Not-being” or “Negation of Positive
Reality” hardly avails against the soundness of its claim to
positivity. And the case is not different if the “élan vital” is a
self-limited absolute instead of an eternal dualism: the philosopher’s
selection of one of the two coefficients or poles of this self-polarized
absolute, rather than the other, to be snubbed, is arbitrary,
instinctive, personal. With Plato it is one, with Bergson
the other; no logical principle determines it, in either case.
On no other point, I believe, is criticism of Bergson so clamorous
or so unanimous as on his conception of matter. Without doubt,
his conception of matter is obscure. Time and space (terms
equivalent for Bergson, to life and matter) being essentially antagonistic,
must essentially imply each other; and if so, do they not
stand in the same rank as real existences? In what sense, then,
is either real and the other unreal, except by an arbitrary decree?
The ontological obscurity has its corresponding epistemological
obscurity as to the cognitive status of knowledge of matter, which
is the crux of Bergson’s philosophy. Instinct is suited to life and
duration; intelligence, to matter and space. Science says many
things about time, but affords no acquaintance with time itself.
The duration of the unit of time is a matter of indifference to the
meaning and value of any scientific formula.126 For example, if
this unit were made infinity, and the physical process represented
by the formula were thus regarded as infinitely quick, i. e. an
instantaneous, timeless fact, the instantaneity of the fact would
be irrelevant to any truth expressed by the formula. The only
truth the formula expresses is a system of relations, which remains
the same for any unit of time. Science knows no past or future,
nothing but an incessantly renewed instantaneous present, without
substance. The conclusions of science are given in the premises,
mathematically; the world of science is a strict determinism. In
the real world of consciousness, on the other hand,—knowledge
of which can only be acquaintance with it—the future is essentially
contingent and unforseeable, for each new phase is an absolute
creation, into which the whole past is incorporated without
determining it.
* * * * *
The active principle of life Bergson describes by the phrase
tendency to create. Its movement is a creative evolution. Life
flows, or, as we have said, rolls on like a snowball, in an unceasing
production of new forms, each of which retains, while it modifies
and adds to, all its previous forms. But the figure of the snowball
soon fails. One of the most significant facts of the creative evolution
of life is the division of its primitive path into divergent paths.
The primitive élan contains elementary virtualities of tendency
which can abide together only up to a certain stage of their development.
It is of the nature of a tendency to break up in
divergent elementary tendencies, as a fountain-jet sprays out.
As the primitive tendency develops, elements contained in it
which were mutually compatible in one and the same primitive
organism, being still in an undeveloped stage, become incompatible
as they grow. Hence the indefinite bifurcation of the forms of
life into realms, phyla, genera, species, individuals. It is a cardinal
error, Bergson thinks, to regard vegetative, instinctive and intellectual
life, in the Aristotelian manner, as successive stages in
one and the same line of development. They represent three
radically different lines of evolution, not three stages along the
same line.
A tendency common to all life is to store the constantly diffused
solar energy in reservoirs where its equilibrium is unstable. This
tendency, of alimentation, is complementary to the tendency to
resolve equilibrium of potential energy by sudden, explosive
release of energy in actions. As the primitive organism developed
(undoubtedly an ambiguous form, partaking of the characters of
both the animal and the vegetable) these two tendencies became
mutually incompatible in one and the same form of life. Those
forms which became vegetables owe their differentiation from
ancestral forms to a preponderant leaning toward the manufacture
of the explosive, as the animal owes its animality to a leaning
toward the release of energy in sudden and intermittent actions.
The vegetable, drawing its nourishment wherever it may find
it, from the ground and from the air, has no need of locomotion.
The animal, dependent on the vegetable or on other animals for
food, must go where it may be found. The animal must move.
Now, consciousness emerges pari passu with the ability to act,
and torpor is characteristic of fixity. The humblest organism is
conscious to the extent to which it can act freely. Actions may
be effective either by virtue of an excellence in the use of instruments
of action or by virtue of an excellence in adapting the
instrument to the need. Action may thus assume either of two
very different characters, the one instinctive, self-adaptive reaction,
the other intelligent manufacture. The two tendencies have
bifurcated within the animal realm. One path reaches its present
culmination in certain hymenoptera (e. g. ants, bees, wasps), the
other in man.
Thus the development of instinct in man has become subordinate;
human consciousness is dominated by intelligence. Hence
the universality of the vice of intellectualism in philosophy. Man,
because he is dominated by intelligence, supposes intelligence to
be coextensive with consciousness, whereas it is only one of the
elementary tendencies which consciousness comprises, and the
one which is impotent to know the flow of reality. Spencer’s
evolutionism affords no acquaintance with the reality of life.
His so-called evolution starts with the already evolved. Hence
all it reaches is the made, the once-for-all, the timeless. It is
merely a biological theory, and no advance over positive science.
It is not a philosophy.
Having shown the origin of intelligence in the more extensive
principle of life, and limited its sphere of operation to inert matter,
the author turns to the nature of instinct. The greater part of
the psychic life of living beings that are characteristically instinctive
Bergson believes to be states which he describes as
knowledge in which there is no representation.127 “Representation
is stopped up by action.”128 A purely instinctive action would be
indistinguishable from a mere vital process. When the chick,
for example, breaks the shell, it seems merely to keep up the motion
that has carried it through the embryonic life. But neither
instinct nor intelligence is ever pure, and we have in ourselves a
vague experience of what must happen in the consciousness of an
animal acting by instinct. We have this experience in phenomena
of feeling, in unreflecting sympathies and antipathies. “Instinct
is sympathy. If this sympathy could extend its object and also
reflect upon itself, it would give us the key to vital operations....
Intuition, to wit, instinct that has become disinterested,
self-conscious, capable of reflecting upon its object and of enlarging
it indefinitely, leads us into the very inwardness of life ... It
is true that this æsthetic intuition ... attains only the
individual, but we can conceive an inquiry turned in the same
direction as art, which would take life in general for its object.”129
* * * * *
In Matter and Memory, mind is represented as varying, in its
states, between two limits, “pure perception,” which is just action,
and “dreaming.” The limit of action is where the rôle of mind
ceases, the vanishing-point of knowledge. But at the other limit,
dreaming, mind is in full swing, having freed itself, by an inner
tension, from the obstructive influence of body. Far from vanishing
at this limit, as at the other, knowledge is here at its apogee.
It is here “pure.”
It is important for Bergson to recognize an organic connection
(obstructive to mind, as he Platonically conceives) between mind
and body, in order that he may establish the possibility of the state
of “pure perception,” in which mind activity coincides with
bodily activity by a yielding, relaxed concurrence with the latter’s
influence. Mind is here passive; its rôle in the life of the organism
ceases in this state. But it is equally important, for the ontological
independence of mind, that at the “dreaming” pole the
tension which is the very constitution of its knowing should free
mind from bodily influence. This tension, at its ideal limit, must
so disconnect the mind from the body that the former becomes
impotent, as Bergson says, for any efficiency in the physical world.
It seems to be, to all intents and purposes, a disembodied state.
Knowledge having then no possible end in action is clearly its own
end. Intellection is a utility, operating in the world of matter;
knowledge is absolute, self-centered identity of subject and object.
Such, I suppose, is God’s “thought of thought” in Aristotle’s
conception.
This fluctuation of the relation between mind and body, from a
connection which is vital to absolute disconnection, is a reappearance
of the ambiguity discussed on pages 66–7. At one moment the
world seems a Platonic dualism; in the next, a self-limited or
polarized absolutism, like Fichte’s or Hegel’s. Whatever the
“ideal limit” of mind’s cognitive “tension” may be conceived to
be, there ought to be no question of more and less, in the matter
of disconnectedness, strictly speaking. We do not understand
movement from connection to disconnection, through intermediate
stages, as mind is here represented to move, in its states of
knowledge. First mind must be like a certain part of matter, so
that it can rebound by its “tension” from a certain other part;
and then, as soon as it has rebounded, what would be true of the
thing that could do this must suddenly become untrue of it, presumably
because of the rebound, no other reason being assignable
to account for the ensuing disconnection with matter. One bit of
matter can rebound from another, but it is then as much connected
with matter as before. We do not understand how mind, when it
has thus rebounded from one particular material attachment
thereby becomes materially unattached.
This is nevertheless a suggestive scheme of relation. It seems
to me to be marred with one radical fault: these limits of knowledge
are wrongly related. Their negation of each other should be the
opposition of antipodes, not of contradictories. The difference is
the radical difference between implication and exclusion. They
do not exclude each other, but imply each other. Each vanishes
without the other.
In activity, there is externalized motion on one hand and
resistance, or virtual reaction, on the other. Action and reaction
are cases of polarity; they are necessary to each other to give each
other form. In the cognitive subject, reaction that were
purely virtual, without externalizing implication, would be indeterminate
dreaming; motion that were purely externalized,
without implication of inner virtuality, would be indeterminate
activity. Now, anything that is indeterminate or formless simply
is not, if being has any significance whatever; for formless significance
is a contradiction; certainly the significance of anything
would constitute a formal aspect of it. “Pure” matter or quantity
is pure nothing, in the sense that it is quantity of nothing. These
“pure” limits thus snuff themselves out. And variation between
them is not a progression from not-being to being or vice versa, not
a strengthening or weakening of the variable function’s essence.
Such a notion depends on the absurdity of a not-being that can do
things to being, with fluctuating prepotency in the struggle!
Strengthening and weakening—degree in any guise—has no application
to essence. In any phase, that is, knowledge is itself and
nothing else; it cannot be more or less itself.
That which varies concomitantly with the variations in complexion
of consciousness, is the dynamic relation between subject and
object. It may be expressed as variation of ratio between virtual
and real action. At each pole activity vanishes, and consciousness
with it. At one pole, where the ratio is zero, it vanishes in the
direction of “real” or externalized action, which means that the
subject meets no opposing negativity, and so no object; the relation
of activity is extinguished through lack of one of its terms. At the
other pole, where the ratio is infinity, action vanishes in the direction
of “virtuality.” And this means that in the subject there is
no positivity, no subjectivity, to oppose to universal negativity or
objectivity. The result is the same extinction of the relation
through lack of a term. A subject term is lacking in one case,
an object in the other.
Knowledge, for Bergson, corresponds only to the ratio infinity,
of virtual to real action; all other ratios between them are less
than knowledge. To this I object that infinite virtuality is indeterminate
virtuality, which is a naught reached in the opposite
way from that naught which is infinite and indeterminate actuality.
Indeterminate action is nothing, and so is indeterminate knowledge.
Identification of knowledge with any specific value of the
ratio of virtual to real action is not determined by any logical
principle. When a function varies between a positive and a
negative pole, neither pole is an apogee where the function is
most itself. On the contrary, as in the variation of an including
angle, each pole is a limiting position in which the essential
nature of the variable is extinguished. Nor is it most itself midway
between the poles, nor at any other privileged position, for
it is absolutely and fully itself, and nothing else, in every phase.
The genuineness of a state of awareness would then depend also
on the genuineness of the reciprocity between the terms of this
dynamic ratio. Where they are not distinct, where subject and
object are identical, awareness vanishes through lack of a quantitative
coefficient, as it vanishes at each pole through lack of
a qualitative coefficient. In other words, knowledge of a thing
by itself, like action of a thing on itself, is a cancelation of terms
of opposite sign, a contradiction, and the subject and object, whether
of action or of consciousness, are essentially external to each other.
Bergson is treating consciousness as such as if it could be more
or less conscious, as, indeed, a conscious subject may be. That is,
he is treating consciousness as if it could be of a nature more or
less aware or cognitive; he is treating variations of phase as if they
were augmentations and diminutions of essence; he is treating
quality quantitatively, an error which would not have been possible
if he had adhered to the purely conceptual distinction between
quality and quantity. And he is treating the variations of cognitive
complexion or phase as if they depended on variations in a
certain relation (the mutual externality of subject and object)
which is invariable and absolute—incapable, that is, of degree.
* * * * *
“This book,” says the first sentence of Matter and Memory,
“affirms the reality of spirit and the reality of matter.” Lower
in the same page, however, it is explained that “Matter, in our
view, is an aggregate of ‘images.’ And by ‘image’ we mean a certain
existence which is more than that which the idealist calls a representation,
but less than that which the realist calls a thing,—an
existence placed half-way between the ‘thing’ and the ‘representation.’
... the object exists in itself, and, on the other hand,
the object is, in itself, pictorial, as we perceive it; image it is, but
a self-existing image (pp. vii, viii).
“... memory ... is just the intersection of mind
and matter ... the psychical state seems to us to be ...
immensely wider than the cerebral state ... our cerebral
state contains more or less of our mental state in the measure that
we reel off our psychic life into action or wind it up into pure
knowledge ... our psychic life may be lived at different
heights, now nearer to action, now further removed from it”
(pp. xii, xiii, xiv).
The “intersection of mind and matter” suggests a profound
dualism, and this Bergson acknowledges to be essential to his
theory. It is true that no opportunity is lost, to discount the
reality of matter; but the relations which it sustains to mind are
such as can exist only between terms whose reality is coördinate.
Perception is just that biological reactive function of material
organism engaged with material stimulus, which every psychological
text-book proclaims it to be. But the actual conscious state
always has memory in it, as well as perception; or rather, the state
as conscious is nothing but memory; perception itself, “pure”
perception, is action pure and simple, and not cognitive at all.
This is an abuse of the word “perception,” but the epistemology
can show a good deal of reason. After all, our perceptions (as we
call the states of mind in which we are involved with a material
stimulus) mean something, necessarily. They mean something, I
insist, the strangest of them. We sometimes speak otherwise,
saying that an object of perception means nothing to us. But, I
submit, this is only a manner of speaking. A state that meant
nothing, absolutely, were genuinely blank, empty, contentless; and
there is no difference, I take it, between a state without content and
a state that is unconscious. Well, then, meaning something, as a
conscious state must, what does it mean? Bergson, I am sure, is
right in holding that to mean is to recognize, to recall, to remember.
This makes of every concrete perceptive state, so-called, a rudimentary
deduction, a genuine syllogism, a work of intellect. The
major premise is a memory; the minor is an immediate reactive,
sensori-motor datum; the conclusion is the subsumption of the
present datum under the memory. Thus: The experience to
which I attach the name “orange” has such and such characters
(remembered major premise); the present reactive state has these
characters (perceptive datum, minor premise); therefore this state
is a case of the orange experience. The only difficulty is the nature
of the process of subsumption of the present datum with the
memory. The present datum in its purity as present is a reaction
merely, an event in the physical world. Its nature owns nothing
psychical. What commerce, then, can it have with mind? To
call its commerce with mind “subsumption” is to give a label to
a problem. To call memory the “intersection” of the physical
world with mind seems another label, of a metaphorical sort, for
the same problem.
But, for the present, let us hear the doctrine. To my thinking,
it is Bergson’s best work, and full of illuminating suggestion. To
the radical dualist, it should be completely satisfactory. As an
adherent of a certain double-aspect conception of the body-mind
relation, I shall eventually propose a correction and completion,
very radical, certainly, but all that is necessary to make Bergson’s
treatment of this problem of the highest interest and value to
myself.
The body, then, in Bergson’s theory, yes, the brain itself, is no
producer, repository nor reproducer of any element of consciousness.
The body is a center of reaction, and nothing else. “The size,
shape, even the color, of external objects is modified according as
my body approaches or recedes from them, ... the strength
of an odour, the intensity of a sound, increases or diminishes with
distance; finally, ... this very distance represents, above
all, the measure in which surrounding bodies are insured, in some
sort, against the immediate action of my body. In the degree
that my horizon widens, the images which surround me seem to be
painted upon a more uniform background and become to me more
indifferent. The more I narrow this horizon, the more the objects
which it circumscribes space themselves out distinctly according
to the greater or less ease with which my body can touch and move
them. They send back, then, to my body, as would a mirror, its
eventual influence; they take rank in an order corresponding to the
growing or decreasing powers of my body. The objects which surround
my body reflect its possible action upon them.”130 Cut a
sensory nerve, and the reactive process is destroyed, and with it,
perception. “Change the objects, or modify their relation to my
body, and everything is changed in the interior movements of my
perceptive centres. But everything is also changed in ‘my perception.’
My perception is, then, a function of these molecular
movements; it depends upon them.”131 “What then are these
movements?... they are, within my body, the movements
intended to prepare, while beginning it, the reaction of my body to
the action of external objects ... they foreshadow at each
successive moment its virtual acts.”132 It may seem that my reaction
to a body is the same whether I perceive it visually or tactually
or otherwise. But movements externally identical may differ
internally; there is a different organization of the same gross
function with different microscopic functions. The meaning has
ultimately an important sameness, since meaning is a function of
biological adjustment. But different inner organizations are still
the explanation of different ways of perceiving what is, in all
biologically important respects, the same object.
Serious fault has been found133 with Bergson’s attempt to establish,
by scientific research in the subject of aphasia, the ontological
independence of spirit, the seat of memory, from body. But on
other grounds than such scientific investigation the issue of this
attempt appears to me at best a futile achievement; for the result
is in any case the reinstatement, untouched, of that problem of all
radical dualism, a problem which Bergson solves only by metaphor
whose brilliance may be luminous itself, but has no illumination
for the problem, which is how reactive states are also conscious.
There is a theory which relates consciousness and matter to each
each other as the opposite sides of a surface in relief. The objection
to this “double aspect” theory that has weighed most, in
criticism, is that the ground of the parallelism between convexity
and concavity—to wit, a logical implication of each other—is obviously
absent in the parallelism of consciousness and matter.
Whatever parallelism experience actually finds between them is not
deducible from either concept: there is nothing in the definition of
the sensation blue to suggest an afferent nervous current; nothing
in the latter to suggest a sensation. They are incommensurate.
But when you conceive convexity, in that fact you conceive concavity
also, and vice versa. They are related as plus and minus.
The objection appeals to analysis of the definition of consciousness
or of matter, or challenges the advocate of the theory to study his
sensation or his neural process and see if there be in either of them
anything of the other.
A difficulty which immediately arises when this challenge is
accepted has been understood to be decisive against the theory. It
is this: Any definition of consciousness which the advocate of the
theory may propose as the concept to be analyzed must, in order to
fulfil the first requirement of logical definition, be in terms of that
which is not consciousness. And this seems to the critic to beg the
question. If you define consciousness so, he objects, you make its
definition imply matter; but there is then nothing of consciousness
in it; what you have got is only matter. That is to assume an
equation between them. You state the value of x in terms of y,
but then you haven’t got x, but only y. It is otherwise with terms
that really have the correlation you claim for consciousness and
matter. Thus you can equate convexity with concavity in terms
of either alone, as m = -(-m). In this there is no assumption.
But what you say of x is that it equals ay, which is something distinguishable
from x and whose equality to x is just the problem.
But if it be allowed that the disparity between consciousness and
matter must be either a distinction between two kinds of reality, or
else the distinction between being and not-being, the predicament
just described is worse for the critic of the “double aspect” theory
than for its advocate. If the distinction is that of being and not-being,
whichever is not-being has an internal constitution and
structure by virtue of which parts and relations are recognized
within it: matter has physical laws and the interaction of bodies;
consciousness has interrelated states. Not-being, so interpreted,
is hardly distinguished from being. And if the distinction is within
being, and exhausts it, either the connotation of consciousness and
that of matter are referable to each other—expressible in terms of
each other—or else the distinction is only denotative, and they are
not distinguished as different; for difference is a discursive relation
between differents: differing from each other is a case of referring
to each other.
Excessive emphasis on the “ultimateness” and “absoluteness”
of the difference between these two concepts is just the inductive
cue that results in the “double aspect” theory. No one can regard
consciousness as not different from matter—least of all our critic,
who finds them incommensurable. Nay, among real things that
are other than each other, experience gives us no fellow to such
difference; for difference so utter, they that differ should coincide.
And so, in the fact of aspect, we have, indeed, in a thousand forms,
disparity that matches the difference between the concepts now
before us: e. g., right, left; up, down; plus, minus; convex, concave.
We confess three obvious differences between the two equations
which we have taken to represent our critic’s conception of the
relation of convexity to concavity and the relation of consciousness
to matter. In equation (1), which is m = -(-m), representing
the former relation, the same symbol m stands on both sides; in
equation (2) the symbols are different, x on one side, y on the other.
In (1) the coefficient also is the same on both sides, namely unity;
in (2) the coefficients are different, unity on one side, a on the other.
And in (1) the signs are opposite on the two sides, while in (2) the
sign is the same on both sides.
What do these differences mean? To begin with, is (1) monomial
and (2) binomial? No; in spite of the fact that there is only
one symbol in (1), this equation is binomial in precisely the same
sense as (2) is binomial; for it means that a certain attitude toward
m, symbolized by the minus sign, transforms m into something distinguishable
from m. If equation (1) expressed an identity, it
would not represent the relation of convexity to concavity, which
are not identical but distinguishable. But what is thus expressed
in (1) by difference of sign is expressed in (2) by difference of coefficient;
for (2) means that a certain attitude toward the entity
symbolized by x (an attitude symbolized by the phrase “divide by
a”) transforms x into y. In short, the connotation differs, on the
two sides, in both equations alike. But on the other hand, the denotation
is the same on both sides in each equation, for such is the
nature of all equations, whether binomial or any other kind. Thus
we have identity of denotation with difference of connotation in
each of these equations, and they are so far homogeneous with each
other. Now connotation is aspect, which is determined by subjective
attitude; and attitudes are interrelated in determinate and
accurately expressible ways; as, for instance, by antagonism or mutual
exclusion, or by any of an indefinite number of forms of implication.
The difference of attitude called antipodal oppositeness, or polarity,
is the specific difference expressed in equation (1); whereas the
coefficient a, in (2), expresses mere difference of attitude, difference
in general, including, therefore, that specific difference which is
expressed by opposition of sign. Thus equation (1) is a case of
equation (2).
To sum up: The objection, stated in these algebraic symbols, was
this: m implies -m; x does not imply y. Express the fact of relief
in terms of m and you have the correlative fact in -m implied in
the very definition of m; while if you express x in terms of y, you
have y values, and nothing but y. In short, x and y exclude each
other; m and -m imply each other. Our answer is that x implies
y just as m implies -m; for ay is an aspect of the same denotation
as x; and, since the specificity of every aspect of a given denotation
is determinable or definable by relation to all other aspects of the
same denotation, any one of such aspects, as x, implies, in its definition,
every other, and so y, instead of excluding y.
Turning from such abstract considerations to empirical study of
the sensation, the same sort of difficulty reappears. We think we
find a dynamic relationship of organic to extra-organic processes;
this relationship presents a material aspect, which we call neural
activity, and a formal aspect, which we call blue, for instance. But
the critic objects that all this is much more than sensation, and that
we have read our hypothesis into our data. We must keep to the
pure sensation; in that, there is no neural process. So, even as,
before, all our attempts to propose a definition of consciousness for
analysis were ruled out as begging the question, now every sample
of the experience to be observed is rejected as impure. There is no
sensation that is pure in such a sense as our critic means, for he
means subjectivity that implies no objectivity. If this is more
than a word, it is a self-contradiction, since subjectivity is subjectivity
only in the fact of correlation with objectivity. Indeed, if
our critic were to observe convexity as he proposes that we observe
sensation, he would find no implication of concavity in it; nor
would he find it convex. His observation would be the convexity;
the two would coincide, and so would not be two. Convexity in its
essence, as convex, would therein no longer be the object of the observation.
You have to get outside of your convexity to observe it
and its implication of concavity; just so, you have to get outside of
your sensation to know it; in it, you know only the object of it.
When convexity is said to imply concavity, convexity is just therein
not “pure,” as the sensation is supposed to be. “Pure” convexity,
analogous to “pure” sensation or subjectivity, would be
convexity without implication of concavity. That would be zero
convexity, so to speak—a self-contradiction. Just so, the “pure”
sensation, without implication of objectivity, is a fact of consciousness
without the essence of consciousness, which is dynamic relatedness
to an object. “Pure” consciousness is consciousness of
nothing, or no consciousness.
If our critic have his way, we have nothing left us to discuss.
Let us invite his attention to a discussable phenomenon of our own
designating, and definable in some such way as this: the simultaneous
belonging of an experience to an organism and to another material
fact, say the sky. The two belongings are distinguished by a
sui generis difference of direction or relational “sense,” which unambiguously
determines the organism to be the subject of the
belonging, the sky the object. We have at least as good a right to
call this phenomenon by the name of consciousness, or sensation,
as our critic has to name that a sensation which he so defines that
its definition is contradicted by the naming.
Now, experience is essentially dynamic, and, for an organism, to
be active is to be functionally ordinated or focalized. For example,
the eye and other parts may be subservient, in different ways and
degrees, to the hand. Then the organism is focalized into an organ
of touch, of striking, or whatever it may be. Every other function
contributes as accessory to this primary function, in the organism’s
present phase.
We have called consciousness the formal aspect of activity, and
we mean by “form” applied to activity what we mean elsewhere,
determinateness or definableness. Here, in particular, it is that
character which depends on resistance or reactivity. Activity without
resistance would be without determination; its character or
content would have vanished; it would be activity upon nothing,
which, like consciousness of nothing, is nothing. So the resistance
that factors in activity is not extraneous to the essence of activity,
and consciousness and material processes imply each other not
only with the same logical necessity but with the same polar
oppositeness of mutual relation, as the aspects of relief.
Consciousness is thus the inversion or reciprocal aspect of organic
activity, virtual, in distinction from externalized or real, activity.
Where attention is focalized, action is most resisted. As action
approaches free vent, consciousness of the object of this free
activity becomes more and more evanescent. At the limit where
action is unresisted, it and consciousness go out, vanish together, in
inverse “sense” or directions. Where action approaches “pure”
(i. e., unresisted) activity, pure positivity, pure subjectivity, consciousness
approaches “pure” (i. e., unreacting) passivity, pure
negativity, pure objectivity. And such “pure” action and consciousness
are pure nothing, action on nothing, sensation of
nothing. The vanishing of the two relations together is, in each
case, for lack of one of its terms inverse to the term lacking in the
other case.
This mutual symmetry between action and consciousness is an
implicate of their identity of denotation and mutual inversion of
aspect; and any study of the fluctuations and transitions of consciousness,
with its modulations of attention and inhibition, is
accordingly a study in inverse, a perfect logical function, of corresponding
modifications of organic activity; for in the play of the
organic functions we shall find incessant modulations between
their focalization and their dispersion, incessant shifting of their
mutual rank and of the position of primacy among them, to correspond
with the changes between margin and focus that are
always going on among the elements of consciousness.
The organism is structurally and functionally centralized in a
sensori-motor system, where the afferent activity is opposed by the
efferent, in a common focus, or in coincident foci, in which action
and reaction give form to each other. Here organic reaction has its
inception in a preformation, schema or design, as Bergson says, of
the developed activity. An intricate manifold of functions are
organized: interest determines the ascendency or primacy of a certain
function, while others are subservient, being inhibited or reinforced
in varying degrees. The whole complex process has this
character of focal, unifying organization, a unity expressed in
opposite aspects as the simple form of activity, on the one hand,
and as the simple object of perceptive consciousness on the other.
Chapter III
DOCTRINE OF FREEDOM
The fallacy of conceptualism, which, as Bergson conceives it, is
to substitute space for time as the form of mental existence, has
been discussed in the first chapter of Time and Free Will in the
aspect of applying intensive magnitude, and in the second chapter,
numerical multiplicity, to psychic facts. It is the same fallacy
which is discussed in the third chapter, in the aspect of applying to
them the conception of determinate, causal organization. The
outcome of the book is thus that the problem of freedom is just the
problem of conceptualism, a problem of philosophic method.
This book, Time and Free Will, is a manual of instruction for knowing
the reality of mental existence; and its object is the practical
object of indicating the attitude necessary for that purpose. There
are two possible attitudes, that of space and that of time, or that of
conception and that of intuition. The conceptual is the attitude
taken by philosophy universally, to be sure; which explains the
futility of all extant discussions of the “persistent problems of
philosophy.” It is clear, for instance, Monsieur Bergson thinks,
that this attitude gives rise, in an automatic and inevitable way, to
the problem of freedom—that is, that there would be no such
problem but for this false cognitive attitude;—and at the same
time that by originating in this unhappy way the problem is necessarily
a pseudo-problem, cannot be stated without contradiction.
For when you regard mental facts in the spatial or conceptual way,
the question automatically arises, how are these facts causally
related with other spatial facts? It is a contradiction because by
“these” facts you mean non-spatial facts, which, in the nature of
causation, can not be causally related with spatial facts, but which,
the question presupposes, are so related. Such is the real meaning
of the traditional problem of freedom. The solution, says Bergson,
is to cease thinking spatially of that which is temporal; take
the other attitude. Once you have done so, the problem vanishes;
the causal relation is by definition a spatial relation, and there are
no longer two spatial terms to be related. Such determinism is
the associationistic conception of mind as an assemblage of distinct,
coexistent elements of which the strongest exerts a preponderant
influence on the others. Their organization is a
mechanical system, and their operations obey the laws of mechanical
causation.
As relative (i. e. quantitative) intensity is to absolute, qualitative
intensity, as juxtaposited multiplicity is to interpenetrating multiplicity,
so is determinate organization to organization by free
evolution. The categories magnitude, number and cause apply to
space. The difference, for Bergson, between space and time is, as
we have seen, so absolute that it hardly expresses his theory aright
to say that to the above three characters of space three temporal
characters correspond. Reason seems lacking for any correspondence
whatever. This is certain, at any rate: that when intellect
makes time an object, and sees it greater or less, divisible and
regularly consequential, three things are true about the real, non-objective
nature of time, each of which truths manifests itself to
intellect, but wrongly, erroneously. Moreover, it is plainly by
reasoned, analytic discourse that Bergson discovers that the above
intellectual manifestations of time’s essence are false. One discovers,
furthermore, by this conceptual process, just how they are
false, and corrects them with a result so conceptually precise and
intelligible that, instead of these three characters falsely spatial,
other three are determined as truly temporal. Instead of magnitude,
quality has in this way been substituted; instead of multiplicity,
indivisible variousness. For cause, the last chapter of
the Essai substitutes freedom.
We should now be well prepared for divining the nature of the
freedom which is consciousness, or more generally, life. The
organization of the facts of a given consciousness is such that the
person is focally entire in any one of them, even as the entire body
functions in each of its functions (cf. page 20). The determinate
type of organization is analogous to the mechanically actuated
manikin, not to the natural man, even though those fragments
which build up the structure of the associationist soul are forces;
for these forces are mutually distinct parts of the soul, whose
union in it, and so whose interaction, depends on some principle
extrinsic to any of them and is thus wholly determined from without.
In the developmental type of organization, on the contrary,
the wholeness of action is its freedom, rather than independence of
what is not itself. Although such independence seems to belong to
it, as well, what Bergson is interested to emphasize about the freedom
of the free action is that it is the expression of the entire
person.
In the domain of life, there is no identity, for there is no permanence—“the
same does not remain the same,” as Bergson puts
it. The ego is not the same ego in any two moments; it is not the
same ego that deliberates from moment to moment; and two
contradictory feelings that move it are never respectively self-identical
in two moments. Indeed, if the case were otherwise, a decision
would never be made; the equilibrium of the opposing feelings
would never be resolved. Merely by the fact that the person has
experienced a feeling, he is modified when a second feeling comes.
The feelings are the continually modified ego itself, a dynamic
series of states that interpenetrate, reinforce each other and result
in a free act by a natural evolution, because it emanates from the
entire person.
Such is the character of the free act, a very intelligible character,
it would seem, a character lending itself tractably enough to verbal
definition, that is, conceptual definition, as a certain relation of act
to agent. Yet it must immediately be added that what seems so
intelligible and so conceptual an explication of this “certain
relation”—what is contained in the two paragraphs preceding—is
not regarded by the author as a definition of freedom. It seems
that there is a distinction between the formulation of a conception
on one hand, and a definition, on the other, though Bergson does
not elucidate this distinction explicitly, and I have had to give up
the attempt. The distinction is evidently of crucial importance,
nevertheless. “We can now formulate our conception of freedom,”
says the author, on page 219 of Time and Free Will.
“Freedom is the relation of the concrete self to the act which it
performs. This relation is indefinable just because we are free.
For we can analyze a thing, but not a process; we can break up
extensity, but not duration. Or, if we persist in analyzing it, we
unconsciously transform the process into a thing, and duration
into extensity ... and, as we have begun by, so to speak,
stereotyping the activity of the self, we see spontaneity settle down
into inertia and freedom into necessity. Thus, any positive
definition of freedom will ensure the victory of determinism.”
The attempt is therefore unwisely made by indeterminists to
define freedom by meeting determinists on their own ground when
the latter turn the question of freedom into considerations of the
relations of the voluntary act to its antecedents, characterizing
voluntary activity as essentially foreseeable before, or apodictically
intelligible after the fact. When indeterminists permit themselves
to be thus ambushed, they commit themselves to the support of
determinism, by accepting the deterministic postulate, in the one
case that “foreseeable” has intelligible meaning applied to psychic
states, which it has not; or, in the other case, that willed acts are
intelligible both before and after the fact.
The determinist, that is,—to take the second case first—professes
that an act depends in a mechanical way upon certain antecedents.
The indeterminist contends that the same antecedents
could have resulted in either of several different acts, equally
possible. Defenders and opponents of freedom agree in making
a kind of mechanical oscillation between two points precede the
action. I choose A. The indeterminists say, You have deliberated;
then B was possible. The determinists reply, I have chosen;
therefore I had some reason to do so, and when B is declared
equally possible, this reason is forgotten; one of the conditions of
the problem is ignored. Both represent the activity by a deliberative
route which divides. Call the point of the division O; then
the divisions of the forked line OA and OB symbolize the two
divisions which abstraction distinguishes within the continuous
activity, of which A is the termination. But while determinists
take account of everything, and find that the route MOA has been
traversed, their opponents ignore one of the data with which they
have constructed the figure; and, after tracing the lines OA and OB,
which ought to be united if they are to represent the progression
of the ego’s activity, they make this progression go back to O
and begin oscillating again!
The trouble with both these solutions, Bergson says, is that they
presuppose an achieved deliberation and resolution, representable
in space by a geometrical figure. The question, Could the ego,
having traversed the route MO and decided on A, have chosen B?
is nonsense: to put such a question is to affirm the possibility of
adequately representing time by space, succession by simultaneity.
It is to attribute to the figure traced the value of an image and not
merely of a symbol. Figures represent things, not progressions:
how shall a figure furnish the least indication of the concrete
motion, of the dynamic progression by which the deliberation
results in the act? The defenders of freedom say, The route is not
yet traced; therefore one can take any direction. To which we
reply, You can speak of a route, in such a connection, only after
the action is accomplished, and then it has been traced. The
determinists say, The route has been traced thus; therefore its
possible direction was only that particular direction. To which
we reply, Before the route was traced there was no direction, possible
or impossible; there could, as yet, be no question of a route.
In its lowest terms this merely means: The act, once accomplished,
is accomplished; and the argument of the determinists:
The act, before being accomplished, was not as yet an act. The
question of freedom is not touched, because freedom is a shade or
quality of the act itself, not a relation of this act with what it is
not nor with what it can be. Deliberation is not oscillation in
space; it is dynamic progression, in which the ego and the motives
are in a continual becoming, as living beings.
Indeterminists, Professor Bergson says, must beware, again, of
arguing against the prevision of voluntary acts. Once more, this
is not because prevision of a voluntary act is possible, but because
there is no sense in the phrase. If Paul knew all the conditions
under which Peter acts, his imagination would relive Peter’s
history. He must pass through Peter’s very own psychic states,
to know with precision their intensity and their importance in
relation to his other states. The intensity, in fact, is the peculiar
quality of the feeling itself. Now, to know all the antecedents of
the act would bring you to the act itself, which is their continuation,
and not merely their result, and above all in no way separate
from them. To relive Peter’s history is just to become Peter—that
is the only way Paul could conceivably “know all the antecedents”
of the act in question. There is no question of predicting
the act, but simply of acting. Knowledge of the antecedents of the
act without knowledge of the act is an absurdity, a contradiction.
The indeterminists can mean nothing, by such a contention as this,
but that the act is not an act until it is acted—which is hardly
worth meaning;—and the determinists can mean only that the act,
once acted, is acted—which is no better. The subject of freedom
is beside the point, in such a debate.
So the question of prevision comes to this: Is time spatial? You
drew Peter’s states, you perceived his life as a marking in space.
You then rubbed out, in thought, the part OA, and asked if,
knowing the part before O, you could have determined OA beforehand.
That is the question you put when you bring in Paul’s
representation of the conditions (and therefore their materialization)
under which Peter shall act. After having identified Paul
with Peter, you make Paul take his former point of view, from
which he now sees the line MOA complete, having just traced it in
the rôle of Peter.
Prevision of natural phenomena has not the slightest analogy
with that of a voluntary act. Time, in scientific formulæ, is
always and only a number of simultaneities. The intervals may be
of any length; they have nothing to do with the calculation. Foreseeing
natural phenomena is making them present, or bringing
them at least enormously nearer. It is the intervals, the units
themselves—just what the physicist has nothing to do with—that
interest the psychologist. A feeling half as long would not be the
same feeling. But when one asks if a future action can be foreseen,
one identifies physical time, which is a number, with real psychological
duration, which has no analogy with number. In the region
of psychological states there is no appreciable difference between
foreseeing, seeing and acting.
According to the mechanical law of causation, the same causes
always produce the same effects. But, in the region of psychic
states, this law is neither true nor false, but meaningless; for in this
region there is no “always:” there is only “once.” A repeated
feeling is a radically different feeling. It retains the same name
only because it corresponds to the same external cause, or is outwardly
expressed by analogous signs. It was just said that the
ego is not the same in any two moments of its history. It is
modified incessantly by the accumulation of its past. One’s
character at any moment, is the condensation of one’s past. Duration
acts as a cause; but this temporal or psychological causation
has no more analogy with what is called causation in nature than
temporal variousness has with number, or intensity with magnitude.
A causality which is necessary connection is, at bottom,
identity; the effect is an expression of the cause, as mathematical
functions are expressions of each other. But no psychic state has
this virtual identity with, or mathematical reducibility to, any
other with which it would thus be in the “necessary” kind of
causal relation. Such effect is not given in the cause, but is
absolutely new.
Time that has passed is an objective thing, and is representable
by space; time passing is a subjective process, and is not representable.
The free act is the actual passing of time; time in its passing
is the very stuff of the existence of freedom. Analyze an act, and
you make it a thing. Then its spontaneity is altered into inertia,
its freedom into necessity. Hence any definition of freedom makes
it determinism. But, though the analysis of the act and the
definition of freedom are illusory undertakings, the fundamental
fact of freedom remains unassailable by any argument.
* * * * *
Bergson’s way of vindicating freedom is thus to find no case
against it. Of the positive sort, the only, and sufficient proof is
appeal to consciousness. Freedom is an immediate datum of
consciousness.
This is confusing to anyone who cannot follow Bergson in his
view that subject and object, in actual intuitive consciousness, are
indistinguishable, identical. And this fusion of the poles of consciousness
while the nature of consciousness not merely suffers nothing
but even attains its apogee thereby, needs more justification than
Bergson has given it. Freedom is a datum of consciousness; but, as
undetermined, it must, on Bergson’s principles, be consciousness itself—which,
indeed, is plainly enough the teaching intended. Freedom
is consciousness, then, purely subjective. In what sense is it a
datum of consciousness? If it is a datum, is it not an object, of
consciousness? It seems a case where, in order to see, you musn’t
look, lest looking make what is purely subjective an object! This
is hardly the case of the fovea and the faint star, where looking
loses your object; for here, looking rather produces it where no
object belongs, or—perhaps one should say—transforms it. Your
look, says Gustave Belot,134 congeals and immobilizes it, denatures
it like the Gorgon’s stare! It is knowable, says Bergson, only by
being lived. It is a feeling we have. But the trouble is that, to be
known as undetermined, as freedom, to be even a feeling we have,
it is back upon our hands as a datum, as an object.
Before I comment in my own way on the Bergsonian view of
freedom, I wish to call to the attention of English readers the keen
reaction of this French critic of Bergson. Belot objects to the
modest-seeming statement that freedom is a feeling we have.
Neither psychology, he thinks, nor common sense, approves.135
They establish, on the contrary, a sensible difference between
freedom, whatever it may be, and the feeling we have of it—any
feeling we can possibly have. Our feeling of freedom is much less
variable than our freedom. “We agree not to attribute a veritable
practical freedom to the dreaming man, to the somnambulist, to
the man affected with some mental disease. Yet the man who, in
dream, sees himself act, sees himself free in his action; the somnambulist
equally feels himself free and attributes to himself, in his
dream, a responsibility that we decline to put upon him, and which
he will reject, himself, when he wakes136 ... The furious
madman must ordinarily feel himself free in the accomplishment of
a murder for which a tribunal will not consent to punish him. The
fact is, it suffices, in order that we should feel ourselves free, that
our acts should be in harmony with our ideas and our feelings.
Now, that may very well be, in the cases of the dreamer, the
somnambulist, the madman.... They would therefore
feel themselves free. But they are not free; for they only act from
an incomplete consciousness; and a great number of elements of
their normal ego, which would permit the revision, the correction,
the inhibition, are lacking.” A glimmering of the fact of one’s
madness is a token of the only residuum there is of freedom. “It
is to conserve some freedom, to perceive that one no longer is
master of oneself.”
Bergson is alive to all this—sometimes, as when he says that the
freedom of a free action is its entirety, its expression of the total
personality. But Belot is quite justified in charging him with forgetting
it, for only by forgetting it could he conceive of freedom as
an immediate datum of consciousness. It is, indeed, far from the
case that our freedom is nothing but the feeling we have of it, or
that it is proportional to this feeling. What is so altered by the
determinist habit of mind, by the conceptual attitude toward will,
is not at all one’s feeling of freedom, but only one’s interpretation
of it. An immediate, spontaneous feeling, being prior to theory
and analysis, is safe from any influence from them. In the most
incorrigible determinist, consciousness of the wish, other things
equal, is exactly the same as in the most incorruptible indeterminist.
Precise determination of will is not only not contrary to freedom
but is indispensable to it. Minimizing the value of motive in
activity is loss, not gain, to freedom. The motive is what connects
our act to our whole personality, and makes it ours. Without this
connection, we are not free; its interruption is a limitation, not the
condition, of freedom. And indeed freedom is so limited by the
mass of our unreflecting impulses. Bergson is right in saying that
we are rarely free. But therefore he is wrong in saying that freedom
is the mere spontaneity of the ego.
In a certain passage137 Bergson describes freedom in a way which
seems almost explicitly to deny the doctrine that it is the entirety
of will. Here it is a revolution of one part of the self against the
rest, far from emanating from the total self. And such revolution,
just so far as it is purely spontaneous, or arbitrary, is irresponsible
instead of free. Just so far, on the other hand, as it is not arbitrary,
it is determined. In fact, however, appearance of arbitrariness
argues nothing about determination except that one is ignorant
about it.
In showing the absurdity of all argumentation for or against the
determination of a future voluntary act by present conditions, the
considerations offered by Bergson are almost perfect proof of such
determination. The reason we cannot think another’s thought
without disfiguring it is just that the conditions of the thought,
and so of the act, are not all reunited. The act, then, is supposed
to depend on these conditions. Now, an absolute present is a
fiction; each moment of the true duration of consciousness is a
commencement and an achievement. Determination is nothing
but that intimate connection of events which prevents us from
isolating an absolute present. The case of Peter and Paul then,
proves only that foresight could not be adequate to determination,
not that determination is absent. The inability of even the author
of an act to foresee it is no criterion of its freedom. Any free acts
of our own that we do foresee, we foresee as connected with our
present state, as ours, in fact; it is that which makes their freedom,
but that supposes also their determination. This foresight, it may
be said, is always insufficient and imperfect. So much the worse
for freedom, not the better. It is thereby limited, not made.
There are, indeed, always events outside of us that baffle our calculations,
as well as unconscious tendencies, unperceived forces
within us, indistinctly developing beneath the reflective and clear-seeing
ego (Bergson calls this the superficial, Belot the higher ego)
which suddenly break out, rout it and upset it. Such civil war is
anything but freedom.
The uniqueness of psychic states, whether free or not, neither
exempts them from determination nor even differentiates them
from physical states. That a psychic state is not reproducible
Bergson shows to be because the past, incessantly accumulating
and modifying itself, is never the same in two moments. A clearer
statement of the solidarity of past and present—i. e. of determination—could
not be made. It may well be true that in the
physical as well as in the moral world, every individual is without
counterpart; it is none the less a product of nature, for its uniqueness;
and, as a product of nature, determined, in its own uniqueness,
by nature. Among our most unique acts, the most original
are far from being the freest. The eccentricities of the madman
are more original than the sober doings of the rational, but not so
free. The more enlightened men are, the freer; but the more they
do and think the same thing. Their divergences come from their
ignorances and their unconsciousness, which are also the limits of
their freedom. It is the same with them as with nature: it is
when it produces monsters that it is most new, but it is then also
that it has been least free, most constrained in its doings.
Monsieur Bergson has not done away with psychological
determinism; but if he had, he would have hindered freedom rather
than helped it. But the problem is not purely psychological; it is
psycho-physical. We are at once body and consciousness. A
freedom which were not exerted in the outer world would be absolutely
nominal and illusory; and in order to manifest itself therein,
it must be accompanied by physical processes. These too, then,
if determinism is contrary to freedom, must be exempt from
determination.
Bergson’s denial of psycho-physical parallelism138 is no gain for
freedom. If no external effect is essentially involved in a volition,
the volition is impotent—which is surely not to be free. Nor
would it be characteristic of freedom to have activities going on in
the organism without the avowal of consciousness. So far as we
do possess such unconscious goings-on, we are absolutely passive to
their operation. Psycho-physiological parallelism139 is a condition
of freedom, not its negation. Some sort of correspondence is
necessary to the feeling of freedom, and in that case freedom cannot
dispense with determinism in nature, at least. One might, perhaps,
suppose a preestablished harmony between a contingency
(the moral world) and a determinism (the physical); it would be
easier to suppose it between two determinisms; but between two
contingencies—that is too much to ask!
Suppose, then, the ability of mind to produce, veritably cause
physical modifications. Suppose an energy not subject to calculation.
But how shall we ever know such an energy in the external
world? All that is spatial is calculable, if number is derived from
space. How could an energy, then, be manifest in the physical
universe, i. e. in space, without being thereby subjected to the
same forms of quantity and to the requirements of calculation?
Bergson’s attempt to repudiate the problem of determinism, as
a pseudo-problem, results in his vacillation between the two sides
of the controversy. Sometimes he accepts the solidarity of our
acts with the rest of our conscious life, sometimes he denies it;
which is to vindicate freedom sometimes by determinism, sometimes
by indeterminism. In the beginning he founds freedom in
the mutual penetration of the states of consciousness; even sensation
is a commencement of freedom, because it embraces “the
sketching and, as it were, prefiguring of the future automatic
movements;”140 and the free act is defined as that which “springs
from the self”141 without intervention of anything strange. Then,
little by little, the contrary thesis takes the upper hand: the act of
will becomes a coup d’état; “the successive moments of real time
are not bound up with one another;”142 the dynamic conception
supposes “that the future is not more closely bound up with the
present in the external world than it is in our own inner life.”143
Bergson maintains, to be sure, that solidarity can be admitted
between the past and the present and denied between present and
future. Once the event happens it is indeed necessary that we
should be able to explain it, and we can always do so by plausible
reasons. But this connection is established after the fact for the
satisfaction of our discursive reason. The past is fixed, it cannot
not have been; it has become a thing, under the domain of the understanding
and of analysis. Whereas, at the moment of enactment,
the activity is a process, and so not capable of analysis. When the
route is traced, we can analyze its directions and windings, but it
is not traced in advance of being traced; it is the tracing that makes
the route, not the route that determines the tracing. You can
explain what is given, but there is no explaining what is not given.
Bergson, however, does not keep this point of view. The future,
we have just seen, is “prefigured” in the present. Then it is as
necessary to the feeling of our freedom to be able to connect our
future to our present in our decision, as to be able, once the act is
accomplished, to give account of it by reasons drawn from our
consciousness. Bergson’s thought vacillates this way because he
attributes two incompatible characters to the inner life, qualitative
heterogeneity and mutual penetration of its states. Grant
the heterogeneity and you have an infinitesimal dust, the very
denial of connection and penetration. If the states penetrate
there are always two near enough to each other in quality to form
an identical whole, while they differ only in degree, as two very
near shades of the same color. But then there is a quantitative,
and so a homogeneous, aspect of the inner life.
Chapter IV
BERGSON’S ABHORRENCE OF DETERMINATENESS
A deep, temperamental abhorrence of determinateness—that is
the motive of Bergsonism. By admission of Bergson, any object
of the mind is determinate. But therefore a philosophy that
repudiates determinateness in the nature of reality is ineffable
because it is objectless. It is ineffable also because any reason
offered for the indeterminateness of reality is determination of it.
The dread of determinateness is the dread of reason, of explanation,
of interpretation—in a word, of philosophy. A consciousness
which can ‘testify that we are free’ is not an objectless consciousness;
and freedom, if consciousness can testify to it, cannot be an
indeterminate nor an immediate (i. e. unobjectified) datum of
consciousness. Bergson’s position is that it is essential to the true
nature of reality in itself, under whatever aspect—e. g. duration,
motion, freedom etc.—to be subjective; and that this is why Zeno
is right in finding motion, for instance, unthinkable; for “unthinkable”
properly means (though it did not mean, for Zeno)
incapable of becoming objective. This to say, is it not, that the
true nature of reality independently of all point of view is to be
viewed from a certain point! It comes to this, at least, if to be
subjective is compatible with being known in any sense, with
being contained within consciousness at all. Otherwise it comes
to the skeptical (and self-contradictory) doctrine that it is
essential to the true nature of reality to be unknowable in every
sense. The former, of course, is Bergson’s view regarding subjectivity.144
The anti-intellectualist doctrine, however, that data of consciousness
cannot be understood, conceptualized, defined, or even
named—cannot, in short, be objectified—without contradiction is
as important for the problem of knowledge as it is for the problem
of freedom. Professor Perry’s analysis of immediatism145 shows the
misunderstanding of what it is to conceptualize, which underlies
such a doctrine. The anti-intellectualist idea seems to be that the
concept is static, and common to more than one consciousness, and
universal in its denotation, and sharply discrete; and that for these
reasons it could not correspond to what is fluid and private and
uniquely particular and continuous. It is evidently the “copy
theory” of knowledge, which unconsciously determines this criticism
of the concept. Concepts are invalid, applied to life, because
they are not like living objects! “You cannot make continuous
being out of discontinuities,” is James’s criticism.146 And Bergson’s:
“Instead of a flux of fleeting shades merging into each other
[intellect] perceives distinct and, so to speak, solid colors, set side
by side like the beads of a necklace.”147 But, as Perry shows, to
conceptualize is nothing like this procedure. Conception is substitution
of one object of immediate consciousness which is conveniently
abstract, for another object which is, in the circumstances of
the conceiving, inconvenient in its concrete fulness. All that is
necessary in order that this substitutional mode of consciousness
should be valid and true knowledge of the object so symbolized, is
that the substitute should mean that object. And that it can and
does mean it when the object is a subjective state is no more than
the fact that, on Bergson’s own showing, such states are symbolized.
For to mean is essentially to symbolize. Certainly no one concept
is a rounded-out exhaustive awareness, so to speak, of the symbolized
object. But this is no more than to say that conceiving is a
selective and eliminating mode of consciousness—which does not
distinguish it from any other mode, the most immediate and
intuitive possible state of genuine significant consciousness being
essentially as much an elimination as a positing.
Since, then, a symbol never has (just by reason of its function as
symbol) the same structure as the object symbolized, there is
nothing either in the immobility, or the publicity, or the universality,
or the discreteness of any concept, or in its inclusion of all these
characters, to prevent its validly meaning the fluid and private
and particular and continuous. And the real must necessarily
have the conceptual characters, since the characters correlative to
them, alone regarded by Bergson as characters of reality, have no
meaning except correlatively to the conceptual characters. Thus
“fluidity of nothing” is a phrase without meaning. The something
which is fluid, requires, in order that fluidity as such shall be
a datum of experience, a coefficient aspect of immobility. It is
not fluidity that flows. The immobile, snap-shot conceptual form—not
only does this belong to the cataract, as the possibility of
photographing it proves, but this very form is indispensable to the
fact of flow in its genuine concreteness. As for uniqueness, a fact
so unique that it is like nothing else in any respect, could not be
discriminated. The bare discernibleness of a datum requires a
basis of discrimination which is common to it and to that from
which it is discriminated. Continuity is analogous with unity,
and has no meaning if there is no aspect, in it, of composition, and
so of discreteness, as unity is nothing if not union of a plurality.
That the real has the aspects eulogistically favored by intuitionism
is beyond question. That it has not the complementary conceptual
aspects is demonstrably false, and is an illusion of “exclusive
particularity,” explainable only by that prepossession with a
certain abstract view, whose psychological origin has been repeatedly
noted in this study.
Is it not truly a paradox to give the unnamable a long list of
names—life, consciousness, freedom, duration, intensity, quality,
heterogeneity etc.—and to write a book, whether practical or
speculative, concerning that which will not articulate into discourse,
(cf. above, p. 54–5), employing these names on every page;
and to conclude with a studied definition of freedom; and to avow
that the purpose of it all is to make the fact understood that the
subject-matter cannot even be named, still less defined or discoursed
about or understood? It seems improper to consider that
the book is about such a subject, and yet necessary to suppose that
it is about some subject, and impossible to assign another. If it is
true that, in seeming to name this subject, you are deluded; that,
in trying to talk about it, you fail, and name and talk about something
else, instead, its spatialized symbol—then the conclusion is
perfectly valid that such a book is a case of this delusion. And
the trouble lies in that reifying of the coefficients of reality and of
consciousness which is the condition of a philosophy of “pure”
intuition (cf. page 29). To suppose that genuine cases of awareness
can be either pure intuition or pure conception is to reify these
coefficient aspects of consciousness, which are as truly both indispensable
for the genuine concreteness of an actual case of awareness
as are the positive sine and cosine for the real acuteness of an angle
(i. e. for the angle to enclose acutely space revolved-through).
As the zero point of either trigonometric projection is the vanishing-point
of the entity of whose nature they are coefficient functions,
so the “purity” of either coefficient function of consciousness
is the vanishing of any real awareness.148
If no logical reason impugns the validity of conceptual knowledge
of subjective states, no more does the pragmatic test discredit
such knowledge. It is as good, genuine knowledge in its satisfaction
of vital interest as the sensation, say, which is the object of
the state in question. Helen Keller, incapable of the sensation
blue, knows the sensation—conceptually alone, of necessity—rather
better, even, it may be, than she would ever have known it
if her life had been more occupied in the knowing of blue—and
other such—things; better, at any rate, certainly, than most
people know it. All this knowledge can be is a rationalizing of
“blue:” she can name it, define it, understand it, make articulate
and significant statements about it. The intellectual mode of
knowing blue is thoroughly significant. It finds blue in
experience, and enables the conscious subject to identify this object
when she comes across it. By this knowledge, blue is part of the
currency of Helen Keller’s social commerce. It is a factor in her
life, with its importance and interest. Obviously, she can have
got it only by conceptualizing it.
Of course the proposition that consciousness is indefinable has
the same futility as the proposition that it is unnamable; because,
indeed, they have the same meaning. The meaning, we have
seen, is that, in trying to name or define what is fluid, private, etc.,
there is a miscarriage; it is something else that gets named or
defined, to wit the representative or symbol of what was aimed at.
This symbol, being fixed and public, is able to lend itself to application
of the fixed and public name or concept. But we have also
seen that a name is only a symbol; an unnamable thing could not
be symbolized. If, by hypothesis, it is symbolized, it is therein
namable.
But naming a thing is ipso facto relating it, for it is associating it
with something else, its name or symbol; in naming the thing you
have started upon the process of defining it, which is the infinite
process of relating it or understanding it. Exempting things from
naming or definition, sequestering them from the rational domain,
is like setting a limit to space. Sequestering from the rational
domain is relating to it, and that is putting into it.
If the illusion in trying to name and define mental states is due to
their fluidity and privacy, by the same token the same treatment
of physical objects, which Bergson regards as valid treatment, is in
fact equally illusory. To be sure, physical objects have not,
according to the author, the flow of duration, but they are even
less dependable creatures than mental states, for in every new
moment they are something absolutely other than anything which
was in the moment before. Besides which, in spite of this really
incessant instantaneity, something, not explained, causes them, upon
the “intersection” of our duration with them, to appear to us to be
self-identical but changed, even as we ourselves. Physical objects
are not fixed. One finds no exceptions in nature to the universal
law of change; and the state of any physical thing at a given
moment is the outcome, in continuity, of its previous states, to an
indefinite regress of antecedents, quite as the case stands with the
ego. In respect to duration, discriminating between physical and
mental is not valid. Even between organic and inorganic matter
or between conscious and unconscious organisms the difference is
only one of degree or tempo of change. But if so, it is arbitrary, if
one regards the present state of the conscious organism as embodying
the whole of its past, to deny this of the stick and the stone.
Of course mental states are not permanent; subjects, objects—nothing
is permanent that has existence. Nothing stays as it is. The
scope of naming and defining is not limited by permanence.
Neither, however, is the flux of nature chaos, that it should not be
understandable. Change, on the contrary, is the manifestation of
law, in the time of Heraclitus, now, and forever.
Privacy or uniqueness is no more obstructive to understanding
than is change, and, like change, has no peculiar applicability to
mental states as matter of knowledge. Privacy or uniqueness
applies to physical objects of knowledge in essentially the same
way as it applies to mental states. Mere accessibility is, in principle,
common for all objects of knowledge, to all subjects.149 But
there is a special reason why the subject of the state is particularly
disqualified, as compared with others, for knowing his state
immediately, i. e. intuitively; namely, that, at the time of the
existence of the state, when, alone, it could be known intuitively,
he is mainly occupied with another object of knowledge, the object
of the state in question. You do not, then, know a mental state
best by living it, or rather in living it; your knowledge of it is just
then at its worst, since you are then preoccupied in knowing
something else. The state, as an attribute of the subject, is clearly
one of the subject’s relations, and, so, conceptually distinct from
either term. It cannot be at once a knowledge and the object of
that same knowledge. Bergson’s treatment of the conscious state
conceives it in just that way—as if the relation were itself one of
its own terms, the object.
Knowing a mental state can only mean understanding it. It is
not a concrete datum, like the sky, but an abstraction from the
relationship in which the subject and the sky function as terms.
One does not intuitively know the subjective process of blueness, in
looking at the sky; one knows the sky in that sense, but the process
only conceptually, by reflection. Is it any less an authentic
object of knowledge? Is it not itself—is it any symbol of itself?—which
you name and define and talk about and understand?
The practical significance of saying that one felt and now remembers
a feeling is not that the feeling is what one ever felt. Feeling
Number One is not an object for feeling Number Two, neither
during Number One nor afterward, in reminiscent feeling. So far
as the reminiscent state is another intuition, its object is the same
as that of the intuition remembered—so far. But to be reminiscent,
a conscious state must reflect upon, or refer to, a conscious
state distinct from itself. This reflective reference is a conceptual
co-element together with the intuitional character of the reminiscent
state. So far as the memory is reflective, consciousness is
oriented toward the original state itself as a fact, a process, conceptually
distinguishable from the object of it. It is thus only so far
as conceptual that subjective processes can be objects of knowledge,
or, in short, be known. But if so, Bergson is wrong in two essential
points: in denying that subjectivity can be objectified, and in
affirming that knowledge of subjectivity is immediate (i. e. non-conceptual)
or intuitive.
Any reminiscent state, like every other conscious state, undoubtedly
is intuitive in a certain degree. The calmest reflection on an
originally affective experience is tinctured with a rudimentary
fluttering of the old feeling; just as, on the other hand, the most
violent early repetitions of a tempestuous joy or grief must relate,
in order to be reminiscent, to the original experience. No one else,
it may be said, can appreciate my feeling as I do, myself: this
appreciation is no conceptualization of that feeling. This is only
to say that the affective as well as the representative aspect of any
conscious state is unique for each subjective center of interest.
But privacy no more distinguishes subjectivity from objectivity
than does change. Every object, being self-identical, is unique, its
quality private. Inasmuch as each conscious subject is a distinct
center of interest as well as a distinct cognitive subject, the affective
value of a state of a given subject must also be theoretically unique
for that subject. But the state is nevertheless objective and
common as well as subjective and private, since in fact it is an
object for understanding. My state of mind is as accessible to
your understanding as your own (it may be more so, to be sure).
The understanding names the intuitive state—anybody’s at all,
indifferently, one’s own or another’s— as truly as it names any
other relationship or process, by virtue of its conceptual coefficient;
and as truly relates it to the rest of the rational universe, therein
understanding and defining it.
The derivation of the three heterologies elucidated in the three
chapters of the Essai, is the inevitable consequence of the fundamental
heterology of an “absolutely” two-fold universe. The
intensity of mental states could not be homogeneous, for Bergson,
the variousness that belongs to them could not be plural, their
organization could not be determinate, because then they would be
objective, by his definition of objectivity. But why may a subjective
state not be an objective state? To the conceptualist, to
whom these terms are abstract concepts, points of view, discursive
contexts, there is no reason at all. To Professor Bergson, who does
what he accuses conceptualism of doing, namely substituting concepts
for concrete realities, it is a contradiction, for one concrete
reality cannot be another. But a concrete reality which, for a
certain purpose and in a certain context, one symbolizes by the
term “subjective state,” may very well be the same concrete
reality which, for another purpose, one symbolizes by the phrase
“objective state.”
We have seen that intensity which is “pure,” pure quality, is
pure nothing, being quality of nothing; since, if it is quality of
anything, it has its quantitative coefficient, which destroys its
purity. So variousness which is “pure” heterogeneity, is not even
various, but “nothing” again. For it is “interpenetrating”
instead of “juxtaposited” or impenetrable heterogeneity. But
impenetrability is just identity, as Bergson remarks;150 it is a logical
principle rather than a physical law. That two bodies cannot
occupy the same space and time means that they would therein not
be two, or coexistent. Now, interpenetration in any rigorous
sense, any but the loose colloquial sense of small division and
uniform diffusion, is the mere contradiction of impenetrability or
identity. It means that two bodies do occupy the same space at
the same time. If, then, this law of interpenetration thus means
to require (in the subject) the relation of coexistence, and also (in
the predicate) to forbid it—in other words, if it is contradictory to
itself—mental states can obey it no better than pebbles. And,
finally, non-quantitative causality is a third contradiction, since
its “pure” heterogeneity destroys its continuity in time as well as
in space (cf. above, page 93).
How can any of these three pairs of heterologous principles of
space and time be “absolutely” different if, however different,
each pair have such essential community of nature that both must
be called by one name and thought under one category, as two
species of the same genus? For, in spite of all their differences,
they are, throughout the discussion, two kinds of intensity, of
multiplicity, of causation.
Chapter V
THE MYSTICAL YEARNING OF INTUITIONISM
I will conclude these comments on Professor Bergson’s teaching
by noting the mystical nature of the central idea of his epistemology,
the identification of subject and object. The yearning for
a more intimate acquaintance with the thing-in-itself, for a
knowledge truer and more searching than the “practical” and
“useful” reactive relations which we bear to our “phenomenal”
objects—as if such experience were unworthy the sacred name of
knowledge—this, the prime aspiration of the intuitional philosophy
of Bergson, reduces to a futile, if not a morbid, yearning after
self-contradiction. The more you know a thing “in itself,” the
more you “internalize” your relation to it—in short, the more you
identify yourself with it—the less you bear any significant relation
to it at all, any relation, obviously, but that of identity; the less,
notably, you bear the active and cognitive relations toward it.
The indispensable condition of Paul’s knowing Peter is that Paul
should not become Peter. Things can neither be nor be conceived
except in some relations, any more than relations without terms.
If you know the thing in its relations, you know the thing as much
in itself as a thing is capable of being.
“You show,” writes Professor Bergson, in the letter quoted
before, “that perfect intuitive knowledge, as I mean it, would
consist in coincidence with the object known; but that then there
would no longer be knowledge of any object, since only the object
remains.—Yet, in the case of an entirely free action, i. e. an act in
which the entire person takes part, one is altogether in what he is
doing; one has, at the same time, consciousness of what he is doing;
and yet he is not duplicated in observing his own activity, absorbed
as he is in the act itself: here to act and to know (or rather to
possess) are one and the same thing. Intelligence, always outside
of what it observes, cannot conceive of knowledge without distinctness
of subject and object. It is intelligence that propounds
your dilemma: ‘Either there is knowledge of the object, hence
distinctness of object and subject; or subject coincides with object,
and then there is only object: knowledge vanishes.’—But reality does
not accept this dilemma. It presents us, in the case cited, subject
and object as a single indivisible reality, action and knowledge of
the action as a single indivisible reality, of which intelligence
subsequently takes two points of view, that of object and that of
subject, that of action without knowledge and that of pure knowledge.
We have no right to set up these points of view of reality as
constitutive elements of reality itself.”
The last sentence accuses me of doing what I am most zealous to
show is the foundation fallacy of intuitionism! I have been contending
that, when Monsieur Bergson says that subjectivity cannot
be objectified, he is speaking as if “objectifying,” instead of meaning
to take a point of view, means to alter the reality symbolized
by the word “subjectivity.” (Of course the question concerns
concrete cases of subjectivity, the intuitionist contending that a
given subjective state cannot be objectified—i. e. named, defined,
etc.) Now, this seems to me precisely to “set up a point of view
of reality as a constitutive element of reality itself.” But intuitionism
does even worse than this. Having set up this point of
view of reality, and treated it in this concrete way, and worshipped
it as the Absolute, it snubs that other point of view, which, by the
very nature of the genuinely concrete reality, is coördinate with
the deified abstraction, its brother and peer. The object has
“such reality as that of rest, which is the negation of motion,”
the absolute and positive; “yet it is not absolute naught.”
It seems to me that Bergson virtually admits the impossibility
of the coincidence of subject and object when he says that instinct
and intellect are neither possibly pure, which is deeply true. But
then an action “completely free” is only a limiting case, is it
not?—a case which would put the action out of relation and so out
of activity? In a certain obvious sense “the whole person takes
part,” perhaps, in any action; but I cannot imagine any action
or state that could be other than a relation between object and
subject. I cannot see how perfect self-expression in one’s act
makes in any degree for obliteration of ontological distinctness
between agent and patient, subject and object. How may action
be conceived to dispense with reaction? How deny its relational
character, then, without denying its activity—in short, without
contradiction? “Perfect self-expression” distinguishes certain
acts, no doubt, but the distinction is ethical, denoting a teleological
harmony, not a metaphysical identity between subject and
object.
To say that one is completely one’s act and yet knows his act
again confuses a relation with one of its terms. Is it merely a
matter of taste to choose to say that such a state—i. e. perfect
absorption in one’s act—is not knowledge of the act just in so far as
it is the act? Is it not necessary to distinguish between the subject’s
relation to the act, on one hand, and to those things, on the
other (which are neither subject nor act) entering, together with
the subject, into the act? Those things, it seems to me, are the
object, and the act itself a relation between the subject and them,
a relation which wears a conscious as well as an active aspect, and
which, as knowledge, is knowledge of the things, not of the act,
not of itself.
PART THREE — Bergson’s Genius
BERGSON’S GENIUS
177
Logical soundness is never amiss, and is notably desirable in a
philosopher; but Professor Bergson is assuredly right in thinking
that it is no measure of a philosopher’s genius. One’s feeling about
the fallacies of Spinoza and Berkeley and Kant may pale almost
into indifference, in the enthusiasm of following such heroic feats
of insight.
But then, it would seem, their greatness is their insight, and not
their logic, and insight therefore, after all, is philosophical genius.
We have seen that this is Professor Bergson’s conclusion. It
can be interpreted in a sense that is valid, of course: all depends on
the meaning of “insight.” I have insisted sufficiently on the
reasons why I cannot think Professor Bergson’s interpretation of
it is valid. It is a case in which the etymological and the actual
meaning of a word, in a certain context, differ and so give rise to
ambiguity. The word “intuition,” etymologically, means just
“insight.” But then it means consciousness functioning most
completely, least abstractly. Now, Bergsonian “intuition” is a
conception so far from concrete completeness that almost the
primary object of his philosophy is the demarcation of intuition
from any actual state of which consciousness is normally capable.
It is true that Bergson insists that consciousness, in a supernormal
effort, is capable of the purely intuitive act, and that in the capacity
for this feat of knowing lies all the hope of metaphysics. This is
the ground principle of Bergsonism, and I have nothing to add
here, concerning its merits. In a word, its fallacy is the fallacy of
reification. No such feat of consciousness is possible, not because
it is more than the limited power of actual mind can compass, but
because it is a contradiction, since it is consciousness without
object, which is consciousness of nothing.
The Bergsonian will object that, if Bergsonian “intuition” is
abstract, no less abstract is intellect; and, if philosophy is insight,—consciousness
most complete,—the thesis contrary to intuitionism,
that philosophy is intellectual judgment, is a case of the same
fallacy that has been charged to intuitionism, and is inconsistent
with the admission that philosophy is essentially an insight which
involves more than intellect.
The answer is first, that intellectualism, unlike intuitionism,
regards philosophy as indeed an abstract interest, and for that
reason as not separable from the living of a life which supports this
interest in a larger total interest; but, also for that reason, as not
possibly identical, either with life entire or with any interest, such
as the æsthetic, of like abstractness with philosophy. The answer
to the second part of the objection is that an insight which is more
than intellect is not for that reason without its intellectual aspect.
Consciousness is always significant, certainly; but if it has any
meaning, if it is significant, it is, in that fact, intellectual. And insight
without meaning is a contradiction, and is assuredly not philosophy.
The appearance of inconsistency arises from the unconscious identifying
of insight with intuition in the falsely reified sense. Insight in any
such sense philosophy certainly is not. And yet the intellectualist
may properly attribute the greatness of a philosophy to its insight
rather than to its logical cogency, since cogent logic may be dull
and shallow and therefore not great. It is great if it is far-seeing
and deep. There is analytic insight, as well as intuitive.
After all is said, the feeling that even serious lapse of logic may
not be sufficient to destroy the value of a great philosophy is not
the same as the opinion that logic is immaterial to that value. No
one, I dare say,—intuitionist, intellectualist or anyone else—ever
thought this. The genius of a great philosophy is a superior
perspicacity in the recognition of the significance of problems, a
superior discernment of the problematic as such. “The earliest
philosophers” says Professor James,151 “... were just men
curious beyond immediate practical needs, and no particular
problems, but rather the problematic generally, was their specialty.”
But the perspicacity which sees the meaning and bearings
of a problem cannot fail to attack its further interpretation with
a superior freshness and originality. And the interpretation of a
problem, carried to the end, is its only solution. Genius in philosophy
thus also turns into superior richness of suggestion in the
solutions which it invents. Inasmuch as the problem-putting and
the problem-solving processes are continuous with each other, and
in this important sense one and the same thing, it should be expected
that philosophical genius would possess both virtues, in
any actual instance. And no doubt this is the historical fact. On
any view it is suggestiveness, fertility, which is the measure of
philosophical genius. And it seems to the intellectualist that the
possibility of philosophical fertility depends on a discursive,
intellectual co-implication of the parts of the realm of truth.
But although these two phases of philosophical genius—the
problem-putting and the problem-solving phases—have so intimate
a relation with each other, they can and do appear in different
emphases in different philosophers. The emphasis in any particular
case is undoubtedly determined in part from without,
notably by the philosopher’s epochal relations. Thales is greater,
as well as more momentous historically, in his quest of an ἀρχή than
in the consummation of the quest. With Hegel’s material to work
upon, the emphasis in Thales’ genius would have been proportionately
modified. And if Bergson has not, like Thales, unearthed
new problems, that is nothing, for the question of the value of his
work.
Indeed, the historical momentousness of a philosophy is quite
largely independent of its intrinsic merit in either of these senses,
or in any sense. Conditions which contribute to the vogue and
influence of a philosophy are many, some obvious enough, others
more recondite. The question of historical momentousness is thus
only partly germane to an estimate of a philosophy’s own intrinsic
worth; and, in the case of a contemporary philosophy, is in the
nature of things (while the history is yet to be made) an almost
unmitigated speculation. Such speculation regarding Bergson is
no part of the present purpose.
One word more—before undertaking to appraise the genius of
Bergson—as to the motive of such an undertaking in this particular
essay. It is no part of the primary object of the essay. That
object is the very impersonal one of understanding his doctrine.
If logical fallacies are in any sense or degree irrelevant to the value
of a philosophy, it is nevertheless a method of studying a philosophical
work which is not without its value, to square it with
logical principles. When the philosophy under criticism is
already a classic, the omission of appreciative comment needs no
apology, just because the merit of the work is beyond dispute. On
Platonism and on Kantism much valuable light has been thrown in
this severe way. In studies so occupied, disquisition on the
immortal inspiration of the vision bequeathed to mankind in
syllogisms which sometimes halt would not have enhanced the
value of the study.
When our philosopher is a contemporary, the case is different in
that then personal predilection and prejudice are without the
regulation imposed by historical perspective; and injustice, even
negative or privative, either to the living philosopher or to his
living antagonists, has a certain human import of which the conditions
are removed with mere temporal remoteness of the subject
of study, when history has placed him in a setting which includes
an “after” as well as a “before.”
* * * * *
Professor A. D. Lindsay has pointed out152 that, in one important
respect, Bergson’s genius is of the Kantian kind. It is capacity
for such interpretation of old problems that they become veritably
renewed. “It is a great and essential proof of cleverness or insight,”
said Kant, “to know how to ask reasonable questions.”
Now, comments Professor Lindsay (without suggesting any comparison
in importance between Kant and Bergson), there is this
resemblance between them, that much of the interest of Bergson’s
work, as of Kant’s, consists in statement and exposition of antinomies
in philosophy. Like Kant’s, Bergson’s philosophy is
interesting because it is a new method, and, in the same sense as
Kant’s, is a critical philosophy, for it consists in finding the main
source of previous difficulties in uncriticized false assumptions.
Such criticism of the question (“interpretation of the problem”
I called it above) is just the proper business of the philosopher.
For, every question is also an unconditional assertion. Falseness
in this implied assertion is a case of the fallacy of “many questions,”
which, accordingly, may be regarded as the philosopher’s
first concern.
Bergson is a philosopher preeminently in this sense. He is a
philosopher also (in spite of the cavalier denial of Sir. E. Ray Lankester)153
in that he is a man with an articulate conviction concerning
the nature of being and of knowledge. In the aspersion of Bergson’s
thought by the above writer and by Mr. Hugh S. R. Elliot,154
there is a rancour which, in spite of much valid criticism in
detail, produces an impression of ill-regulated prejudice.
This impression is no more than fairly counterbalanced by the
contrary enthusiasm of such whole-souled votaries of Bergsonism
as Edouard LeRoy, William James and H. Wildon Carr.
“There is a thinker,” writes M. LeRoy, “who is deemed by
acknowledged philosophers worthy of comparison with the greatest....
Beyond any doubt, and by common consent, Mr. Henri
Bergson’s work will appear to future eyes among the most characteristic,
fertile and glorious of our era. It marks a never-to-be-forgotten
date in history; it opens up a phase of metaphysical
thought, it lays down a principle of development the limits of which
are indeterminable; and it is after cool consideration, with full
consciousness of the exact value of words, that we are able to
pronounce the revolution which it effects equal in importance to
that effected by Kant, or even by Socrates.”155 It is a “profoundly
original doctrine.” And of endless fertility: “There is no doctrine
... which is more open, and none which ...
lends itself to further extension.” Again: “... a doctrine
which admits of infinite development ... a work of such
profound thought that the least passing example employed takes
its place as a particular study.”156 And so on ad libitum.
These are the glowing words of an ardent disciple (even though
not a pupil) and may be expected to be not, after all, altogether
regulated by a “full consciousness of the exact value of words.”
Such phrases as “worthy of comparison with the greatest,”
“beyond any doubt,” “by common consent,” are pleasantly
vague, and should not offend any judgment that is not literal in
season and out of season. As to the Bergsonian “revolution,” it
should offend no one at all who can put up with an expression of
purely speculative relish. So far, on the other hand, as this revolution
is accomplished fact in the prime of our philosopher’s middle
age, the mention of Socrates and Kant does savour of the
ornate!
Bergson is at least preeminent over all other living philosophers
as the expression of a very revolutionary Zeitgeist. The generation
of Taine and Renan (LeRoy goes on to say) was characterized
by the positivistic presumption that any object whatever could be
‘inserted in the thread of one and the same unbroken connection.’
But rationalistic arrogance has never failed to arouse an answering
voice of protest and dissent; and of our own generation such
anti-intellectualism is one of the controlling ideas. It is primarily
the reactionary conviction that the analytic method of philosophy
is abstract and empty. It is, says LeRoy, a demand for “complete
experience, anxious to neglect no aspect of being nor any resource
of mind.” “Everything is regarded from the point of view of life,
and there is a tendency more and more to recognize the primacy of
spiritual activity.” “That the attitude and fundamental procedure
of this new spirit are in no way a return to skepticism or a
reaction against thought cannot be better demonstrated than by
this resurrection of metaphysics, this renaissance of idealism,
which is certainly one of the most distinctive features of our
epoch.” “But ... we wish to think with the whole of
thought, and go to the truth with the whole of our soul ...
And what is that, really, but realism? By realism I mean the gift
of ourselves to reality, the work of concrete realization ...
to live what we think and think what we live. But that is positivism,
you will say; certainly it is positivism. But how changed!
For, from considering as positive only that which can be an object
of sensation or calculation, we begin by treating the great spiritual
realities with this title.”
“A new philosophy was required to answer this new way of looking
at things. Already, in 1867, Ravaisson, in his celebrated Report,
wrote these prophetic lines: ‘Many signs permit us to forsee in
the near future a philosophical epoch of which the general character
will be the predominance of what may be called spiritualist realism
or positivism, having as generating principle the consciousness
which the mind has in itself of an existence recognized as being the
source and support of every other existence, being none other
than its action.’
“... What Ravaisson had only anticipated, Mr. Bergson
himself accomplishes, with a precision which gives body to the
impalpable and floating breath of first inspiration, with a depth
which renews both proof and theses alike, with a creative originality
which prevents the critic who is anxious for justice and precision
from insisting on any researches establishing connection of
thought.”
“... Mr. Bergson has contributed more than anyone else
to awaken the very tendencies of the milieu in which his new philosophy
is produced, to determine them and make them become
conscious of themselves.”157
In the new and significant relation which LeRoy and others find
in Bergson to motives of thought so distinct as idealism, realism,
and positivism, he is a writer of the fertility of genius; in the skill
of his transfusion of these motives into a type of conception underlying
a very deep and widely extended tendency of the age, he is
the foremost expression of that tendency. In a very limited way,
only, can such enthusiasm as LeRoy’s, in a mind of his excellent
discernment, be reasonably discounted. Trimmed of all its
abounding fervours its fighting weight is still sufficiently impressive:
how resonant to motives and convictions of actually controlling
interest that mind must be which can elicit such response,
needs no better proof than the response itself. No one else is
so well attuned as Bergson to that demand for complete experience
which, if anything, is the spirit of our time. No one else has
carried so far in theory the possibilities of an intense instinctive
living, as the answer to the riddle of the universe. What can be
said for instinct as an organ of philosophy, Bergson has said.
All philosophers of immediacy hold Bergson as chief. Carr, like
LeRoy, thinks Bergson’s doctrine as momentously original as
those of the greatest classics. “Great scientific discoveries,” he
writes,158 “are often so simple that the greatest wonder about them
is that humanity has had to wait so long for them.” Thus with
Berkeley’s “esse est percipi” and Kant’s autonomy of the intellectual
categories. And equally so with Bergson’s interpretation
of reality as life, “living creative evolution,” as distinct
both from solid matter and thinking mind.
James, while others find quite determinate differences between
him and Bergson, was far less cognizant, himself, of differences
than of agreement. He was one of the keenest of Bergsonians,
and regarded himself, certainly with a great deal of genial modesty,
as a follower, a disciple. “... if I had not read Bergson,”
he says,159 “I should probably still be blackening endless pages of
paper privately, in the hope of making ends meet that were never
meant to meet ... It is certain that without the confidence
which being able to lean on Bergson’s authority gives me, I should
never have ventured to urge these particular views of
mine ... In my opinion he has killed intellectualism
definitively and without hope of recovery.”
* * * * *
The quantity and quality of the study of Bergson’s problems
by others, which his own treatment of them has stimulated, is
already an enviable monument to that best quality of philosophic
genius in his work, its fertility of suggestion. Speaking, as the
present writer must, from the point of view of critical reaction,
the value of Bergson is indeed incalculable. This is no conventional
phrase. His theoretical opponent is almost inclined to
feel that the stimulus which Bergson’s lucid exposition affords, to
a mind of contrary conviction, to understand itself, must be a
more precious good even than the quickening which his followers
so eloquently confess.
The fact is that this eloquence is always more than eloquence;
it is a fervour almost like religious fervour. Witness the words
just quoted from James. Every true Bergsonian testifies in the
same tone. Thus LeRoy:160 “Mr. Bergson’s readers will undergo
at almost every page they read an intense and singular experience.
The curtain drawn between ourselves and reality, enveloping
everything, including ourselves, in its illusive folds, seems of a
sudden to fall, dissipated by enchantment, and display to the mind
depths of light till then undreamt, in which reality itself, contemplated
face to face for the first time, stands fully revealed. The
revelation is overpowering, and, once vouchsafed, will never afterwards
be forgotten.
“Nothing can convey to the reader the effects of this direct and
intimate mental vision. Everything which he thought he knew
already finds new birth and vigor in the clear light of morning; on
all hands, in the glow of dawn, new intuitions spring up and open
out; we feel them big with infinite consequences, heavy and
saturated with life. Each of them is no sooner blown than it
appears fertile forever. And yet there is nothing paradoxical or
disturbing in the novelty. It is a reply to our expectation, an
answer to some dim hope....
“... whether, in the long run, we each of us give or
refuse complete or partial adhesion, all of us at least have received
a regenerating shock, an internal upheaval ... henceforth
a new leaven works and ferments in us; we shall no longer think as
we used to think.” As for the attitude of mind proper to bring to
the reading of Bergson, “where the end is to understand rather
than to judge, criticism ought to take second place. It is more
profitable to attempt to feel oneself into the heart of the teaching,
to relive its genesis, to perceive the principle of organic unity, to
come at the mainspring. Let our reading be a course of meditation
which we live.”
And Gaston Rageot: “... the reading of a work of
Bergson’s requires at the very beginning a sort of inner catastrophe;
not everyone is capable of such a logical revolution.”161 A little
further on he speaks of this preparation of the mind to receive the
Bergsonian doctrine as “cette volte-face psychologique.”
Conversion to Bergsonism, indeed, suggests religious conversion.
Compare James’ words with the above. “... if, as Bergson
shows, [the conceptual or discursive form of reality] cannot even
pretend to reveal anything of what life’s inner nature is or ought
to be; why, then we can turn a deaf ear to its accusations. The
resolve to turn the deaf ear is the inner crisis or ‘catastrophe’ of
which [M. Rageot] spoke ... [This] comes very hard. It is
putting off our proud maturity of mind and becoming again as
foolish little children in the eyes of reason. But difficult as such a
revolution is, there is no other way, I believe, to the possession of
reality.”162
Is not this experience very suggestive of the “regeneration” of
Christianity? I think it is, indeed; and I think this fact is suggestive
of the essential nature of Bergsonism. One may turn a deaf
ear to reason, one may execute a volte-face psychologique; but,
whatever the rewards, it seems unlikely (to the unregenerate, of
course!) that among them will be included a better comprehension
of the meaning of reality.
CHAPTER I — I. Subject matter of browning’s poems. — II. Interest in music. — III. Relation to painting. — IV. Relation to sculpture. — V. Significance of the preceding sections. — VI. Time spent in italy. — VII. English knowledge of italian art in browning’s time. — VIII. Non-english themes and settings in general. — IX. A quantitative statement.
Browning’s General Interest in Art.
—Three prominent
facts concerning the subjects of Browning’s poetry are: the comparative
insignificance of nature, the extensive treatment of art,
and the predominance of the human soul. Only a few poems
contain any extended reference to nature; and where such reference
is found, nature is usually treated, as in By the Fireside, for its
effect on human beings, and the soul still remains the dominant
subject. Nature for its own sake is never a supreme concern.
It is never considered as a primary moral force, akin to a personality,
as in Wordsworth. The loveliness of nature is never personified
for the sake of its own sensuous beauty, as in Keats or Shelley.
Pauline, a youthful effort of which Browning later became ashamed,
was written under the influence of Shelley, and approaches the
style of that poet in the prominence and beauty of its nature
descriptions; but no such examples of pure nature descriptions
are found in Browning’s mature work. Several of the well-known
longer poems—Pippa Passes, Christmas-Eve and Easter-Day,
The Flight of the Duchess, for example—as well as other shorter
lyrical poems, contain the nature element; but it is comparatively
slight, and usually introduced for harmony, for contrast,
or to give a mere unshaded background for the characters.
Concerning the predominance of the soul in Browning, every
critic of the poet has written. It does not seem necessary to repeat
any of this familiar criticism here. However, the emphasis placed
upon personality and the soul does have a bearing on the discussion
of Italian arts and artists as found in Browning. For personality
is the dominant factor behind Browning’s selection and treatment
of the Italian arts. Those arts in which personality is strongest
he uses most. The poems having some one of the arts as a main
theme usually had their origin in an interest aroused by some
unique personality. Some further discussions of the relations of
art and personality will be found in each of the five following
chapters devoted to the individual arts; and more extended discussion
is given in the general summary of Chapter VII.
Concerning Browning’s treatment of art, numerous articles have
been written; but they are limited for the most part to consideration
of one art or one poem. Browning, however, is the poet not
of any one art but of art in general and of all the arts. Throughout
life he was interested in more than one art and in spite of the seeming
improbability of his ever having had serious doubts on the subject,
it is stated163 that he was long undecided whether to become a
poet, a musician, or a painter. He might, says his biographer, have
become an artist and perhaps a great one, because of his brilliant
general ability and his special gifts.
—As a child, Browning received a
musical education and became a pianist of some ability. His
appreciation of music was further cultivated, during his young
manhood, by attendance at the best concerts and operas which
London afforded. Beethoven seems to be the composer mentioned
most frequently in biographical sketches and in his letters, a fact
which may indicate his preference in music. During the latter
years of his married life, according to letters by Mrs. Browning, he
took charge of the musical education given to their son, Wiedemann.
So far as appreciation of Italian music and attendance at concerts
in Italy are concerned, he seems to have been little interested.
But again in the years following 1873, while Browning was in
London, he was in frequent attendance at musical concerts. His
interest in music, then, was no intermittent fancy. It was constant
and above the average. If any further proof of his interest in
music were needed, it is found in the influence of that interest upon
his poems; for they show a finer appreciation of music and a greater
knowledge of its technique than those of any other writer.
—A knowledge of painting and
a liking for it as well, were cultivated in Browning’s earliest years,
through the medium of the Dulwich Gallery. Though it is probably
impossible to trace the exact influence of this gallery on his
writings, it may be suggested as the source of references to Italian
art before his visits to Italy, and as the original stimulus of his
interest in the subject. At least, the Dulwich Gallery was only a
pleasant walk from his home, and there his father constantly took
him.
164 There “he became familiar with the names of the great
painters and learned something about their works. Later he
became a familiar figure in one or two London studios.”
Whatever the cause of a certain decline of interest in painting
previous to 1841 may have been, that decline was of short duration.
Probably it was due to the increasing attention he was giving to
poetry as a serious occupation. When he began to feel himself
better established in his poetical career, he returned to his interest
in the sister art. A letter which he wrote to Miss Haworth (probably
in 1841) says that he is coming to love painting again as he did
once in earlier years. In the same letter he speaks of his early efforts
at the age of two years and three months, and characterizes himself
as a wonderful painter in his childhood; but he adds, “as eleven
out of every twelve of us are.” Such a remark, while it shows an
early interest in art, and indicates that his fond relatives may have
considered him a youthful prodigy in art, as fond relatives have a
habit of doing on slight premises, implies that he himself did not
consider his artistic ability seriously.
Browning’s interest in painting, as well as in sculpture, was retained
throughout his life. On September 19, 1846, Mr. and Mrs.
Robert Browning set sail for Italy; and from that time on, the
wife’s letters are full of references to her husband’s interest in art.
In a letter from Pisa dated November 5, 1846, she says she means
to know something of pictures; for Robert does, and he will open her
eyes for her. Here at Pisa, she continues, the first steps in art,
for her, are to be taken. A letter dated October 1, 1847, mentions
their friend, Mr. Powers, the American sculptor. Mr. Story,
another sculptor; Mr. Kirkup, the art connoisseur; Fredrick Leighton;
a French sculptress named Mme. de Fauveau; Gibson; Page;
a Mr. Fisher, who was painting the portraits of Mr. Browning
and Wiedemann; Mr. Wilde, an American artist; and Harriet
Hosmer—all these artists are named as acquaintances of the literary
Brownings who were stay-at-home people in Florence. Many
letters also mention trips to certain places where individual pictures
were seen, such as “a divine picture of Guercino” (August
1848), Domenichino’s “David” at Fano (August, 1848), and the
works of Guido Reni, Da Vinci, the Carracci, and Correggio.
Although Browning never had a course of thorough instruction
in art, he gave some attention to drawing during the reaction from
literary work that followed the publication of Men and Women,
in 1855. A letter from Mrs. Browning to her old friend, Mrs.
Jameson, dated May 2, 1856, gives the story. After thirteen days
application on the part of her husband, she tells us, he produced
some really astonishingly good copies of heads, though his purpose
was only to fill in the pause in his literary career. Then Mrs.
Browning adds: “And really, with all his feeling and knowledge of
art, some of the mechanical trick of it can not be out of place.”
—A similar though less conspicuous
interest in sculpture
165 was maintained through Browning’s
entire career. The first mention of it in either letters or
poems is found in a letter of 1838, to Miss Haworth, in which the
statement concerning Canova implies disappointment and previous
expectation.
Sordello, 1840, contains the first reference found in
a poem; and from that time on, some references are found with a
considerable degree of regularity in both poems and letters. While
the interest was not great compared with that taken in painting,
it was fairly continuous. No mention of Italian sculpture is
found in the poems of Browning after the publication of
The Ring
and the Book, in 1868–9; though references to the art of Greece,
the great home of sculpture, occur frequently.
In 1860, a letter from Mrs. Browning says that her husband
has begun modeling under the direction of Mr. Story at his studio.
She speaks of his progress, of his turning his studies in anatomy to
account, and of the fact that he had already copied two busts—those
of young Augustus, and of Psyche. At this time he was
working six hours a day at modeling. “His habit,” says Mrs.
Browning, “was to work by fits and starts”; and as in the case
of drawing, he had undertaken work in sculpture until his mind
should be ready again for poetical work.
—Many other
statements showing an appreciation of the arts are found in the
biographies and letters of the Brownings. Of these, some details
will be mentioned later, in connection with the treatment of each
separate art. Only such facts have been noted here as tend to
establish the basis on which our discussion is built—namely, that
Browning had a great and continuous interest in the fine arts
and that it is only reasonable to expect a considerable amount of
knowledge and appreciation of them to appear in his writings.
Our final conclusions will concern personality as the source of
Browning’s interest in the arts.
—The amount of time spent by
Robert Browning in Italy is a further reason for expecting Italian
art themes in his writings. In 1838, at the age of twenty-six, he
made his first trip to Italy; and in 1844 he was again there, from
August or September until December. In 1846, Robert and
Elizabeth Barrett Browning went to Italy to live, and excepting
intervals for trips to France and England, were there until the
death of the latter in 1861. For several years after this, Browning
spent most of his time in England. In 1878, however, he returned
to Northern Italy; and of his eleven remaining years, seven
autumns were spent in Venice, until his death there in 1889.
—In spite of the fact that Browning spent so much time in
Italy, the space given to Italian art in his poems is remarkable
because so little was known of that subject in England at that time.
Vasari’s rambling, gossipy, and sometimes inaccurate biographies
may have been known in England at this time. Even if so,
Browning, at least, seems not to have become acquainted with
them until the years of his residence in Italy; for a letter written
in 1847 by Mrs. Browning to Horne, says that they are engaged
in reading Vasari.
During the nineteenth century, the history of art began to
assume a more important place as a distinct branch of general
history. The century was well advanced, however, when the first
complete work in this subject appeared—Kugler’s Handbook
of the History of Art. It was not translated from the German
until 1855, when the part referring to Italy was published in an
English translation by Sir Charles Eastlake. (Many of Browning’s
best art poems were published in 1855, and some of them
previous to that time.) Taking this work as the beginning of
modern treatment of art history, and noting the fact that the next
work of importance referring to Italian art alone and treating it
from the historical standpoint was published by Crowe and Cavalcaselle
in 1876, it is evident that nothing like the present general
knowledge of it could have existed in England in Browning’s
time. Certainly this makes his treatment of art history, particularly
the facility with which he presents the tendencies of different
periods, more remarkable than similar attainment would be in
more recent times. Even with the added knowledge resulting
from recent investigations, no other writer has been able to produce
such perfect poems of the musician or the painter as Browning has
built about Fra Lippo Lippi, or the Italian by adoption, Abt
Vogler.166
—The
Italian element is only one result, though a very significant result,
of a general tendency on the part of Browning to choose poetic
subjects of non-English character. From the Orient,
167 from
Greece,
168 from France,
169 from any region, in fact, which pleased his
fancy, however remote, he levied his contributions. With this
general non-English tendency, it is not surprising that in Italy,
where he spent so much time, he found material for every sort of
poem from
Fra Lippo Lippi to
Luria and
The Ring and the Book,
and that he should shape his material into poems with much of
the atmosphere of Italy, the home of the arts.
—As a matter of fact, the
supposition that Browning’s poetry embodies a large amount of
Italian art reference is correct. Forty-nine poems out of two
hundred and twenty-two, or more than one-fifth of the entire
number, have some mention of one or more of the arts or artists
of Italy, while other poems deal with the arts of other nations or
with a general comparison of the arts.
CHAPTER II — I. General statement. — II. Historical scope. — III. Poetic functions of the references to sculpture. — IV. Source of browning’s knowledge.
Italian Sculpture in the Poems of Browning.
—While forty-nine out of a total of
two hundred twenty-two poems by Robert Browning refer to
some one of the five fine arts—sculpture, music, poetry, architecture,
and painting—only eight mention sculpture; and the references
in these poems are comparatively insignificant. No one
poem deals with sculpture as a theme, nor does any sculptor
express his views of the art in dramatic monologue, as Abt Vogler
does for music, and Fra Lippo Lippi for painting. Reasons for
the preponderance of the other arts will be discussed later, in
connection with further suggestions concerning personality and
its relations to art in Browning’s poetry.
It is often difficult to estimate separately Browning’s treatment
of sculpture and painting, since he discusses the two arts together
in several of his poems (for example, Old Pictures in Florence)
and since many important Italian artists were both painters and
sculptors. However, the predominant art of the man in question,
or the art which Browning emphasizes most in connection with
him, has been taken as a basis for classification. Estimating in
this manner, one finds that the poet refers, in the eight poems, to
seven artists—Niccolo Pisano and Giovanni Pisano, Canova,
Ghiberti, Giovanni da Bologna, Baccio Bandinelli and Bernini—all
of historical interest. Claus of Innsbruck (in My Last Duchess),
and Jules (in Pippa Passes) with his companion art students,
are purely imaginary. Reference is made to seven historical
works of sculpture: the Psiche-fanciulla and Pietà of Canova,
the statue of Duke Ferdinand, John of the Black Bands, Pasquin’s
statue, the Fountain of the Tritons, and the Bocca-dell’-Verità.
Three fictitious pieces of sculpture which are named are also introduced,
besides a number of imaginary unnamed works.
Such references to sculpture as exist in the poems seem to conform
entirely to the facts of history, where there is any pretense
of historical accuracy. Sculpture is so unimportant a feature of
most of the poems that there was certainly very little temptation
to enlarge on the facts for dramatic purposes, or for any other
reason.
—It is improbable that Browning consciously,
or unconsciously either, for that matter, decided to treat
different periods of sculpture until he had covered the historical
field, or that he ever selected any one phase of this art with so
general a purpose in mind. In certain cases he chose some event
or characteristic feature of a period, and before he had finished
the poem referred to a sculptor, or to the condition of the art at
that time, as one of the details in a realistic background for his
picture of the times. Nevertheless he has accomplished, without
any definite purpose, a result similar to a brief historical survey
of sculpture in Italy; his references showing relation to practically
every important period of the art.
The first reference to sculpture is in Sordello (1840), where the
lines concerning the Pisani (Book I, l. 574) characterize the art
of Sordello’s time as just dawning into the Renaissance. In
Pippa Passes (1841) the poet, passing over something like five
hundred years’ development, brings before the reader a picture
of nineteenth century art life among students in Italy. My
Last Duchess (1842) deals with the decadent Renaissance, while
The Bishop orders his Tomb at St. Praxed’s Church (1845) presents
a faithful picture of the same period. In Christmas-Eve and
Easter-Day (1850), the pendulum swings backward to the early
days of Christianity, when the church Fathers abhorred the
physical beauty of their art inheritance from Greece. The Statue
and the Bust (1855) relates events of the sixteenth century also;
but they are such as have no historical significance in a chronological
way, and could just as readily have happened in the thirteenth
or the nineteenth century. Old Pictures in Florence (1855)
has the early masters as its theme, with another reference to
Niccolo Pisano, the first Renaissance sculptor, though the poem
concerns itself mainly with architecture and painters. The Ring
and the Book (1868–69) can hardly be said to deal with any particular
period in art history.
Chronological order is not followed, nor is there any reason in
the logic or emotion of poetry why such order should obtain.
Whether one denies or affirms on the question of poetical inspiration,
one is compelled to admit that the practice in the past has
not been to follow set formulas of time or place. No poet, unless
it be a pedantic one whose work would fail utterly in spontaneity,
would read history and write a poem on each period as he read.
The diagram below indicates that Browning’s work was no
exception to the normal procedure.
| 1. |
Early Art |
.........................e.............. |
| 2. |
Dawn of Renaissance |
.....a................/....\........g.. |
| 3. |
Height of Renaissance |
........\............/.........\f/...... |
| 4. |
Decadent Renaissance |
..........\...c__/d.................. |
| 5. |
Modern |
..........b\./.......................... |
| a. |
Sordello—1840. |
| b. |
Pippa Passes—1841. |
| c. |
My Last Duchess—1842. |
| d. |
The Bishop orders his Tomb—1845. |
| e. |
Christmas-Eve and Easter-Day—1850. |
| f. |
The Statue and the Bust—1855. |
| g. |
Old Pictures in Florence—1855. |
—Of
the function of portraying the times, Sordello gives an example.
Browning became interested in the thirteenth-century troubadour,
and then in his historical surroundings. In working out the social
medium in which Sordello was to live and move, Browning named
the Pisan Brothers to illustrate the sculptural conditions at the
time—one of those numerous small details of which the ordinary
reader is scarcely conscious, which are yet extremely important in
making a perfect word picture. He spoke of Sordello as—
. . . “Born just now,
With the new century, beside the glow
And efflorescence out of barbarism;
Witness a Greek or two from the abysm
That stray through Florence-town with studious air,
Calming the chisel of that Pisan pair:
If Nicolo should carve a Christus yet!”
While the entire passage is carefully subordinated to the main
purpose of studying Sordello, it also clearly pictures the dawn of
the Renaissance light upon sculpture.
The Bishop orders his Tomb at St. Praxed’s Church, and My
Last Duchess, deal with characteristics of their times; but in neither
case is sculpture used as a mere detail in the picture. Because of
the extensive art treatment in each, the two will be discussed
together under the head of Renaissance decadence.170
Besides being important enough in itself to deserve somewhat
extensive treatment, the art element in Pippa Passes is notable
because it marks the only instance in which Browning concerns
himself with the life of modern art students. He certainly did
did not begin the poem with the intention of making the artists a
theme, nor did he attain any such unexpected result. Instead he
began with the thematic idea of the power in unconscious influence,
and through four sections of this dramatic poem developed this
idea by recording the effects of the song of Pippa, upon murderers,
an art student, a fanatical patriot and a scheming bishop. About
one-fourth of the poem deals directly with the student life of artists.
Canova, who is frequently mentioned, represents the ideal of
sculpture; and Jules, the young student who is seeking to attain.
In contrast to Jules, the idealist, is the group of evil-minded
students who induce him to marry a model, under the impression
that she is a cultured Greek woman. It is Browning’s best example
of the “other side,” as illustrated by the group of plotting would-be
artists. This is the only example in all of Browning’s poetry
(with the exception of A Soul’s Tragedy) in which the poet descends
to the level of prose as a medium of speech, and here it is used by
knaves and villains. All the crude reality of life among low-minded
students, their jealousy of one with higher ideals than
their own, the poet gives us in detail by means of their prose
speeches; returning to blank verse, however, for the ideals of
Jules and the aspirations of Phene’s awakening soul. Love of
personality, that great guide to the appreciation of Browning
from whatever position we approach him, and the possibilities of
human development, are written large throughout his works.
Nowhere are these ideas in relation to art more clearly expressed
than in the words of Jules. An artist of the highest ideals, he
has just realized through the singing of Pippa, that a woman’s
soul is in his keeping. He meditates:
“Shall to produce form out of unshaped stuff
Be Art—and further, to evoke a soul
From form be nothing? This new soul is mine!”
Then, since art is the expression of personality, and Jules has met
with so great a change in ideals, he resolves to break his ‘paltry
models up To begin Art afresh.’ His change in personality, it
should be noticed, is due to the fact that he realizes the soul has
greater significance than art—an idea exactly expressing Browning’s
view.
My Last Duchess (1842) is entirely imaginary, but it sums up,
in a short poem, the entire decadent Renaissance attitude toward
art so fully that no historical names could improve it. Its one
mention of sculpture is in the closing lines:
. . . . . “Notice Neptune, though,
Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity,
Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!”
In two and one-half lines it gives a powerful suggestion of admiration
for art because it was fashionable, of emphasis on technique
rather than content, of the classical subject matter and bronze
material that were in vogue at the time, and of the character expressed
in the intellectual but heartless Duke’s purpose of taming
the Duchess.
The Bishop orders his Tomb at St. Praxed’s Church (1845) is
imaginary in its narrative, and probably in all the sculpture named,
though the church of Santa Prassede, in Rome, by its richness of
decoration, and by a tomb similar to the one the Bishop is represented
as desiring, gave the suggestion for the poem. Probably
in all literature there is no more skilful summary of a corrupt
churchman’s attitude toward his church, his fellow churchmen, the
future, earthly love, and art. The characterization is both fearless
and powerful. This poem and My Last Duchess are companion
studies. Both the Duke and the Bishop are fond of power
and prestige, both are jealous and envious, each displays his
attitude toward woman and toward art. The Bishop has more
feeling, though it is largely feeling for himself; and the Duke possesses
more icy pride. Each values art, particularly sculpture, as
something for display, something luxurious and (contrary to the
highest ideas of art) something beyond the power of common
people to appreciate. The poems deal with the same period,
but My Last Duchess is a summary of the secular attitude, The
Bishop orders his Tomb presents the view of an official of the church.
Christmas-Eve and Easter-Day (1850), in a section devoted to
the reverie of the seeker for religious truth after his inspection of
Catholicism at Rome, censures the attitude of the early church
toward the physical beauty of the statuary Italy had inherited
from Greece. While the subject of the poem is religion, not art,
incidentally it contains one of Browning’s best defences of the nude.
He viewed the nude as a fitting expression of the beauty God has
placed in the world, and rejoiced in the “noble daring, steadfast
duty, The heroic in action or in passion,” or even the merely beautiful
physique—all as presented in sculpture. In Chapter VI will
be found further mention of the nude, in connection with Francis
Furini (1887).171 The Lady and the Painter, a non-Italianate poem,
published in the Asolando group (1889), also throws further light
on Browning’s attitude toward the nude. These two poems are
of interest in the present discussion, however, only because they
prove the attitude expressed in 1850 to have been a permanent one.
In The Statue and the Bust, the art references were not introduced
for their own sake, but because they suggested a situation with
dramatic possibilities. The statue of Duke Ferdinand exists as
Browning pictured it. The bust seems to be an addition for
poetic purposes, but it conforms to the spirit of the palace decorations,
in that it was made of Robbia ware, for traces of that material
still adorned the palace when the poem was written.
In Sordello (1840), the first poem containing any reference to
Italian sculpture, the castle of Goito, the early home of Sordello,
is rich in sculpturesque effects. “Those slim pillars, ... Cut like a
company of palms—Some knot of bacchanals, flushed cheek combined
With straining forehead, shoulders purpled—A dullish grey-streaked
cumbrous font ... shrinking Caryatides, Of just-tinged
marble—” all present a physical setting. They do more, however,
than merely locate. Their lonely magnificence harmonizes with the
tone of the story, and they exercise an influence on the nature of
the dreaming, beauty-loving Sordello.
The best examples of sculpture used purely for setting are found
in The Ring and the Book. Containing only its few references to
pieces of sculpture in Florence and Rome, it is the one of the list
of poems in which this art is least prominent. It presents no
picture of a period, no discussion of an attitude toward art, no
poetical background of the times aided by art references. Each
instance tells us that at such-and-such a place in Rome, in sight
of the statue named, a certain event occurred. “Toward Baccio’s
Marble” (Part I, l. 44) is used to help locate the Florentine book-stall
where Browning found the ‘old yellow book’ that became the
basis of the poem. Part I, l. 889, quotes an example of the current
gossip in Rome, as taking place “i’ the market-place O’ the Barberini
by the Capucins; Where the old Triton ... Puffs up
steel sleet.” This instance serves as setting, and further, in a
continuation of the description—“out o’ the way O’ the motley
merchandising multitude”—contrasts the quiet, regular play of
the fountain to the turmoil of the characters. Part VI refers to
Pasquin’s statue in a double comparison which emphasizes Pompilia’s
innocence in contrast to the bestiality of the squibs that
were formerly posted on the statue. In Part XI Guido says his
first sight of an instrument for beheading was ‘At the Mouth-of-Truth
o’ the river-side you know, Retiring out of noisy crowded
Rome’—a reference which serves as a definite means of location.
Yet all instances from The Ring and the Book prove little
concerning Browning’s interest in art, or his specialized attention
to sculpture. The fact that pieces of statuary serve a man as landmarks
in Florence or Rome implies little beyond an effort at clearness
in location. The Ring and the Book, then, in sculpture, is
interesting rather for absence than for presence of such references.
In fact sculpture is not prominent in the Italian art references
of Browning. Not only is it a lesser art quantitatively in Browning’s
poetry, but it seems to be placed on a distinctly lower plane.
Reasons for these facts, are, in part, the predominance of the other
arts over sculpture in Italy, and the particular quality of sculpture
as an art which makes it tend toward the expression of physical
beauty instead of the soul.
Though Browning himself did some work in modeling,172 he used
very few technical terms connected with that art. Since he
never put a sculptor speaker on the stage of his poet-world, one
does not expect to hear the language of that art spoken. The
Duke and the Bishop, it is true, express considerable interest in
art, though it is rather in the dilettante spirit than that of serious
criticism. “Caryatides,” used in Sordello, and “caritellas,” evidently
used for cartellas173 seem to be almost the only instances of
technical—or semi-technical—terms connected with sculpture.
—Proof has already
been given of the statement that Browning had a strong, lasting
interest in the arts, even before he went to Italy. The remark in
the letter to Miss Haworth (1838) concerning disappointment in
Canova, implying previous knowledge, was written during his
first visit to Italy. It is certain, then, that he had formed an
opinion of one Italian sculptor before going to that country.
Probably some of his knowledge of sculpture was gained from
reading, also. In every case in which he described a particular piece
of work, he had previously visited the place where it was located.
Sordello, while it refers to artists rather than particular works,
and exhibits an art knowledge that was probably gained from
reading, was published two years after Browning’s first Italian
visit in 1838. Pippa Passes (1841) was one of the direct results
of the same trip, when Venice and delicious Asolo were visited.
My Last Duchess contains none but imaginary works. The Bishop
orders his Tomb (1845) has its architectural setting at Rome, one
of the points included in Browning’s second visit in 1844. Christmas-Eve
and Easter-Day (1850) also mentions Rome. The Statue
and the Bust (1855) refers to Florence, Old Pictures in Florence
(1855) has the same setting; and The Ring and the Book (1868–9)
refers to Rome and Florence, visited in 1844 and 1847. These
data all tend to support the foregoing statement that the poet
had seen the things of which he wrote.
CHAPTER III — I. General statement. — II. Catholic hymns. — III. Poetic functions of the references to music. — IV. Lack of modern italian references. — V. Conformity to facts. — VI. Source of browning’s knowledge.
Italian Music in the Poems of Browning.
—Only ten poems refer to Italian
music or musicians—seemingly a small number for a writer who
is known as the musician’s poet. Thirteen Italian musicians—Bellini,
Galuppi, Palestrina, Verdi, Rossini, Abt Vogler, Grisi,
Corelli, Guarnerius, Stradivarius, Paganini, Buononcini, and Geminiani—constitute
the group of performers whom he mentions.
Four of these were famous violinists; one was a vocalist. Only
two, Galuppi and Abt Vogler, received any extended treatment,
though an entire poem is also devoted to Master Hugues of Saxe-Gotha,
an imaginary composer. There are many references to
musicians of other nationalities in Browning; but every poem
having this art as its main theme, unless it be Saul, in which the
influence of music is prominent, is included among the ten referring
to Italy.
Thus while Browning is known, even to the general mind, as
a poet who writes about musicians, his fame in this particular field
is founded on a very few well-known poems. Suppose it were
possible to eliminate Abt Vogler from the text of Browning’s
poetry and from the consciousness of the world. Would the
cursory student then know him as the celebrator of music? Or
at least, if one could filch from the human race both Abt Vogler
and A Toccata of Galuppi’s, their author might still be known in
the popular mind as an admirer of the arts, but hardly as a devotee
of music. Quality rather than quantity, then, is the measure
of the element of music in the poems of Robert Browning.
—A by no means unusual introduction
of music, nor one peculiar to Browning (see Byron and others) is
found in the mention of Catholic hymns. However, they are not
employed in any of the poems whose principal theme is music,
nor are they introduced because he deliberately wished to write
about that art. They form a part of the Italian consciousness;
they are stages in daily life; and they mark the passing of time in a
highly poetic way, and in a method characteristic of the Italian
nation.
The Ring and the Book, in five of the twelve sections, includes
the names of Catholic hymns. In Part IV the Magnificat signifies
the triumphant spirit of Violante Comparini, the old woman who
has completed the bargain by means of which she is to trick her
husband into the belief that he is to have an heir. The same section
gives an account of the plan of Pietro and Violante Comparini
to find a titled husband for their so-called daughter, and illustrates
the situation in these words—“And when such paragon was found
and fixed, Why, they might chant their ‘Nunc dimittis’ straight.”
Both of these passages, then, mark psychological states, in one or
both of the parents of Pompilia. Section VI, the defense of Caponsacchi,
contains two references which mark the time of day.
The first, in a quotation from one of the forged letters purporting
to be from Pompilia to Caponsacchi, suggests that he come to
her window at the time of the Ave. The second, in the account of
the flight of Pompilia and Caponsacchi to Rome, is phrased “At
eve we heard the angelus,” indicating time and suggesting, also,
a certain regret for the past on the part of Pompilia. In Section
VII, Pompilia, yielding at last to her own desires for rescue and
to the importunities of her treacherous maid, names the Ave
Maria to indicate the time when she will be standing on the terrace
to talk with Caponsacchi. The Pope, in Section X, gives his
opinion of what will be said of his leniency to the church, should
he free Caponsacchi, and sarcastically observes “in the choir
Sanctus et Benedictus, with a brush Of soft guitar strings that obey
the thumb.” Section XII, in describing the death of Guido, the
wife-murderer, gives his last words as a request for a Pater, an
Ave, with the hymn Salve Regina Cœli. This completes the list
of Catholic hymns mentioned by Browning—six in all.
—Six
different poems contain the names of Italian musicians for
purposes of comparison. The Englishman in Italy, in an implied
comparison, contrasts the fiddlers, fifers, and drummers, at the
Feast of the Rosary’s Virgin, to Bellini. So courageous and confident
do they become on this day that (implying their inferiority)
they play boldly on, says the poem, not caring even for the great
Bellini.
Bishop Blougram’s Apology presents that politic churchman’s
defense of his fidelity to established doctrines on the ground of
expediency—ease in this life and a possible reward in the next.
He admits that wise men look beneath his pretense of a belief in
the winking Virgin and class him as either knave or fool. In
this respect the Bishop likens himself to Verdi at the close of his
worst opera. Though the populace applauded, the composer
looked beyond them for the judgment of Rossini, the master.
In Youth and Art, the struggling girl with aspirations for operatic
honors, who misses a possibility for happiness in her futile quest
for fame, compares herself with Grisi in her hopes of success.
To surpass that prima donna, which, by the way, she never succeeds
in doing, constitutes the height of her dream of happiness.
Red Cotton Night-Cap Country, with its fantastic symbolism of
night-caps, mentions the many varieties of that article and compares
them to the various kinds of violins on exhibition at Kensington
when the poem was composed, with special reference to those of
Italy:
“I doubt not there be duly catalogued
Achievements all, and some of Italy,
Guarnerius, Straduarius,—old and new.”
* * * * *
“Over this sample would Corelli croon,
Grieving by minors, like the cushat-dove,
Most dulcet Giga, dreamiest Saraband.
From this did Paganini comb the fierce
Electric sparks....”
Parleyings with Charles Avison, the only poem which has comparative
estimates of different musicians, names the Italians
Buononcini and Geminiani as having been appreciated along with
Wagner, Dvorak, Liszt and Handel. It is worthy of note that
Rossini, Bellini, and Verdi, of the modern Italian school, are not
mentioned in any such connection.
Abt Vogler, A Toccata of Galuppi’s, Master Hughes of Saxe-Gotha,
and Charles Avison, are all concerned with music as the
principal subject. Each has minor references to Italy, and in
the first two, the musician is an Italian one. Abt Vogler is probably
the finest poem on music in the English language. It contains
a perfect idealized expression of the aims of the musician
and a thorough knowledge of his technique. Like A Toccata of
Galuppi’s it is based on extemporization and the transitory quality
of music; but it is unlike that poem in emphasizing the permanence
of good. Abt Vogler voices the musician’s own musings on the
stately but vanishing castle he has built. A Toccata probably
refers to an improvization on the harpsichord, a frequent occurrence
at the time concerned, and presents the poet as speaker,
questioning the musician concerning the effect of his performance
on the audience. Very different psychological states produced
these two poems. Abt Vogler was written in a mood of reverent
optimism; A Toccata, in a mood of half careless, half earnest
pessimism. Where A Toccata closes with “dust and ashes” the
other poem passes on to the “ineffable name,” and a belief in the
future existence of “All we have willed, or hoped, or dreamed, of
good.” The one closes hope in the grave; the other poem opens
heaven. The transitory quality of human life in A Toccata of
Galuppi’s accords with the music being played, and many terms,
such as “lesser thirds,” “sixths diminished,” “suspensions,” “solutions,”
“commiserating sevenths,” express the different phases of
the listener’s mood.
No attempt will be made in this paper to consider Browning’s
musical terms; for with the exception of “toccata”, meaning a
light touch piece, an overture, they seem mostly non-Italianate.
Abt Vogler, A Toccata of Galuppi’s, Master Hugues of Saxe-Gotha,
and Parleyings with Charles Avison, all contain a considerable
number of musical terms; but beside the fact that they are non-Italianate,
those in at least part of the poems have already been
discussed somewhat extensively in various articles among the
Browning Society papers.
—The number of
references to Italian musicians is comparatively small, even though
the treatment of music in a few poems is unexcelled. Especially
when one considers that the great modern group of Italian opera
composers was so near Browning in both time and place, his mention
of them seems curiously insignificant. Verdi, the greatest of
them, appears in the poems only once, and then in connection
with his worst opera. That the Brownings heard at least one of
Verdi’s operas produced, is established by a letter by Mrs. Browning
dated in 1853. She speaks of their having heard Il Trovatore
a few nights previous, at the Pergola in Florence, and concludes
with the peculiarly suggestive remark, “Very passionate and dramatic,
surely.”
Probably there are several reasons for this neglect of Italian
opera composers. Few poets, least of all Browning, are prone
to bestow unmitigated praise on contemporaries. In the poems
of Browning there are few extended references to any artists who
were living at the time. He particularly loved to choose an
obscure Galuppi, or an Andrea del Sarto, instead of a Michael
Angelo or a Raphael, as a personality about whom to weave a poem.
A more potent reason for the indifference to modern Italian music,
however, lies in the diverging values of the Italian school and that
of northern Europe. A musician who had been trained in the
German music of London concerts could hardly be expected to
welcome the operas of Verdi and Rossini with anything approaching
ecstatic admiration. At the most he might venture a half-conciliatory
remark, such as Mrs. Browning’s concerning Il Trovatore.
—Browning seldom took occasion
to depart from the facts of history in his presentation of Italian
music. One exception is found, going beyond all allowances for
poetic idealization. It is the Verdi reference in
Bishop Blougram’s
Apology.
174 The statement concerns a Verdi composition, and mentions
it as having been given in Florence with Rossini present. As
a matter of fact
Un Giorno di Regno, conceded to be Verdi’s worst
opera, and the only one which was a complete failure, was not
given in Florence on its first production and was probably never
repeated.
Macbeth alone was given at Florence first, and it met
with a moderate degree of success.
—Browning’s life in
Italy probably had less influence on his poetic use of music than
on his use of any other art, as the data he gives might easily have
become known to him without any such experience. Six of the
thirteen musicians whom he named performed in London, and
three of them, Grisi, Bellini, and Paganini, in Browning’s youth.
It is even possible that he attended some or all of their concerts.
Rossini was living in Florence from 1847 to 1855, while the Brownings
were also making that city their home. But while letter after
letter written to friends at home refers to such painters or sculptors
as Story, Powers, and Leighton, there is absolute silence concerning
Rossini. As compared with remarks on sculpture, architecture,
or painting, the letters from Italy, as a whole, show an almost
absolute indifference to Italian music as a historical development,
or as a national achievement. With his fondness for out-of-the-way
investigations and obscure characters from any nation, however,
Browning has taken some characters from Italian music
and has woven their personalities into a few of the best poems on
music ever written.
CHAPTER IV — I. General statement. — II. Predominance in early poems. — III. Sordello. — IV. The imaginary poets. — V. The italian as the type of failure. — VI. Italian men of letters: dante. — VII. Other real writers. — VIII. Browning’s knowledge of italian literature. — IX. Browning’s interest in italian literature.
Italian Poetry in the Poems of Browning.
—Of the two hundred and twenty-two
of Browning’s poems, ten contain the name of an Italian poet
or of his writings. Five imaginary writers—Aprile, Plara, Bocafoli,
Eglamor, Stiatta—and eleven who belong to the history of
Italian literature—Sordello, Nina, Alcamo, Dante, Petrarch, Boccaccio,
Tasso, Sacchetti, Marino, Aretino, and Tommaseo—compose
the list. Of the historical poets, Dante is given the most
important place; for besides the direct tribute that is paid him,
his name or the name of his great work occurs in seven poems out
of the ten. Sordello, a most insignificant poet from the historical
standpoint, receives more extended treatment than any other
literary figure in Browning’s works. Of the entire list of poems,
three deal with the life and aspirations of a poet as the main
theme—Pauline, which, by the way, is really non-Italianate,
Paracelsus, in which the poet Aprile is contrasted with the
scholar, and Sordello.
—Within the first eight
years of Browning’s career, he published four long poems—Pauline,
Paracelsus, Strafford, and Sordello. Three of them deal in some
way with the life of a poet. After this first period, with the possible
exception of One Word More, which is essentially a study in
comparative art, there is no extended discussion of this sort in
any poem, either Italianate or non-Italianate. How it Strikes a
Contemporary deals with the attitude of the general public toward
the life and purposes of a poet, but not, as did the early group,
with the poet’s solution of his own problem concerning his relation
toward his work and humanity. It was written much later,
when Browning was more fully settled in his poetical career.
Pauline is an autobiographical sketch of a poet’s early doubts
and aspirations, largely devoted to appreciation of Shelley, and
without Italianate quality; Paracelsus and Sordello deal with
Italian writers of verse. Since these all belong in the same period
and that the early one, it is clear that Browning was endeavoring
to establish his own ideas of a poet, and these poems were the expression
of that effort. But he chose to express his conclusions by
giving the negative side, not the positive; for Aprile, Sordello,
Eglamor, Plara, Bocafoli, and in a lesser degree Nina and Alcamo,
are all failures. Not all of them absolute and hopeless, for Sordello
dies with a moral victory won, Aprile is successful in part,
and Nina and Alcamo have their strength and grace; but still none of
these poets has fully attained.
—In Sordello, the character of that name has a
shadowy existence in history as one of the most famous of the Italian
troubadours. He seems to have been confused with another Sordello
who was a politician and man of action. Since such scant
facts as can be gathered speak of scandals, and tavern brawls,
Browning’s portrait of him is clearly an idealization, and he
probably chose Sordello instead of some better known figure that
the facts might not interfere with the imaginative picture with
which he wished to surround him. The thirty books which Browning
read on the history of the period were not read to add to
his knowledge of the troubadour, but since even the idealized
Sordello had to be represented as having lived at some time
and place, to give the correct background for his life and actions.
Browning shows that Sordello failed because he loved the
applause he received rather than the poetry itself, because the
aspirations of the man and the poet were at war within him,
because he lacked feeling for humanity, and because he was not
decisive enough to succeed when he attempted action. The moral
victory at the close is for dramatic purposes, and the dominant
theme of the poem as a whole is the failure of a poet.
—Eglamor, a purely fictitious poet
in Sordello, has made verse his only ambition. Lacking all perception
of his life as a man, when he is vanquished in verse-making,
he dies. Plara, in the same poem, stands for the poet without
depth or genius, unable to write anything of thought value,
polishing his poems until they were merely pretty words, lacking
utterly in any interpretation of human life. Bocafoli, with his
“stark-naked” psalms, represents the sensualist. While Nina
and Alcamo belong to history, they have such shadowy existence
so far as present knowledge is concerned, that they will be
considered here. They stand respectively for strength and for
grace, and Browning represents the low voice as saying to Sordello:
“Nina’s strength, but Alcamo’s the grace,
Each neutralises each then! Search your fill;
You get no whole and perfect Poet—still
New Ninas, Alcamos, till time’s midnight
Shrouds all—or better say, the shutting light
Of a forgotten yesterday.”
Aprile, in the poem fashioned about Paracelsus, the wandering
scholar, typifies love as the latter represents knowledge. Through
Aprile, the foil to Paracelsus, the latter comes to see in part the
mistakes in his attitude toward life, and declares
“I too have sought to KNOW as thou to LOVE—
Excluding love as thou refusedst knowledge.
* * * * *
Are we not halves of one dissevered world,
Whom this strange chance unites once more?”
And Aprile exclaims:
“Yes, I see now. God is the perfect poet,
Who in his person acts his own creations.”
—Browning used
seven poets to typify failure, three historical and four imaginary
ones. All these were Italians, and all suggest the conclusion—“You
get no whole and perfect Poet.” This, then, must have
been Browning’s conclusion. Naturally enough he does not picture
for us a poet representing that for which he himself, after
considering different kinds of failure, has decided to strive. By
the very values the failures do not represent, however, Browning
gave us a vision of his own ideals. Lack of knowledge, lack of
strength, of grace, sensuality, superficiality, lack of purpose, and
of interest in humanity—these are the causes of failure as represented
by Aprile, Alcamo, Nina, Bocafoli, Plara, and Sordello.
It would be unfair to say that these unsuccessful poets are typical
of the Italian nation; but it can be safely stated that they are
fairly representative of Italian weaknesses. A predominance of ill
controlled feeling is the most inclusive characteristic of the group
—a trait which is perhaps marked in Italians of the least desirable
class. It is also significant, in contrast to Browning’s own nature,
that no poet of his group of failures represents an intelligent, unselfish
interest in human life.
—Of the great Italian
men of letters, Dante is the only one who is mentioned in Sordello,
and with the exception of the Shelley references in Memorabilia
and Pauline, Browning pays him the most perfect tribute he ever
gave a writer, in the last two lines of the following passage:
“Dante, pacer of the shore
Where glutted hell disgorgeth filthiest gloom,
Unbitten by its whirring sulphur-spume,
Or whence the grieved and obscure waters slope,
Into a darkness quieted by hope;
Plucker of amaranths grown beneath God’s eye,
In gracious twilights where his chosen lie.”
Referring to the fact that Dante’s Divina Commedia includes
Sordello as a character, and that De Vulgari Eloquio praises him
because he had first attempted to establish an Italian vernacular,
Browning names Sordello as the forerunner of Dante. Again in
the same poem, Dante is mentioned as having called the “Palma”
of Browning’s poem “Cunizza,” and as having taken advantage
of Sordello’s lost chance to establish a vernacular.
In most of the other poems, the references to Dante are merely
incidental. Up at a Villa refers to the great literary triumvirate
of Italy, Dante, Petrarch, and Boccaccio, as standing in the popular
mind for all that is great in Italian letters. In Time’s Revenges
Dante appears as being, in the mind of a poor, starving poet, the
highest possible standard of fame.
The only other Dante reference of any importance is in One
Word More. In this poem, Browning’s most beautiful tribute to
his wife, he represents every artist as wishing once, in his life, to
honor his Margarita or his Beatrice. Dante, he says in speaking
of that poet, once prepared to paint an angel, laying aside his own
art of poetry. A historical basis for this statement is found in the
Vita Nuova. But Browning, either intentionally or unintentionally,
probably the former, for the purpose of making this basis
accord with his poetical conception, departs from the facts in two
important particulars. Dante plainly states that his attempt at
the drawing grew out of his meditations on the anniversary of
the death of Beatrice; and the people who broke in upon him were
those of his own town, to whom he apologized for his delayed salutation,
by “Another was with me.” Browning assumes that the
picture was drawn to please Beatrice and that the people who
interrupted symbolized Dante’s own thoughts about the characters
of his Inferno.
—Aretino and Boccaccio are both
presented throughout The Ring and the Book as examples of questionable
morality in literature, or at least of tendencies in that
direction.
In Part III, the gossipers speak of the case of Guido and his
wife as “this last best of the Hundred Merry Tales.” In Part V,
Guido, in his complaint against the parents of Pompilia, appeals
to Boccaccio’s “Book” and “Ser Franco’s [Sacchetti’s] Merry
Tales,” as proofs of the greed and wrong-doing of the parents in
contrast to his own innocence. Caponsacchi, in Part VI, refers
to the forged letters claimed to have been passed between himself
and Pompilia, as worthy of the profligate Aretine. In Part X,
the Pope makes the same comparison, declaring that the letters
are “False to body and soul they figure forth—As though the man
had cut out shape and shape From fancies of that other Aretine.”
In Part XI, Guido attempts to prove that the Pope, in former
times, was very human, since he used to “chirrup o’er the Merry
Tales.” Later in the same section, he asserts his right to enjoy
“When Master Pietro [Aretino] rhymes a pleasantry.”
—Browning’s
poems display no remarkable knowledge of Italian
literature. In comparison with that of the average American or
English citizen, it is above the ordinary, but not more than any
student of literature might very readily acquire without visiting
Italy or residing there. However, the average English student of
literature, if he were a poet, would probably embody less of that
knowledge of Italy in his verse than Browning has done. Except
for the idea of failure as typified by lesser Italian poets, the references
are mainly of secondary importance, introduced because he
had chosen an Italian theme and wished to give it reality of detail.
The stimulus of Italian residence on Browning, then, probably led
to the embodiment in his poems of the literary knowledge he
already possessed. He seems to have made no particular study of
Italian letters, even after going to that country. Some scattered
references to readings in Italian literature (for example in the
novels of Sacchetti
175) exist in the records of the Brownings in
Italy; but these references are few in comparison to those concerning
sculpture and painting.
—While
all the historical references, except the one to Dante noted above
as a probably intentional departure from history, are substantially
correct in both fact and spirit, Browning did not have any great
interest in Italian literature as it existed in his day. Much more
space is given to the treatment of imaginary poets, or to the idealization
of a historical one, for the sake of personality, as in the case
of Sordello. As for the other arts, then, personality is the keynote
of Browning’s appreciation of Italian literature, and of its
place in his poetry.
Browning gives very little space to any formal praise of Italian
poetry or poets, either of the past, or contemporary with himself.
In this respect his treatment of them is very similar to that he
gives to English poets. Memorabilia, in praise of Shelley, is his
only poem which has for its theme the unmodified praise of another
poet. As this poem and the Shelley references in Pauline are
Browning’s only tributes to writers of his own country, so the praise
of Dante, in Sordello, is the only instance of an expressed appreciation
of Italian literature. The only Italian poet contemporary
with himself whom he mentions is Tommaseo; and he is noticed
only as the author of the inscription on the tablet erected by the
city of Florence to the memory of Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
CHAPTER V — I. General statement. — II. Source of browning’s knowledge. — III. Importance of architecture in the poems. — IV. Comparison with other writers. — V. Architecture and personality.
Italian Architecture in the Poems of Browning.
—Twenty-five poems of Robert Browning
make some reference, brief or extended, to an Italian work of
architecture. Two architects, as such, are mentioned in Old
Pictures in Florence. They are Giotto (1267–1337), the original
designer of the Florentine Campanile, and Taddeo Gaddi (c. 1300-c.
1366), his successor. In the twenty-five poems, about fifty-eight
Italian buildings are named, not all of them important architecturally.
Of these, almost exactly one-third are in Florence, and
one or two less than another third are in Rome. Venice and Asolo
claim mention of five and six respectively; but all the remaining
towns must content themselves with a mention of one, two, or
three buildings. The entire number of works of architecture
is divided between twelve towns: Venice, Verona, Bassano, Rome,
Florence, Passagno, Asolo, Padua, Fano, Bagni di Lucca, Arezzo
and Siena.
There are two apparent reasons why the number of buildings
named at Rome and Florence is exceptionally large: first, the
former city has been the historical and political center of Italy
ever since the beginning, and the latter is the art center of the
world; second, Browning spent a considerable amount of time in
Rome, both in 1844, during his second trip to Italy, and in his
visits of 1853 and 1854, while Florence was his home for fifteen
years.
The number of ecclesiastical buildings is something more than
one-half of the entire list; while the remaining ones are about
equally divided between those for state use and private buildings
of a secular character. Considering the large number of beautiful
churches and cathedrals in Italy, the result so far as these are
concerned is in entire accordance with one’s expectations. St.
Mark’s, St. Peter’s, the Vatican, and the Florentine Duomo, all
buildings of world interest, lead in the number of times they receive
mention.
—Browning had seen
almost all if not every one of the Italian buildings he introduces
in his poems. He knew whereof he wrote. Sordello, published in
1840, is concerned with the cities of Venice, Bassano, Verona,
Rome, and Florence; but the references to the last two are very
slight. The first three cities he had visited in his trip of 1838,
along with his “delicious Asolo”, which became the scene of Pippa
Passes, in 1841. Ferrara formed a very large part of the setting
in Sordello, also; but no particular buildings in it are described.
A Toccata of Galuppi’s, 1855, refers to St. Mark’s in Venice. Old
Pictures in Florence, with its distinct Florentine setting, was given
to the world after Browning had lived in that city for nine years.
Doubtless its Campanile, which he mentions in the poem, was at
that time as familiar to him as any building of his native land. By
the Fireside (with reference to the chapel in the gorge) was written
either during the visit of the Brownings to Bagni di Lucca in 1853,
or shortly after it, and was published in 1855. Near Bagni di
Lucca is the scene of the story. There is the same relation between
architectural subject and personal observation in The Boy and the
Angel (Rome), 1842; The Italian in England (Padua), 1845; In a Gondola
(Venice), 1842; The Statue and the Bust (Florence), 1855; Luria
(Florence), 1846; Christmas-Eve and Easter-Day (Rome), 1850;
Fra Lippo Lippi (Florence), 1855; The Bishop orders his Tomb
(Rome), 1845; Bishop Blougram’s Apology (Rome), 1855; One
Word More (Florence), 1855; Abt Vogler (Rome), 1864; Pacchiarotto
(Siena), 1876. Padua and Venice were visited in 1838, Rome
in 1844, Florence in 1846, if not sooner, and Siena in 1850.
The Ring and the Book is an interesting example of Browning’s
procedure in the case of an architectural work he wished to introduce.
Florence and Rome, more particularly the latter, are concerned
with the whole action of the poem, while Arezzo is utilized
in a minor way. By this time (1864–68) Browning had long been
familiar with Florence and Rome. However, the poem was written
in England; and a letter to Frederick Leighton, October 17, 1864,
asks him if he will go into the Church of San Lorenzo, in the Corso,
look at it carefully, and describe it to Browning. Browning
asks particularly about the arrangement of the building, nave,
pillars, the number of altars, and the ‘Crucifixion’ over the altar,
by Guido, and adds that he does not care for the outside. This
church Browning uses more than any other in The Ring and the
Book, making it the scene of the baptism and the marriage of
Pompilia, as well as the place to which the dead bodies were taken.
Mr. Kenyon tells us that the poet was always accustomed to visualize
a scene completely and to keep it constantly before him
mentally as he wrote. It was his general rule to use only buildings
which he had seen, even when he refers to them very slightly; and
in this case, he wrote to inquire about one which he had seen, but
of which he did not have a perfectly clear mental image. The
only possible exception to the personal observation of a building
to be poetically described is in the case of the Pieve, at Arezzo.
The Pieve is described in considerable detail; and so far as can be
learned, the poet probably did not visit it. The Brownings had
planned to visit it in September, 1847, on their way to Rome.
But this trip, in connection with which Arezzo is mentioned, was
abandoned. Later trips were made to Rome, however, and it is
very possible that Arezzo was made a stopping place on one of
them, and the Pieve, after all, was not an exception to the general
rule.
—When
the amount of architecture Browning introduces is first considered,
it seems remarkably large. But such conclusion could be reached
only by failing to take into consideration the manner in which the
references are employed. About ten of the buildings he names,
including those at Asolo and a few others, are of no importance
whatever, from either an architectural or a historical standpoint.
Most of the remaining ones are discussed in histories of architecture
or mentioned in guide books, and a considerable number of
them are of importance architecturally. But with very few
exceptions, Browning does not employ them for the sake of their
architecture; and cared very little whether they were architecturally
good or bad. He usually had a story to tell; and for that story
a location was necessary. Often he used such buildings as had
been significant in the original events on which he based his poem.
There are, to be sure, numerous instances in which the particular
church or castle he names suits the tone of the story just a trifle
better than anything else he could have found. In Sordello, for
example, he constructed an imaginary castle, Goito, which both
harmonized with the character of Sordello and influenced his life,
since it was the home of his youth. An excellent example of a
building chosen to illustrate the theme of the story is The Bishop
orders his Tomb at St. Praxed’s Church. Perhaps no such tomb
as the Bishop’s ever existed, exactly as described in the poem; but
if it had, St. Praxed (Santa Prassede) with its ornate beauty was
exactly suited to be its location.
The Ring and the Book and The Statue and the Bust are both
excellent examples of poems in which the buildings were already
selected for Browning by the stories on which he based his poems.
Examples of buildings chosen for harmony, such as those in
Sordello and The Bishop orders his Tomb, are rather exceptional
cases. Browning’s poetic architecture, for the most part, may be
grouped in three divisions—(1) buildings already chosen for him
by the story which he wished to embody in a poem, (2) buildings
chosen by himself, to harmonize with the tone of the story, (3)
buildings used for setting with no regard whatever for architectural
qualities. The last division is by far the largest. Or, to classify
more broadly, there are two ways in which he uses architecture—(1)
for the sake of an emotional value, of which there is one
example, and (2) for the sake of background effects, to which
practically all the other instances belong.
—Wordsworth has
several poems—for example, Old Abbeys, In the Cathedral at Cologne,
Inside of King’s College Chapel—that within a short space and in a
lyrical fashion deal with architecture in a highly appreciative
manner. Somewhat similar examples from Byron are the Elegy on
Newstead Abbey and the familiar Sonnet on Chillon. But Browning,
whose writings contain few poems of lyric or descriptive subjectivity,
did not devote himself to any such effusions over inanimate
objects. His only description of architecture as something
appealing to the emotion and imagination of man is contained in a
few lines of a very long poem, Christmas-Eve and Easter-Day.
The speaker is searching for religious truth and finds himself, in
his visit to the homeland of Catholicism, viewing St. Peter’s at
Rome. Then follows that wonderfully comprehensive description—
“And what is this that rises propped,
With pillars of prodigious girth?
Is it really on the earth,
This miraculous Dome of God?
Has the angel’s measuring-rod
Which numbered cubits, gem from gem,
’Twixt the gates of the New Jerusalem,
Meted it out,—and what he meted,
Have the sons of men completed?
—Binding, ever as he bade,
Columns in the colonnade,
With arms wide open to embrace
The entry of the human race ...”
But even in this instance, Browning, before his description is
finished, cannot content himself with mere abstract statements of
beauty divorced from human life. He turns to the builders—the
people, and to the purpose—service to humanity.
In the only poem of Browning which deals with an architect at
all, (Old Pictures in Florence, in which Giotto is considered at some
length), the discussion is from the standpoint of the architect’s
aim, his partial achievement, and the relation his work, when it
is finally finished, will have to the people of his city; not from the
standpoint of any technical interest in the art.
—With all his mention of
Italian works of architecture, then, Browning’s primary object
was never the abstract beauty of that art itself. He has far less
treatment of it, from an abstract standpoint, than many another
English writer who has scarcely gone outside his native land for
material. A building, as a building! What was there in it related
to personality as that expressed itself in the struggles of the soul?
And, therefore, what could there be in it to concern Robert Browning?
CHAPTER VI — I. General statement. — II. Extent of browning’s knowledge. — III. Irregular distribution of references. — IV. Sources of the poems. — V. Poetic functions of the references to painting. — VI. Conformity to history.
Italian Painting in the Poems of Browning.
—Twenty-nine poems contain the
names of Italian painters, and fifty-one Italian painters are mentioned
by name; while several of the great artists are mentioned
in many poems. Michael Angelo is referred to in ten different
poems; Raphael in seven, besides the duplicate mention in three
sections of The Ring and the Book; Correggio, and Titian, each in
six poems, and Da Vinci in five different poems. These are all
great masters of the High Renaissance in Italy; and therefore,
they are the greatest artists the world has known: the repeated
introduction of their names is perfectly natural. But among
Browning’s fifty-one painters, some of so little importance are
named that references to them are rare in histories of art. Even
with the most insignificant, some telling phrase is often used to
express with admirable precision the artist’s relation to the history
of art. The best example of this is found in Old Pictures in
Florence, where the poet capriciously calls the roll of the past
Florentine artists, chiding them because none of their works have
come into his possession. In the one poem seventeen men who
have been classified as painters, besides some who are sculptors and
architects primarily, find a place. Only two or three of the artists
are given more than a line or two; but many of even the most insignificant
are summed up in some phrase like the following: “Da
Vincis derive in good time from Dellos;” “Stefano ...
called Nature’s Ape and the world’s despair;” “the wronged
Lippino,” or “my Pollajolo, the twice a craftsman.”
—To cover the entire
field as he does, from Cimabue through the Renaissance and down
to modern times (for he omits almost no artist of importance in
the whole history of painting, besides including many surprises
in the way of insignificant ones), Browning must have had a wonderful
amount of historical knowledge. This familiarity with the
development of the art was gained in three ways—by some study
of the subject before he went to Italy, by reading histories of the
painters after going there, and by visiting galleries and churches
in Italy and studying the pictures found therein.
The fact that Browning had an interest in studying the London
galleries before he went to Italy, and indeed, was a student of
pictures from his childhood, has already been noted in the introductory
remarks.176 Just how great the poet’s knowledge of Italian
art was at this period, is hard to determine. But his first poem,
Pauline, contains a reference to Andromeda, a picture by Caravaggio,
who was a Renaissance artist. Mrs. Orr177 tells us that the
picture was always before him as a boy and that he loved the story
of the divine deliverer and the innocent victim which it represented.
In one of his early letters to Elizabeth Barrett, Browning gives
the following account of his fondness for Andromeda: “How some
people use their pictures, for instance, is a mystery to me. My
Polidore’s perfect Andromeda along with ‘Boors Carousing’ where
I found her—my own father’s doing, or I would say more.”
These statements prove that a fondness for some Italian art, at
least, had been a part of his life from a very early age; and in addition,
they suggest that a person who had so keen an appreciation
for a picture by an artist so little known as Caravaggio, must
have known a great deal more about Italian art than is implied in
this one statement. Browning was in his twenty-first year when
Pauline, the poem referring to Andromeda, was published. This
was five years before his first visit to Italy, but even at this time,
his appreciation of the picture was so complete that he compared
the ever-beautiful and unchanging Andromeda to himself and
seemed to feel that she had as real an existence.
—While the influence
of painting began so early in Browning’s poetical career,
and extended to its close, the last art poem being Beatrice Signorini,
in the Asolando group, published just at the time of his
death, the chronological distribution of the subject is by no means
regular. In Paracelsus, reference to painting is found; Sordello
has some minor references; Pippa Passes contains some mention of
painting and much concerning sculpture. Pictor Ignotus, the first
poem devoted entirely to a painter, was published in 1845. All
these items form a comparatively slender thread of references up
to the publications of 1855. At that date Browning had lived in
Italy nine years, had studied art histories, and seen pictures.
Our chronicler, Mrs. Browning, we recall, furnishes us the information—in
the previously mentioned letter of 1847 to Horne—that
they were reading Vasari. This was the next year after the Brownings
went to Italy to take up their residence there. Though Browning’s
early trips (in 1838 and 1844) seem to have had small influence
on his poetic treatment of painting, the Italian residence
bore fruit. Between 1847, the year when the residence began, and
1855, only one poem of Browning’s was published, and some references
to painting are found in it. The publications of 1855 include
the following poems on painting: Old Pictures in Florence, The
Guardian Angel, Fra Lippo Lippi, Andrea del Sarto, and One Word
More. In this one year, all the finest and best known of his poems
on painting were given to the world. Just why this is true is
hard to prove but easy to conjecture. The time just previous to
their publication marks the period of greatest, most intimate art
study, since these poems were the product of the first nine years in
Italy. There was a certain power, appreciation, and a fineness of
feeling associated with these first years in the great art center of
Florence that never returned again. For some time before this,
Browning had been an interested student of art, and the Florentine
residence brought his ideas to their full maturity. The best that
he was capable of putting into verse on the subject of painting was
both imagined and written during this first period in Italy, the
home of painting.
—An event recorded by Mrs.
Browning, in a letter to Mrs. Jameson, dated May 4, 1850, throws
light on the source of Old Pictures in Florence. She says that her
husband had picked up at a few pauls each some “hole and corner
pictures” in a corn shop a mile from Florence. Mr. Kirkup (one
of the best judges of pictures in Florence) threw out such names
for them as “Cimabue, Ghirlandajo, Giottino, a Crucifixion painted
on a banner, Giottesque, if not Giotto, but unique or nearly so, on
account of linen material—and a little Virgin by a Byzantine master.
Two angel pictures, bought last year, prove to have been
sawed off of the Ghirlandajo, so-called.”
Besides showing, as do many other statements of their life in
Italy, that Browning was deeply interested in art, these words
suggest both the title and the origin of Old Pictures in Florence,
in which the poet reproaches the spirits of the early masters for
failing to leave some of their works to one so appreciative as
himself. What could be more natural in its development? A
poet-artist finds the pictures, is told that they are genuine, and is
very desirous of believing it. His interest in personality turns
his mind to the painters themselves, his fancy runs with a loose
rein—and we have the half-thoughtful whimsicality of Old Pictures
in Florence. On the serious side it pleads for the following: (1)
more attention to the early almost unknown masters, instead of
praise for Angelo, Raphael, and such famous artists; (2) a greater
appreciation of the development of Italian painting, because it
was development, than of the dead perfection of Greek sculpture;
(3) Italian freedom from Austria, and with it the return of art to
Florence, resulting in the completed Campanile with the new flag
upon it. The first two pleas are made on the ground of the noble
development of the early Italian painting, in contrast with the
later art of Italian painting and that of perfect Greek sculpture,
which were at a standstill.
The Guardian Angel was the direct result of a visit by the
Brownings to Fano; probably in 1848, for during that year Murray
sent them there to find a summer residence. Mrs. Browning
reports178 that it was unspeakable for such a purpose, but “the
churches are very beautiful, and a divine picture of Guercino’s
is worth going all that way to see.” The poem was published with
the group of 1855, and in it mention is made of three trips to see
the picture while the Brownings were at Fano.
While The Guardian Angel may be the only poem written as a
direct result of seeing a picture, Andrea del Sarto was at least the
result of the existence of a picture. Mr. Kenyon, an intimate
friend of the Brownings, and a relative of Mrs. Browning, asked
them to obtain for him, if possible, a copy of Andrea’s picture of
himself and wife. Since he was unable to secure it, Browning
wrote the poem and sent it as a record of what the picture contained.
Vasari was the source of much of the historical material which
Browning used in his poems. His gossipy narrative was followed
almost exactly in Fra Lippo Lippi, and partly in Andrea del Sarto
and other poems. Baldinucci’s histories of the Italian painters
furnish material for Beatrice Signorini, and the first part of Filippo
Baldinucci. Browning invented the last part of the latter, and
makes his invention more real by Filippo’s declaration, “Plague
o’ me if I record it in my book.”
—Many
references to painters or painting are used for comparisons,
just as in the case of other arts. Such is the one in Pauline, in
which the poet describes the Andromeda of Caravaggio, and contrasts
her to his own changing soul; and also the comparison in
Sordello, of the hero to the same picture. A third mention of
Andromeda, in Francis Furini, illustrates the beauty of the nude
art. The painter of Andromeda, Polidoro da Caravaggio, is introduced
in Waring, in a far from serious comparison, in which
Browning wonders if his long-silent friend is splashing in painting
“as none splashed before, Since great Caldara Polidore.”
In Pippa Passes, the Bishop compares one artist with another,
by expressing the hope that Jules will found a school like that of
Correggio. In Three Days includes a comparison of the lights and
shades of a woman’s hair to painting, with the line, “As early Art
embrowns the gold.” Any Wife to Any Husband compares the
husband who greatly admires other beautiful women, with anyone
who looks at Titian’s Venus—“Once more what is there to
chide?” Passages in Bishop Blougram’s Apology name Correggio’s
works and the pictures of Giulio Romano as desirable
things to own. The Bishop also states that he keeps his restless
unbelief quiet, “like the snake ’neath Michael’s foot,” referring to
the well-known painting by Raphael. In James Lee’s Wife, the
attitude toward an unbeautiful hand is illustrated by the line—“Would
Da Vinci turn from you?”
One of the most striking examples of the comparison of a person
with a picture is found in Part VI of The Ring and the Book, where
Caponsacchi likens Pompilia to the Madonna of Raphael in innocence.
In Part VII, Pompilia compares her deliverer, Caponsacchi,
to the picture of St. George. In Part VIII, the speaker who defends
Guido reads a description of a man moved by too much grief,
and says it fits Guido’s case just as exactly as Maratta’s portraits
are like the life. The prosecutor, in Part IX, compares himself
in his descriptions of the family of Pompilia, to a painter, carefully
planning to paint a ‘Holy Family’. In this connection he names
Carlo Maratta, Luca Giordano, Angelo, Raphael, Pietro da Cortona,
and Ferri. Four or five other comparisons are found in The
Ring and the Book, but in general, they are very similar to the ones
given above, and little would be gained by enumerating all of them.
About forty lines of Fifine at the Fair are concerned with an
extended comparison of a man’s treatment of his wife with his
attitude toward an authentic Raphael which he has bought. In
each case he makes much over the new treasure when it has first
come into his possession, then seems neglectful, but in case of any
danger, thinks first of his real object of affection, forgetting such
light fancies as other women and Doré picture books. The comparison
is further extended by likening the soul in its choice of
another soul to finding satisfaction in art—poetry, music, and
painting. The Italian artists, Bazzi, Raphael, and Michael Angelo,
are named as examples in this connection.
Red Cotton Night-Cap Country contains a very Browningesque
description of a soul, and pleads:
“Aspire, break bounds! I say,
Endeavor to be good and better still,
And best! Success is nought, endeavor’s all.”
* * * * *
... “there the incomplete,
More than completion, matches the immense,—
Then Michael Angelo against the world.”
With Charles Avison, Cenciaja, and With Christopher Smart
contain comparisons similar to those noted above.
Eleven poems in all deal with Italian painters or painting as
the principal theme. They are: Pictor Ignotus, Old Pictures in
Florence, The Guardian Angel, Fra Lippo Lippi, Andrea del Sarto,
One Word More, A Face, Pacchiarotto, Filippo Baldinucci, With
Francis Furini, and Beatrice Signorini. Eight of these center
around the work, personality, or history of a single artist. Of the
eight, Pictor Ignotus, Andrea del Sarto, Fra Lippo Lippi, and
With Francis Furini, are serious poetic efforts, having as the theme
a painter’s endeavor, and dealing in each case with some shortcoming
or lack of acknowledged success. Each of the first three,
as poetry, is excellent in conception and execution. With Francis
Furini, however, is rather didactic and heavy, lacking in lyricism
and beauty.
The failure of Pictor Ignotus was due to his high conception of
art—so high that he could not bear to submit pictures of real
worth to the world. With his extremely sensitive disposition he
could not endure the thought of ignorant criticism by people who
had no comprehension of the aim or purpose of the artist. Lippi
failed to gain approbation because he would not sacrifice his conception
of painting things as God made them to the misguided
saintliness of the monks. Furini, according to Browning’s estimate,
failed in part, because of his attitude toward the nude.
Andrea del Sarto, the greatest failure in all Browning, possessed a
masterly technique, but failed through his weakness of character.
Of the later art poems, published after 1855, With Francis
Furini is the most serious effort. It contains an extended defense
of the nude in art, the substance of which is summed up in the
following quotations:
“No gift but in the very plentitude
Of its perfection, goes maimed, misconstrued,
By wickedness or weakness: still some few
Have grace to see thy purpose, strength to mar
Thy work with no admixture of their own.”
* * * * *
... “Show beauty’s May, ere June
Undo the bud’s blush, leave a rose to cull
—No poppy neither! Yet less perfect-pure,
Divinely precious with life’s dew besprent.
Show saintliness that’s simply innocent
Of guessing sinnership exists.”
Among the less serious works, Pacchiarotto tells the story of a
reformer-painter, suffering at the hands of the people who opposed
him. With a decidedly humorous treatment, rollicking verse,
and impossible rhymes, Browning carried on the poem to its
conclusion of a fling at the critics of his own verse. Filippo
Baldinucci simply retells a rather amusing story, quite distinct from
any serious consideration of the painter as an artist, with an added
conclusion which Browning imagined for himself. In like manner,
Beatrice Signorini consists of a poetized version of some very
personal history, which Browning took from Baldinucci. The
husband of Beatrice, who was the painter Romanelli, fell in love
with Artemisia Genteleschi, and having painted her portrait,
showed it to his wife. She immediately destroyed it, Romanelli
approved her spirit, and ever after loved her more.
—A few instances of departure
from historical facts are found in the poems on painting, though
it is really remarkable that they were not less accurate, written
as they were at a time when the history of painting had been so
slightly investigated. Such errors as existed are usually the result
of mistakes in the sources Browning followed, though these were
the best in their day, rather than from carelessness on his part.
Some very recent investigators assert that Browning unduly
exaggerated the character of Andrea’s wife, in Andrea del Sarto.
However, no less an authority than W. M. Rossetti insists that
he was essentially true to the facts in representing her. Others
insist that he was somewhat unfair in the general impression
which he gives of Andrea. At least he has not changed the facts
materially in this particular case; and if any liberty has been taken,
from a poetic standpoint it is well taken. There are several slight
errors in Fra Lippo Lippi. For example, Guidi (Masaccio) is
now known to have been the master, not the pupil of Lippi, and
the picture in Sant’ Ambrogio was probably not the expiation of a
prank.
The few changes in the facts, however, are comparatively slight,
all told. Allowing for mistaken authorities whom Browning followed,
variations are much more trivial than might be expected.
By the old well-worn charity cloak of poetic license it is customary
to allow for considerable idealization. But Browning, the artist
of things as they really exist, held to the truth as he saw it, even
in his treatment of art. This he did in spite of the fact that his
purpose was not to give art history, but to present personality
as it existed in relation to art. With his deep insight into human
nature, as well as art history, he took the characters which he
found in the world of art, the good or bad, and gave them to us as
examples of the striving, often unsuccessful soul.
CHAPTER VII — I. Poetic function and method. — II. Amount of material used from each of the fine arts. — III. Personality and the arts. — IV. Browning as the poet of humanity.
General Comparisons: Browning and the Fine Arts of Italy.
—About fifteen poems from
Browning deal with the arts or artists of Italy as primary subject
matter. The remainder of the entire number of forty-nine which
refer to art at all, treat it as a secondary consideration. Taking
the subject art as a whole, as Browning introduces it in poetry,
it appears in the following forms: (1) main theme; (2) comparison
of two or more artists working in the same art; (3) comparison of
artists in one art with those in another, as painters with musicians,
or with poets; (4) illustrative material when the main theme of
the poem has no immediate bearing on art. Abt Vogler, in music,
or Fra Lippo Lippi, in painting, are examples of the first. Andrea
del Sarto, besides exemplifying the first form, contains numerous
comparisons of its main character with other painters. With
Charles Avison has a musician as a theme, and he is compared
with other artists, for example, Michael Angelo. Fifine at the
Fair, whose main theme has no connection with art, names Raphael,
Bazzi, and Angelo as illustrative material. Numerous instances
of incidental art references, used in such ways as these, attest the
fact that Browning had a large art consciousness, gained from past
interest in the different fields, and of sufficient activity to cause
almost constant references to the fine arts.
Where Wordsworth would have chosen English natural scenery
for purposes of illustration, and Shelley nature in Italy, Browning
chose art. Fifteen poems with nature as the main theme, besides
numerous others with references to nature, would not seem
unusual; but a group of fifteen poems, all moderately long,
based on the fine arts, besides a very large number of comparisons
to the arts in other poems, seems an exceptional product for a
nineteenth century English poet.
Browning’s art monologue is of two kinds—the monologue of
the artist who is the chief character in the poem, and the monologue
of the poet addressing the artist directly. Nor are these forms
confined entirely to Italian art poems. My Last Duchess, The
Bishop orders his Tomb, Pictor Ignotus, Fra Lippo Lippi, Andrea
del Sarto, Abt Vogler, are all in dramatic monologue, with either
an artist or one interested in art, as the speaker. A Toccata of
Galuppi’s, Master Hughes of Saxe-Gotha, and Old Pictures in
Florence, represent the poet addressing the artist. Filippo Baldinucci
is presented in the first person, in monologue form. In
The Guardian Angel the poet directly addressed the angel of the
picture. One Word More and A Face, in which the art element
is strong, are written in the first person, the former addressed
directly to Mrs. Browning with the poet speaking, and the second
addressed to no particular person. This review establishes the
fact that the monologue is Browning’s favorite form for poems
about art, since the list just quoted includes all important poems
of that kind. In every case he made some personality prominent,
and in all serious poems on art, that personality is either speaking
or spoken to, the very finest poems being of the former type.
—In
the foregoing discussion of the five branches of Italian art in
Browning,—sculpture, music, poetry, architecture, and painting—the
order has been determined largely by a quantitative standard.
In the Appendix are systematic lists showing the number of poems
and the exact references in connection with each art. No extensive
comparison of the different arts regarding frequency of introduction,
therefore, is needed here; but a few generalizations concerning
some of the reasons for the variation in emphasis seem not
amiss.
Architecture is the art of a concrete bodily form, absolutely
separated from any representation of humanity, unless one looks
beyond it to the architect, or to the people for whom it is constructed.
In contradistinction to the other fine arts discussed here, it
is characterized by usefulness. While it should, and does, in its
highest forms, surmount mere utility, and give an impression of
harmony, beauty, and grandeur, it never directly portrays the
finest feelings of which humanity is capable and never inspires
one directly with a feeling of achievement or struggle in character.
Utility is the chief interest guiding Browning’s treatment of
architecture—not architectural utility, but the service to the
poet in fixing the setting of his poems. Such service is clear in nearly
every instance in all of the twenty-five poems in which some Italian
building is mentioned, and in the case of nearly all the fifty-eight
edifices named. The description of St. Peter’s in Christmas-Eve
and Easter-Day is practically the only exception, and there, as
has already been stated, the poet passed from the grandeur of the
structure itself to the builders. Lack of personality in architecture
is, then, the reason for its very slight introduction as an actual
art in Browning’s verse.
Passing on from architecture to sculpture one finds that we
have another art of concrete bodily form, with the added power of
portraying the human form, face, and to a very slight degree, the
soul. While the number of sculptors named is very small, then,
Browning’s appreciation of this art surpasses his appreciation of
architecture. Examples of this are Old Pictures in Florence, in
which sculpture is treated at considerable length, by comparing its
merits with the aspirations of the early painters, and Pippa
Passes, in which Jules, the sculptor, is a prominent figure. The
Bishop orders his Tomb deals almost entirely with sculpture. Still
sculpture was not Browning’s favorite art by any means. Bodily
perfection he admired; but he wished to go beyond it to the soul
in dramatic situations, to its struggle and endeavor. And for
these values the powers of sculpture are limited. To portray
successfully any very great struggle or intense feeling of the soul
is beyond its nature.
A cause for the large amount of Italian poetry in the writings of
Browning has already been suggested, in part.179 But one
must further consider the fact that he did not continue to deal
with poets and their writings as subject matter. After the first
eight years of his career, he ceased to deal with the causes connected
with the failure of poets. Fundamentally, all arts are agencies
of expression through the representation of nature and humanity.
With the breadth of vision which Browning possessed concerning
the possibilities of expression in all the arts, there was none of the
five in which he did not, at some time or other, wish to express
himself. In the beginning of his career, when he was formulating
his ideas of a poet, he expressed his ideas of that art by writing
about other poets. But with ideas and forms for his own art once
fully established, the art became self-expressive. He no longer
needed to write about other poets; for the poet in himself had found
his own purpose and method.
It has already been suggested that Browning’s appreciation
of music, as he expressed it in his poems, was qualitative, rather
than quantitative, so far as Italian music is concerned. This art
rivals poetry in expressing the highest yearnings and ideals of
which the soul is capable, and is, therefore, in a very high degree,
though in abstract form, the art of personality. And this art
Browning expressed most perfectly, as to the aims and ideals of
its artists, when he chose to do so. But with all his own feeling
for music and with such ability as he expressed in performance,
it, like poetry, was largely self-expressive for him. That is he
played, instead of writing poetry about music. Browning’s
evident preference for other music than that of the modern composers
of Italy explains the lack of space accorded to them. Yet
in spite of this preference the best of his musical poems were
built about Italians—obscure ones though they may be.
Browning did no work in actual study of the technique of painting.
The nearest he came to it was at the time of his thirteen
days application to drawing.180 Yet painting is in a very large
degree expressive of the soul—its anguish, sorrow, failure, joy,
ecstasy, or endeavor. Drawn to it by his interest in personality,
Browning made it contribute largely to his poems. The Italian
painting with which he dealt had little to do with landscape or
other phases of nature. It portrayed persons; and stimulated by the
pictures which he saw, or by records of personality in the biography
of artists, he incorporated many references to painting in his poems,
dealing more largely with it than with any other art. Since,
too, Italy was the home of painting, his environment was very
conducive to a development of his tendency to make painting
an important element in his poems.
Browning, as poet and man, was able to forgive any sort of
failure if the person whom he was judging had only made a thorough
effort to accomplish something. He carried this doctrine
so far as to make a lack of effort the cause of his censure of the
Duke and the Lady in The Statue and the Bust, even though the
fulfillment of their plan would have been a sin. This love for
endeavor, which always accompanies his attitude toward any
personality, along with his enthusiasm for personality itself explains
his selection and emphasis in his treatment of the arts. Painting he
decidedly preferred above sculpture for other reasons than its
greater ability in portraying the soul. This preference is stated
in Old Pictures in Florence, and is based on the fact that Greek
art had run, and “reached the Goal.” Its effort, then, was over:
“They are perfect—how else? they shall never change:
We are faulty—why not? we have time in store.
The Artificer’s hand is not arrested
With us ...”
* * * * *
“’Tis a life-long toil till our lump be leaven—
The better! What’s come to perfection perishes.”
These quotations from Old Pictures in Florence, in which the
poet, by using the first person in his references to the early masters
of Italy places himself in their group and refers to Greek art
in the third person, are indications of the spirit of the poem and
of Browning’s entire attitude toward endeavor in art.
To summarize, then: few persons have as great an interest in
expressing themselves through all the arts as did Robert Browning.
Architecture and sculpture he appreciated least; therefore he expressed
least concerning their spirit and feeling. Music was a
fundamental part of his life; but he was able to embody his feelings
about it in music itself, not merely in poetry about it. Yet
because of his perfect understanding of it, he has embodied its
spirit in a few choice poems, making permanent, by his treatment
of its evanescent quality, the ideas that could not be left to the
world by his playing. Painting he deeply appreciated from childhood;
but beyond a few amateur efforts for diversion, he could
not express his appreciation of it by means of that art itself. Consequently,
in an unusually large number of his poems, he gave us
his view of that art, his portraits of its followers, historical or
imaginary.
—Through his presentation
of artists, Browning has given the world many different types of
character. Prominent among them are the following: The non-altruistic,
impractical poet—Sordello; the sensualist—Bocafoli;
the superficial character—Plara; the regretful but optimistic
idealist—Abt Vogler; the coarse realist, who yet possessed a
really fine appreciation of God’s world—Fra Lippo Lippi; the
weak, ambitionless man—Andrea del Sarto; the keenly sensitive
mind—Pictor Ignotus; and the reformer—Pacchiarotto.
Art is also connected with Browning’s character portrayal in a
secondary sort of way, of which The Ring and the Book furnishes
excellent illustrations. In that poem people are characterized
by their likeness to some work of art—e. g., Pompilia is compared
to Raphael’s Madonna; or by their fondness for some particular
work of art—e. g., the Pope chuckling over the Merry Tales.
While Browning mentioned the great masters in many different
poems, it is noticeable that he never used one of them as the main
subject of a poem. There are Andrea, Lippo, and Furini, but
there is no Angelo and no Raphael. This is due to the one element
of interest on Browning’s part that has already been emphasized
in this chapter and previous ones—personality. Browning was
interested in the artist he selected, not merely as an artist, not as
a distinguished figure, but as a human being, whose attempts,
partial failure, or development, the poet wished us to study with
him.
Very often the characters whom Browning chose to present
either in connection with the arts or otherwise, were such as we
do not approve of—but neither did Browning approve of them.
His theory of art was no mere aesthetic one of art for art’s sake, no
mere dogma of didacticism. It was rather, art for the sake of
human nature, of personality. Of all the characters he has drawn
for us, the one whose expression of art best gives Browning’s own
sentiments is Fra Lippo Lippi, the painter and realist, enthusiastic
for
“The beauty and the wonder and the power,
The shapes of things, their colors, lights, and shades,
Changes, surprises—and God made it all!
* * * * *
“But why not do as well as say,—paint these
Just as they are, careless what comes of it?”
Numerous instances might be cited as a proof of this—Guido, the
Duke, the Bishop, and many others. All his human beings,
then, Browning chose because their personality appealed to him,
as a study, rather than because they compelled his admiration,
whether he selected them from the world of art or elsewhere.
—By consideration
of Browning’s general attitude towards the arts, of his fondness
for the struggle of the human soul as a poetic theme, and by a
discussion of his relative emphasis on each art and the method in
which he chose to treat it, the fact has been established that
Browning was primarily the poet of the human soul, and a poet
of the arts as seen through the medium of personality.
When he was once asked if he liked nature, he replied, “Yes
but I love men and women better.” The arts—architecture,
music, poetry, sculpture, and painting—he loved also; but he
loved them most because they recorded human experience,
and best when they most fully expressed the struggles of the soul,
and thus became the direct embodiment of personality.
CHAPTER I
The Semantics of -mentum, -bulum, and -culum271
Introductory
The primary object of this study will be to show, first, the range
of semantic variability discernible in a set of noun-formative
suffixes and the reason for it; and second, by a comparison of
these suffixes with other suffixes used on the same stem, to illustrate
the comparatively fluid semantic condition of formative suffixes
in general. The semantic value will be determined by an examination
of the meaning of the whole noun and its relation to the
surrounding context.
The suffixes chosen for investigation were -mentum, -bulum, and
-culum. They form neuters and are joined mainly to verb stems.
In all grammars they are grouped together as forming nouns signifying
the instrument or means of action, sometimes result of
action, sometimes place, rarely the action itself. Such general
statements are true and perhaps adequate for the purpose of stating
a brief grammatical rule; but it will be seen from the following
pages that these suffixes are capable of much greater variations.
The material for investigation was collected from the literature
extending to the Augustan period, and consisted of approximately
four thousand examples, many of which were of course duplicates,
so that comparatively only a small percentage of them were really
valuable. In order that the material might not seem too slight for
drawing conclusions as to later periods, useful examples were also
gathered from the literature of the Empire, by means of the lexicons
and indexes; but the evidence contributed by the latter was
in large part only cumulative, not revealing any other influences
upon meaning than those found in the earlier period. In
Chapter IV the difference in frequency of use of nouns in
different periods will be discussed in detail.
Inscriptions were not taken as sources of material on account
of the isolated positions in which words usually occur. Such
fragmentary evidence would not contribute much where the meaning
of a word, which depends so much on its immediate context, is
to be examined.
For purposes of clearness, it will be well to explain here in just
what sense the term “meaning” will be used. Linguistic history
shows that “words are constantly gaining in precision. Through
the associations set up in the process of expression, the meaning
of a word is being constantly deepened and enriched. The connotation
is, in general, increasing and the denotation, that is, the
range of application, is narrowing.”181
There is of course something fundamental in every word that
distinguishes it from other words; but this does not exhaust the
whole meaning of most words. Only when used in a sentence, with
other words, in a context, does a word acquire its full and precise
meaning. By stripping a word of the connotation and denotation
which it shows in many contexts, there is left, as it were, a common
denominator; and it is as a result of this logical operation that we
assign a meaning to a detached and isolated word.
Caution must also be exercised in speaking of the “meaning”
of suffixes. Isolated suffixes have a meaning even less than words
do. It is incorrect to say that -mentum, or -bulum, or -culum
means instrument; the nouns made with them may have this
meaning, but the suffixes are perhaps colorless in themselves.
This is true of suffixes used to form other parts of speech as well
as nouns; e. g., a suffix forming an adjective signifying material or
appurtenance cannot be said to mean “made of,” “belonging to,”
or “full of,” although its equivalence to such expressions can be
shown when in each occurrence of the adjective the relation of the
stem of the adjective to the governing noun is taken into consideration.
The etymology of the three suffixes will be explained in
Chapter IV.
The investigation of my material revealed at least two fairly
definite influences at work on any single meaning of a word:
(1) Stem-meaning; (2) Context; while (3) a very important
factor in illustrating the variability and non-stability of the
suffixes is seen in comparing them with other suffixes on the same
stem, noting their similarity or difference, and finding if possible
the reason for it. A chapter will be devoted to each one of these
main topics. Sometimes all three of these factors exert their
influence on a word, more often one or both of the first two make the
meaning clear. The first, or stem-meaning, regularly gives a
general meaning to the word, while the context gives a special or
more precise meaning. As far as possible only one influence will
be discussed in each chapter, but as the determination of the
meaning of a word is so complex a process, a slight overlapping will
be unavoidable in some instances.
CHAPTER II — I -MENTUM — II -BULUM — III -CULUM
Influence of Stem-Meaning
The examination of the words with a view to finding the influence
of stem-meaning is not directly concerned with semantic
variability: that will be illustrated in the next chapter. For
purposes of classification in this chapter, only the prevailing
meaning of each word is considered. For doubtful etymologies,
Walde (Lat. Etym. Wörterbuch) is taken as guide.
The great majority of the stems with which this suffix is used
are verb stems, but there are a few noun stems and two adjective
stems. For convenience, the whole number may be divided into
two large classes: one consisting of those that denote concrete
things, and the other, of those that denote abstract things. An
absolute division here is impossible and for the present purpose
unimportant, and any criterion must be somewhat arbitrary.
I have called everything concrete which has physical form, and
everything else, including actions, abstract. Many concrete
words, especially those capable of general application, are often
used in a transferred or figurative sense, and thus have also an
abstract meaning.
A. Concrete -mentum Words on Verb Stems.
1. Nouns denoting result of action, with general application.
—Of
the concrete words, there are a few, like fragmentum,
caementum, ramentum, which clearly do not express the instrument
of an action, nor the action itself, nor the place, but the
result of an action. Some, like fragmentum and stramentum, are
formed on verbs whose action can be directed toward several
kinds of materials or objects. This class of nouns then has general
application, and their precise meaning must be obtained from the
context. This influence will be pointed out in the next chapter.
As far as the verb stem (frango) is concerned, the examples
show only that fragmentum means “a piece broken off” or “fragment”:
tribunum adoriuntur fragmentis saeptorum, Sest. 79;
cum puerum fragmentis panis adlexisset, Plin. 9, 8, 8; ut glaebum
aut fragmentum lapidis dicimus, N. D. II, 82; non modo fragmenta
tegularum sed etiam ambusta tigna ad armatos pervenire, Liv. 34,
39, 11.
In the first two examples, the fragmenta, being in the ablative,
are plainly the instrument of the action of the main verb, but
without the dependent genitives we should not know what sort of
“pieces” or “fragments” were used. In the last two examples
the meaning of “particle” is suggested by “glaebum” and “tigna”.
The dependent genitives here also give precision.
Many things may be strewn or scattered, so stramentum gets
from its verb stem (sterno) the general meaning of something
strewn or scattered: noctem in stramentis pernoctare, Truc. 278;
casae quae stramentis tecta erant, B. G. 5, 43; fasces stramentorum
ac virgultorum incendunt, B. G. 8, 15.
Ramentum (rado) is “something scraped or rubbed off,” “bits
or small pieces:” et ramenta simul ferri furere intus ahenis in
scaphiis, Lucr. 6, 1043; ramenta ligni decocta in vino prosunt,
Plin. 24, 2, 2; patri omne [aurum] cum ramento reddidi, Bacc. 680.
Delectamentum (delecto) might at first sight be taken to be
the means by which one is delighted. That such is not necessarily
so may be seen from the examples: qui me pro ridiculo ac delectamento
putat, Heaut. 952; inania sunt ista delectamenta puerorum,
captare plausus, vehi per urbem, Pis. 25, 60. In both these examples
the source of delight and the delight itself are too close in
meaning to warrant the drawing of any distinction.
2. Nouns denoting result of action, with restricted
application.
—The preceding four words, as has been said,
are of general application, because their verb stems have a general
meaning. There are five nouns expressing result of action which
have a narrower and more restricted sense than their verb stems
would require.
Caementum (caedo) means not everything that is cut off, but a
piece of rough stone: in eam insulam materiem, calcem, caementa,
arma convexit, Mil. 27, 74; caementum de silice frangatur, Vitr.
8, 7, 14. The influence of caedo here is slight; only the context
shows the meaning of “stone.”
Sarmentum (sarpo) is not everything that is plucked, but twigs or
fagots: ligna et sarmenta circumdare, ignemque subicere coeperunt,
Verr. II, 1, 27; sarmentis virgultisque collectis, quibus fossas
compleant, ad castra pergunt, B. G. 3, 18; ne vitis sarmentis
silvescat, C. 15. In the last example the noun is used of objects
not at all necessarily affected by the verb stem sarpere.
Pavimentum (pavio) is a floor, or pavement (something beaten
down): ubi structum erit, pavito fricatoque oleo, uti pavimentum
bonum siet, Cato, R. R. 18; mero tingete pavimentum, Hor. C.
2, 14, 26. In Bell. Alex. 1, it means a roof: aedificia tecta sunt
rudere aut pavimentis. The predominating element in the meaning
of the word is that it denotes the result of the action expressed in
pavire.
Sicilimentum (sicilio) in the single instance of its occurrence
plainly means what is cut with a sickle: faenum cordum, sicilamenta
de prato, ea arida condito, Cato, R. R. 5.
Testamentum (testor) is not necessarily the means of bearing
witness nor of making a will—a particular significance which this
verb stem sometimes has,—but is the document itself: antequam
tabulas testamenti aperuit, Ad Her. I, 24; quare sit in lege aut
in testamento scriptum, Inv. II, 137; una fui, testamentum
simul obsignavi, Mil. 18, 48.
Lutamentum (lutare) in the single occurrence we have of it
evidently means, by inference from the passage in which it is
found, a mud wall, or a piece of work bedaubed with mud: neque
lutamenta scindent se, Cato, R. R. 128.
The contribution of stem-meaning, in this class of -mentum
words to the meanings of the words themselves is quite apparent.
Whatever else they suggest, the verb stems all suggest the result
of the action expressed by them; and this result of action is
expressed by the -mentum word.
3. Nouns denoting instrument, with general application.
—A
second, and the largest class of concrete
-mentum words
clearly express in a general way the instrument of the action.
Here, too, some of the words keep a general meaning which they
get from the verb stem, while others receive a special meaning.
The verb stems themselves admit more or less of a general or
special meaning.
Ammentum (apo?) is a means of fastening, a strap, or thong:
epistola ad ammentum tragulae deligata, B. G. 5. 48; umor
iaculorum ammenta emollierat, Liv. 37, 41. Both these examples
show it to be a strap fastened to a javelin.
Armamenta (always plural) are utensils for almost any purpose.
It is difficult to say whether the word is formed on the verb stem
armo, or is an extended form of the noun arma; the former is
entirely possible, while the equivalence of meaning in the two
nouns supports the latter supposition. At any rate the meaning is
“equipment”, “that with which one is armed”: hic tormenta,
armamenta, arma, omnis apparatus belli est, Liv. 26, 43; cum
omnibus Gallicis navibus spes in velis armamentisque consisteret,
B. G. 3, 14; armamenta vinearum, Plin. 17, 21, 35. The most
frequent use is that seen in the second example, where it means
the rigging of a ship, in this instance, however, excluding the
sails.
Medicamentum (medicor) is a remedy, a means of healing or
curing: Si eo medicamento sanus factus erit, Off. 3, 24; multis
medicamentis propter dolorem artuum delibutus, Brut. 60.
Operimentum (operio) is a cover, or means of covering: nuces
gemino protectae operimento, Plin. 15, 22, 24; detracto oculorum
operimento, Plin, 8, 42, 64. That the meaning “covering” is
general, may be seen by comparing the second example with N. D.
2, 52, 147: palpebrae, quae sunt tegumenta oculorum. In the latter
instance the “covering” is the eyebrow, in the former, some
external object, probably wearing apparel.
Suffimentum (suffio) is a means of fumigating: in iis sine illius
suffimentis expiati sumus, Leg. 1, 14, 40; laurus sit suffimentum
caedis hostium et purgatio, Plin. 15, 30, 40.
Tegumentum, like operimentum, gets its fundamental meaning
of “covering” from its verb stem, (tego), but is capable of being
applied to many objects, as will be shown in Chapter III: tegumenta
corporum, vel texta, vel suta, N. D. 2, 60; scutis tegimenta
detrudere non tempus erat, B. G. 2, 21.
4. Nouns denoting instrument, with both general and
figurative application.
—The generalized concrete instruments
so far illustrated have rarely any abstract meaning. The remainder
of them are used both concretely and figuratively.
Alimentum (alo) signifies a means of support or nourishment:
nec desiderabat alimenta corporis, Timaeus, 6; addidit alimenta
rumoribus, Liv. 35, 23.
Instrumentum (instruo) is a very general word meaning implement,
furniture, supplies: arma, tela, equos et cetera instrumenta
militiae parare, Sall. Jug. 25, 2; spolia, ornamenta, monumenta
in instrumento et supellectile Verris nominabuntur, Verr. 2, 4, 44;
ut instrumentum oratoris exponeret, De Or. II, 146.
Integumentum (intego) is so similar to tegumentum that it
hardly needs separate treatment; however, it is used more frequently
with an abstract meaning: istaec ego mihi semper habui
aetati integumentum meae, Trin. 313; lanx cum integumentis,
quae Iovi adposita fuit, Liv. 40, 59, 7.
Monumentum (moneo) is anything that serves as a reminder:
statuam quae sit factis monumentum suis, Curc. 441; tum
monumenta rerum gestarum oratori nota esse debere, De Or.
I, 201.
Ornamentum (orno) is anything for adorning or equipping:
hominem cum ornamentis omnibus exornatum adducite ad me,
Pseud. 765; audieram quae de orationis ipsius ornamentis traderentur,
De Or. II, 122; vidi hunc ipsum Q. Hortensium
ornamentum rei publicae paene interfici, Milo, 37.
Saepimentum (saepio) is any means of inclosure or defense:
haec omnia quasi saepimento aliquo animus ratione vallabit,
Leg. I, 62; tertium militare saepimentum est fossa et terreus
agger, Varr. R. R. 1, 142.
Stabilimentum (stabilio) is a means of support or strength:
haec sunt ventri stabilimenta: pane et assa bubula, Curc. 367;
Sicilia et Sardinia stabilimenta bellorum, Val. Max. 7, 6, 1.
5. Nouns denoting instrument, with specialized application.
—This
concludes the list of generalized concrete instruments.
Those with specialized meanings are as follows; sometimes
the verb stem is specialized, but more often not.
Armentum (aro) always means cattle, originally those used for
plowing: et variae crescunt pecudes, armenta feraeque, Lucr. 5,
228; armentum aegrotat in agris, Hor. Ep. I, 8, 6. This word
can mean only the secondary instrument for plowing, viz., cattle,
because there is another word (aratrum) for the plow itself.
Calceamentum (calceo) always means a shoe, an “instrument”
for covering the feet: mihi amictui est Scythicum tegimen, calceamentum
solorum callum, T. 5, 90.
Frumentum (fruor) always means grain, a “means of enjoyment”:
ut hortum fodiat atque ut frumentum metat, Poen. 1020;
non modo frumenta in agris mature non erant, B. G. I, 16, 2.
Lomentum (lavo) is a “means” of washing, of a particular
kind, however, viz., a cosmetic: lomento rugas condere temptas,
Mart. 3, 42, 1. In Ciceronian Latin it occurs only once, and then
figuratively: persuasum ei censuram lomentum aut nitrum esse,
Fam. VIII, 14, 4.
In iugumentum (iugo) it is a little difficult to see the influence
of the stem. The two occurrences of it in Cato are the only ones
in literature, and from the context it would seem to mean “threshold”
or some other part of the front of the house: limina, postes
iugumenta, asseres, fulmentas faber faciat oportet, R. R. 14, 1;
iugumenta et antepagmenta quae opus erunt indito, R. R. 14, 5.
Iumentum (iungo) always means an animal for drawing or
carrying, a beast of burden: iumento nihil opus est, Att. XII, 32;
omnia sarcinaria iumenta interfici iubet, B. C. 1, 81.
Supplementum (suppleo) before the Augustan period means only
that with which an army is “filled up” or recruited: partem
copiarum ex provincia supplementumque quod ex Italia adduxerat,
convenire iubet, B. G. 7, 7, 5; ceterum supplementum etiam
laetus decreverat, Sall. Jug. 84, 3. Later it has its literal meaning:
ex geminis singula capita in supplementum gregis reservantur,
Col. 7, 6, 7.
In vestimentum, the verb stem vestio has the same influence
that “clothe” does in our word clothing: me vides ornatus ut sim
vestimentis uvidis, Rud. 573; huc est intro latus lectus vestimentis
stratus, Heaut. 903.
Libamentum (libo) is a libation, drink offering: dona magnifica,
quasi libamenta praedarum, Rep. 2, 44; haec ego ad aras libamenta
tuli, Stat. S. 3, 1, 163.
6. Nouns denoting instrument, with both specialized and
figurative application.
—The specialized concrete nouns so
far given are never used figuratively; there are six additional ones
which do sometimes have an abstract meaning.
Tormentum (torqueo) is an instrument of torture, an instrument
for hurling, or torture itself: rotam id est genus quoddam
tormenti apud Graecas, T. 5, 24; castella constituit ibique tormenta
collocavit, B. G. 8, 3; huic licebit tum dicere se beatum in
summo cruciatu atque tormentis, T. 5, 73.
Condimentum (condio) is anything used for spicing or seasoning:
cocos equidem nimio demiror, qui utuntur condimentis, Cas. 219:
animus aequus optumumst aerumnae condimentum, Rud. 402.
Fundamentum (fundo) is that with which anything is founded,
a foundation: quin cum fundamento aedes perierint, Most. 148;
fundamenta rei publicae ieci, Fam. XII, 25, 2.
Impedimentum (impedio) is a means of hindrance, and in the
plural, baggage: hinc vos amolimini, nam mi impedimenta estis,
And. 707; Demosthenes impedimenta naturae diligentia industriaque
superavit, De Or. I. 61, 260; ad impedimenta et carros se
contulerunt, B. G. 1, 26.
Nutrimentum (nutrio) like alimentum, is a means of nourishment
or support, but it is not found meaning food for the body:
educata huius generis nutrimentis eloquentia, Orat. 42; arida
circum [igni] nutrimenta dedit, Aen. 1, 176.
Pigmentum (pingo) is paint, or material for coloring: quem
Appella et Zeuxis duo pingent pigmentis ulmeis, Epid. 626;
sententiae tam verae, tam sine pigmentis fucoque puerili, De Or.
II, 188.
7. Nouns not classified.
—This completes the list of concrete
-mentum words on verb stems with the exception of three whose
stems are unusual or uncertain and contribute little if any influence
to the meaning of the word. They do not mean instrument, nor
result of action. The fewness of examples also makes it difficult to
say just what the words mean. However, they probably have
the following signification.
Antepagmentum (from pango, with prefix ante-) from the context
seems to be some sort of ornament for the exterior of a house:
iugumenta et antepagmenta quae opus erunt indito, Cato, R. R. 14,
5; fulloniam I, antepagmenta, vasa torcula II faber faciat oportet,
Cato, R. R. 14, 2; ostiorum et eorum antepagmentorum in aedibus
hae sunt rationes, Vitr. 4, 6.
Coagmenta (cogo) undoubtedly means a “joint” of some kind,
as may be seen from the context: viden coagmenta in foribus?
Most. 829; ut aptior sit oratio, ipsa verba compone et quasi coagmenta,
quod ne Graeci quidem veteres factitaverunt, Brut. 68.
Omentum, whatever its etymology, means “fat”: omentum in
flamma pingue liquefaciens, Catul. 90, 6.
Each of these -mentum nouns has been illustrated not for the
purpose of showing that the verb stem does have influence on the
meaning of the noun—that is of course very obvious; the purpose
has rather been to show that the character of the verb stem—e. g.,
whether it admits of general or special application, or whether it
suggests the result of action or requires an instrument—so affects
the resulting character of the noun, as to make it, as a rule, similar
to that of the stem. Of this second class of nouns (those that mean
instrument) we may say that among other influences of the verb
stems, one is that they have such a meaning as requires an instrument
for the accomplishment of their action. This does not imply
that those in the first class do not also require an instrument.
While these nouns do mean instrument or result of action, when
viewed in regard to their verb stems, we can not say that such
meaning is always felt in every occurrence of the noun. In certain
contexts, even most contexts, they lose it entirely and are used as
perfect equivalents of nouns that have no such meaning.
Of the two classes of concrete -mentum words on verb stems,
therefore, the smaller class has the tendency to mean result of
action, the larger class, instrument of action. Whether the instrument
is literal or figurative (as it is in the case of a few of these
nouns), must be ascertained from the context.
B. Concrete -mentum Words on Noun and Adjective Stems
The concrete -mentum nouns on noun and adjective stems must,
on account of their fewness, clearly be analogical formations. They
cannot express the instrument or result of an action, but are only
an extended form of the noun with a specialized meaning.
Ferramenta are tools made of iron (ferrum): de ferramentorum
varietate Cato scribit permulta, ut falces, palas, rastros, Varro,
R. R. 1, 22, 5.
Nidamentum (used only once, and allegorically) is material
for a nest (nidus): in nervum ille hodie nidamenta congeret, Rud.
889.
Pulpamentum (and its shorter form pulmentum) are tidbits
made from pulpa (meat): voltisne olivas, aut pulpamentum, aut
capparim? Curc. 90; mihi est cubile terra, pulpamentum fames,
T. 5, 90; primus ad cibum vocatur, primo pulmentum datur,
M. G. 349; num ego pulmento utor magis unctiusculo? Pseud. 220.
Salsamenta are pickled fish (salsus) although once in Cicero
the word in the singular means brine: salsamenta haec, Stephanio,
fac macerentur, Adel. 380; de vino aut salsamento putes loqui
quae evanescunt vetustate, Div. II, 117.
Sincipitamentum (Ritschl and Brix) is a comic word, with the
same meaning as its noun stem, sinciput: iube opsonarier pernonidam
aut sincipitamenta porcina, Men. 211; comedam, inquit,
flebile nati sinciput elixi, Juv. 13, 85.
Atramentum is a liquid possessing the quality expressed by
the adjective stem (ater); this context shows it to mean ink:
calamo et atramento res agitur, Q. fr. II, 14, 1. In one example
it means shoe blacking: pater accusatus a M. Antonio sutorio
atramento absolutus putatur, Fam. IX, 21, 3. In one example
also, it is used in speaking of fish: atramenti effusione sepiae se
tutant, N. II, 127.
Scitamenta (scitus) are tidbits, dainties both literal and figurative:
iube aliquid scitamentorum de foro opsonarier, Men. 209;
ὁμοιοτέλευτα καὶ ὁμοιόπτωτα ceteraque huiusmodi scitamenta, Gell.
18, 8, 1.
Perhaps the variety of meaning of these analogical formations
indicates that no single precise meaning had become attached to
-mentum.
C. Abstract -mentum Words on Verb Stems
The majority of abstract -mentum words also fall into the two
large classes of result of action and instrument, but there is a
small list of nouns which plainly express the action itself. There
are only two words on noun stems.
1. Nouns denoting result of action.
—Additamentum (addo)
is an increase, or accession: intercessit Ligus iste nescio qui,
additamentum amicorum meorum, Sest. 31; sapientia erit ultimum
vitae instrumentum et, ut ita dicam, additamentum, Sen. Ep. 17.
Adiumentum (adiuvo) means aid, assistance: Romae vos esse
tuto posse per Dolabellam eamque rem posse nobis adiumento
esse, Fam. XIV, 18, 1; nulla res est quae plura adiumenta doctrinae
desideret, De Or. III, 84.
Cruciamentum (crucio) is not the instrument of torture, but
torture itself, or rather the feeling caused by torturing: vidi ego
multa saepe picta quae Acherunti fierent cruciamenta, Capt. 998;
carnificum cruciamenta et morborum tormenta, Phil. XI. 4, 8.
Delenimentum (delenio) is an allurement or blandishment;
illam furiam omnibus delenimentis animum suum avertisse
atque alienasse, Liv. 30, 13; paulatim discursum ad delenimenta
vitiorum, Tac. A. 21; simul comparant delenimenta et differunt
vos in adventum Cn. Pompei, Sall. Macer, 21.
Dehonestamentum182 (dehonesto) is a general word for any
object of dishonor or disgrace: Fufidius, ancilla turpis, bonorum
omnium dehonestamentum, Sall. Lep. 22; auribus decisis vivere
iubet, ostentui clementiae suae, et in nos dehonestamento, Tac.
A. 12.
Deliramenta (deliro) means nonsense, the result of “going out
of the furrow”: audin tu ut deliramenta loquitur? Men. 920;
matrimonia inter deos credi puerilium prope deliramentorum est,
Plin. 2, 7, 5.
Detrimentum (detero) nowhere has its literal meaning of
“loss by rubbing”, but only loss in general, more often disadvantage
or misfortune: tantis detrimentis acceptis Octavius sese
ad Pompeium recepit, B. C. 3, 9, 8; futurum ut detrimentum in
bonum verteret, B. C. 3, 73, 6; ne quid res publica detrimenti
accipiat, Cat. 1, 2. (et saepe).
For the etymology of the interesting word elementum, see
Walde.
Emolumentum (emolior) means the result of effort, gain, reward:
suscepta videntur a viris fortibus sine emolumento ac praemio,
De Or. II, 346.
Inanimentum (inanio) occurs only once, but in its context
clearly means “emptiness”: inanimentis explementum quaerito,
Stich. 174.
Intertrimentum (intertero) unlike detrimentum, does have the
literal meaning of “loss by rubbing” as well as loss in general:
in auro vero, in quo nihil intertrimenti est, quae malignitas est?
Liv. 34, 7; sine magno intertrimento non potest haberi, quidvis
dare cupis, Heaut. 448.
Laxamentum (laxo) means relaxation, alleviation, any unit of
time or space: ego nactus in navigatione nostra pusillum laxamenti,
Fam. XII, 16, 3; alii removentes parietes aedis efficiunt amplum
laxamentum cellae, Vitr. 4, 7; eo laxamento cogitationibus dato,
quievit in praesentia seditio, Liv. 7, 38.
Momentum (moveo) means weight, impulse, importance:
astra forma ipsa figuraque sua momenta sustentat, N. II, 117;
animus paulo momento huc vel illuc impellitur, And. 266; sentiebat
nullius momenti apud exercitum futurum, Nep. VII, 8, 4.
Temperamentum (tempero) means moderation, moderate condition:
senatus Caesar orationem habuit meditato temperamento,
Tac. A. III, 12; egregium principatus temperamentum, si demptis
utriusque vitiis solae virtutes miscerentur, Tac. H. 2, 5.
Termentum (tero) is used once, in Plautus, where it is equivalent
to detrimentum: non pedibus termento fuit praeut ego erum expugnabo
meum, Bacch. 929. Festus says (p. 363) termentum pro
eo, quod nunc dicitur detrimentum, utitur Plautus in Bacchidibus.
Formamentum may be, and probably is, only an extended form
of the noun stem forma. It is not inconceivable that it is made on
the verb stem formo, but the other supposition is better. In the
one occurrence of it in classical Latin, the context plainly shows
that it means shape, form: omnia principiorum formamenta
queunt in quovis esse nitore, Lucr. 2, 817. Arnobius (3, 109) uses
it of the gods: formamenta divina.
2. Nouns denoting instrument.
—As was the case in the
corresponding list of concrete words, the foregoing words are all
formed on verb stems which suggest the result of their action.
And again there is a larger class of abstract
-mentum words which
in a general way express the figurative instrument. The idea of
instrument is not always strong, but when viewed in regard to
their verb stem, all the nouns will be seen to show this meaning
in a greater or less degree.
Allevamentum (allevo) is ἃπαξ λεγόμενον; the context shows
it to mean a remedy or means of alleviation: Sulla coactus
est in adversis sine ullo remedio atque allevamento permanere,
Sulla, 66.
Auctoramentum (auctoro) is a means of binding, or of bringing
one under obligation, a contract, also the pay or hire: illius
turpissimi auctoramenti [gladiatorii] sunt verba: uri, vinciri,
ferroque necari, Sen. Ep. 37; est in ipsa merces, auctoramentum
servitutis, Off. 1, 42.
Argumentum (arguo) is primarily a means of proving, a proof,
but takes also many other meanings as will be shown in the next
chapter: quid nunc? vincon argumentis te non esse Sosiam?, Am. 433;
quod ipsum argumento mihi fuit diligentiae tuae, Fam. X. 5, 1.
Blandimentum (blandio) is a means of flattering or alluring:
illum spero immutari potest blandimentis, oramentis, ceteris
meretriciis, Truc. 318; epistolae muliebris blandimentis infectae,
Tac. H. 1, 174.
Complementum (compleo) is a means of filling up: apud alios
numero servientes inculcata reperias inania quaedam verba,
quasi complementa numerorum, Orat. 69.
Documentum (doceo) is a very general word, meaning primarily
a means of warning or instructing: documento, quantum in bello
fortuna posset, B. C. 3, 10, 6; ego illis captivis aliis documentum
dabo ne...., Capt. 752; quarum rerum maxima documenta haec
habeo, Sall. Cat. 9. 4.
The strong influence of the verb stem is seen in this noun by
the subordinate adverbial clauses which follow it, as in the first
two examples given. It is interesting also to note the contrast
between documentum and monumentum; their verb stems are
practically synonymous, but one noun is prevailingly concrete,
while the other is always abstract or figurative. Monumentum
has an additional shade of meaning, in that it regularly looks
toward the past, while documentum looks toward the future.
The explanation for this is difficult to find; perhaps it is only the
result of usage and association.
Explementum (expleo) is a means of filling: inanimentis explementum
quaerito, Stich. 174. (“Look for something to fill your
empty stomach with.”).
Hostimentum (hostio) is a means of making requital, a recompense:
par pari datum hostimentum est, opera pro pecunia, As.
172.
Incitamentum (incito) is a means of inducing or inciting: hoc
maximum et periculorum et laborum incitamentum est, Arch. 23;
quae apud concordes vincula caritatis, incitamenta irarum apud
infensos erant, Tac. A. 1, 55, 15.
Invitamentum (invito) is the means of inducing or attracting:
cum multa haberet invitamenta urbis et fori propter summa
studia amicorum, Sulla, 74.
Irritamentum (irrito) is very similar to the preceding two
nouns, meaning a provocative or incentive: neque salem neque
alia irritamenta gulae quaerebant, Sall. Jug. 89, 7; iras militum
irritamentis acuebat, Liv. 40, 27.
Hortamentum (hortor) is probably the exhortation itself as
well as the means of exhorting: ea cuncta Romanis ex tenebris et
editioribus locis facilia visu magnoque hortamento erant, Sall.
Jug. 98, 7; in conspectu parentum coniugumque ac liberorum
quae magna etiam absentibus hortamenta animi sunt, Liv. 7, 11, 6.
Oblectamentum is probably the condition of delight as well as
the means of delighting: ut meae senectutis requietem oblectamentumque
noscatis, C. 15; cum spinae albae cauliculi inter
oblectamenta gulae condiantur, Plin. 21, 2, 39.
Levamentum (levo) is a means of alleviating, also the resulting
condition: nos non solum beatae vitae istam esse oblectationem
videmus, sed etiam levamentum miseriarum, F. 5, 53; ad unicum
doloris levamentum, studia confugio, Plin. Ep. 8, 19.
Opprobramentum (opprobro) is another example of ἃπαξ λεγόμενον
but clearly means, like opprobrium, a disgrace or reproach:
facere damni mavolo quam opprobramentum aut flagitium muliebre
exferri domo, Merc. 423.
Praepedimentum (praepedio) occurs only once, and then with
a meaning exactly equivalent to impedimentum: intro abite, ne
hic vos conspicatur leno neu fallaciae praepedimentum obiciatur,
Poen. 606.
Turbamentum (turbo) occurs twice, meaning in both cases,
a means of disturbance: maxima turbamenta rei publicae atque
exitia probate, Sall. Lep. 25; inserendo ambiguos de Galba sermones,
quaeque alia turbamenta vulgi, Tac. H. 1, 23.
Firmamentum (firmo) is a means of strengthening, a support:
transversaria tigna iniciuntur, quae firmamento esse possint,
B. C. 2, 15, 2. In this instance it is concrete; more often it is
abstract: eum ordinem firmamentum ceterorum ordinum recte
esse dicemus, Pomp. 7, 17.
Libramentum (libro) is probably rather the result of the action
than the instrument, at least in the meaning of “level surface”
which it has in its only occurence in Ciceronian Latin: punctum
esse, quod magnitudinem nullam habet, extremitatem et quasi
libramentum, in quo nulla omnino crassitudo sit, Ac. II, 116.
In Livy it means “weight”: arietem admotum, libramento
plumbi gravatum, ad terram urgebant, Liv. 42, 63.
3. Nouns denoting action.
—There remain a few nouns which
clearly express the action itself. The reason for this does not lie in
the suffix—even in
-tio nouns it does not lie in the suffix; but
these nouns, through usage and association, came to have this
meaning in spite of the fact that the tendency of other nouns with
the same suffix was to mean instrument or result of action.
Molimentum (molior) means exertion, effort: neque se exercitum
sine magno commeatu atque molimento in unum locum
contrahere posse, B. G. 1, 34, 3.
Experimentum (experior) means a trial, experiment: probatur
experimento, sitne feracius...., Plin. Ep. 10, 43. More often the
result is emphasized and it means proof: hoc maximum est experimentum,
aegritudinem vetustate tolli, T. 3, 74.
Oramentum (oro) is not found in the manuscripts, but is adopted
by Ritschl and Leo, and as we may judge from its context, means
a begging, or praying: spero illum immutari potest blandimentis,
oramentis, ceteris meretriciis, Truc. 317. The Ambrosian
manuscript has hortamentis, the others ornamentis, but neither of
these readings is suitable.
Sternumentum (sternuo) is a sneezing: pedis offensio nobis et
sternumenta erunt observanda, Div. 2, 84. But in Pliny and
Celsus it sometimes also means a provocative of sneezing, sneezing
powder: fit ex callitriche sternumentum, Plin. 25, 86; radix
ranunculi sicca concisa sternumentum est, Plin. 13, 109.
Tinnimentum (tinnio) occurs only once, but from the context
it plainly means a tinkling: illud quidem edepol tinnimentumst
auribus, Rud. 806.
D. Abstract -mentum Words on Noun Stems
Of the two noun stem words in this class of abstract words,
cognomentum is properly not a -mentum word. According to
Lindsay (p. 335) the -to suffix is merely added to the -men suffix.
An example is: meum cognomentum commemorat, M. G. 1038.
Lineamentum (linea) is seen from the following parallel examples
to have the same meaning as its noun stem: in geometria lineamenta,
formae, intervalla, magnitudines sunt, De Or. I, 187;
ignis rectis lineis in caelestem locum subvolat, T. 1, 40; lineamentum
esse longitudinem latitudine carentem, Ac. II, 116;
eam M. Varro ita definit: linea est, inquit, longitudo quaedam sine
latidudine et altitudine, Gell. 1, 20, 7.
This detailed view of the -mentum words gives occasion for
making the following comment: the tendency of these nouns is
to mean the instrument of an action, often the result of an action,
rarely action itself. The verb stems are such as require an
instrument for their action or suggest its result. The instrument
is sometimes literal, sometimes figurative, and whether it is the
one or the other is determined by the context. Given a verb stem
which both suggests the result of action and requires an instrument,
it is difficult to explain why a -mentum noun formed on it
should mean only instrument, and not result of action, or vice
versa.
The list of -bulum words is small, and they are nearly all concrete.
Only two are abstract. As these two denote only figurative
instruments, the treatment here will take no account of the
division into concrete and abstract. There are two noun stem
words. Three distinct classes of these words may be made, when
viewed in relation to their verb stems: (1) Those denoting instrument;
(2) Those denoting place; (3) Those denoting person.
The second meaning is quite as common as the first, the third
very rare (found only in two nouns).
1. Nouns denoting instrument.
—Infundibulum (infundo)
is an instrument for pouring from one vessel to another, a funnel:
illa quae reflexa et resupina, more infundibuli per medullam
transmittit quidquid aquarum superfluit, Col. 3, 18; in qua
machina impedens infundibulum subministrat molis frumentum,
Vitr. 10, 10.
Patibulum (pateo) is plainly an instrument, but having the
shape expressed by the verb stem, a fork-shaped yoke: dispessis
manibus patibulum quom habebis, M. G. 360; caedes, patibula,
ignes, cruces festinabant, Tac. A. 14, 33.
Rutabulum (ruo) is an instrument for raking or stirring up:
iubebis rutabulo ligneo agitari quod decoxeris, Col. 12, 20. It
occurs twice in Cato, in a list of other tools for use around a
fire-place.
Tintinnabulum (tinnio) is an instrument for making a ringing
noise, a bell: lanios inde accersam duo cum tintinnabulis, Pseud.
332; tintinnabula quae vento agitata longe sonitus referant,
Plin. 36, 13, 19.
Pabulum (pasco) is that with which anything is fed, usually
with reference to the feed of cattle: bubus pabulum parare oportet,
Cato, R. R. 54, 1.
Venabulum (venor) is a hunting spear, an instrument for hunting:
tantam bestiam percussisset venabulo, Verr. 5, 7.
Exorabulum, which occurs only twice, is perhaps rather the
begging (exoro) itself, which is, in turn, a means of obtaining
something: quod modis pereat, quotque exoretur exorabulis,
Truc. 27; exorabula incidantium, decipula adversantium artificia
dicentium perdidicit, App. Flor. n. 18. The first example is
interesting as the noun is used with a form of the same verb as its
verb stem.
Vocabulum (voco) is the instrument for calling or naming, a
name: si res suum nomen et proprium vocabulum non habet,
De Or. III, 159; Aristotelis orationis duas partes esse dixit,
vocabula et verba, ut homo et equus, ut legit et currit, Varr. L. L. 8.
Two interesting analogical formations with the suffix -bulum
are nucifrangibula and dentifrangibula in Plautus: ne nucifrangibula
excussit ex malis meis, Bacc. 598; ita dentifrangibula haec meis
manibus gestiunt, Bacc. 596.
2. Nouns denoting place.
—Conciliabulum (concilio) is a
place of assembly
183, a public place, but also the assembly itself:
supplicationem in biduum per omnia fora conciliabulaque
edixerunt, Liv. 40, 37; ne penetrarem me usquam ubi esset
damni conciliabulum, Trin. 314; per conciliabula et coetus
seditiosa disserebant, Tac. A. 3, 40.
Latibulum (lateo) is a hiding place: cum etiam ferae latibulis
se tegant, Rab. Post. 42.
Sessibulum is a place for sitting, a chair: quae tibi olant
stabulumque stratumque, sellam et sessibulum merum, Poen. 268.
Stabulum (sto) is in general a place for standing; its precise
meanings as acquired from the context will be illustrated in the
next chapter: neutrubi habeam stabile stabulum, siquid divorti
fuat, Aul. 233.
Vestibulum184, is probably originally the place for putting on
and taking off garments (vestio), then entrance, or space in front of
a house185: viden vestibulum ante aedes hoc? Most. 819; si te
armati non modo limine tectoque aedium tuarum, sed primo aditu
vestibuloque prohibuerint, Caec. 12, 35.
Acetabulum and turibulum are both formed on noun stems,
and are both receptacles for holding the material denoted by
the noun stem. But all the examples of acetabulum show the noun
extended to mean any kind of vessel, or a measure: melanthi
acetabulum conterito in vini veteris hemina, Cato, R. R. 102;
turibulis ante ianuas positis atque accenso ture, Liv. 29, 14, 13.
Desidiabulum occurs only once, and from the context clearly
means the place of action of its stem, which is a verbal noun
(desidia): ut celem tua flagitia aut damna aut desidiabula, Bacc.
376.
Cunabula and incunabula are formed on the same noun stem
cunae, the latter with the preposition in prefixed. Both the nouns
and the stem all mean the same thing (cradle, or origin), but
incunabula has the additional meaning of “swaddling clothes”:
opus est pulvinis, cunis, incunabulis, Truc. 905; qui cum esset in
cunabulis, Div. F. 79; de oratoris quasi incunabulis dicere, Orat.
42; si puer in cunis occidit, ne quaerendum quidem, T. 1, 93;
qui non in cunabulis sed in campis sunt consules facti, Agr. 2, 100.
3. Nouns denoting person.
—The two
-bulum words that
denote persons are mendicabulum (mendicor) and prostibulum
(prostare). Their bad meaning is due in large part to the stem;
but undoubtedly the contempt underlying the application to a
person of a neuter word denoting a thing is also responsible for the
formation of these words as neuters and with the suffix
-bulum.
Examples of such terms of reproach are seen also in
monstrum
hominis, and in the German
das Mensch.
Mendicabulum is found only twice: istos reges ceteros memorare
nolo, hominum mendicabula, Aul. 703; cum crotalis et cymbalis
circumforaneum mendicabulum producor ad viam, App. Met. 9.
Of prostibulum also there are only two examples: bellum et
pudicum vero prostibulum popli, Aul. 285; nam meretricem
adstare in via solam prostibuli sanest, Cist. 331.
The influence of stem meaning on the -bulum words may then
be said to be the same as in the case of the -mentum words, only
here there is a class of verb stems that suggest the place of action,
and none that suggest the result of action.
A. Concrete -culum Words
The great majority of -culum words186 also are concrete. They
may be grouped into three classes as far as their verb stems are
concerned: (1) Those denoting instrument; (2) Those denoting
place; (3) Those denoting the object of the action expressed by
their verb stems.
1. Nouns denoting instrument.
—Adminiculum (ad-manus)
is properly anything on which the hand may rest, but the examples
show it meaning regularly a prop, or support, both concretely
and figuratively: adminiculorum ordines me delectant, capitum
iugatio, religatio vitium, C. 53; natura semper ad aliquod tamquam
adminiculum adnititur, Lael. 88.
Baculum (etymology very uncertain, but probably same root
as seen in βαίνω) from its verb stem, should mean only a walking
stick, but it is applied to almost any kind of staff or sceptre:
proximus lictor converso baculo oculos misero tundere vehementissime
coepit, Verr. 5, 142; baculum aureum regis berylli distinguebant,
Curt. 9, 1, 30.
Everriculum (everro) is a sweep net (also used figuratively):
neque everriculo in litus educere possent, Varr. R. R. 3, 17, 7;
quod umquam huiusmodi everriculum ulla in provincia fuit?,
Verr. 4, 5, 3.
Ferculum (fero) is that on which anything is carried: spolia
ducis hostium caesi suspensa fabricato ad id apte ferculo gerens in
Capitolium ascendit, Liv. 1, 10, 5; ubi multa de magna superessent
fercula cena, Hor. S. 2, 6, 104.
Gubernaculum (guberno) is an instrument for guiding: piscium
meatus gubernaculi modo regunt caudae, Plin. 11, 50, 111; hic
ille naufragus ad gubernaculum accessit, et navi, quod potuit, est
opitulatus, Inv. 2, 154.
Incerniculum (incerno) is an instrument for sifting, a sieve; it
occurs only twice, and it is difficult to see how it differs from another
noun on the same stem, cribrum: opus est incerniculum unum,
cribrum unum, Cato, R. R. 13; Athenienses decretum fecere, ne
frumentarii negotiatores ab incerniculis eum [mulum] arcerent,
Plin. 8, 44, 69. In the latter example the incernicula are the vessels
in which bran, sifted from the flour, was set up for sale.
Operculum (operio) like operimentum is an instrument
for covering: aspera arteria tegitur quodam quasi operculo
quod ob eam causam datum est, ne spiritus impediretur, N. II, 136;
operculum in dolium imponito, Cato, R. R. 104.
Perpendiculum (perpendo) is a plumb line, but is found most
frequently with ad forming an adverbial phrase meaning perpendicularly:
non egeremus perpendiculis, non normis, non regulis,
Cic. A. fr. 8; tigna non directa ad perpendiculum, sed prone et
fastigate, B. G. 4, 17.
Piaculum is a means of appeasing, an offering; perhaps also
the appeasing itself; and the act requiring expiation: decrevit
habendas triduum ferias, et porco femina piaculum pati, Leg. 2, 22;
nonne in mentem venit quantum piaculi committatur? Liv. 5, 52;
duc nigras pecudes: ea prima piacula sunto, Aen. 6, 153.
Poculum (probably from root seen in bibo) is a drinking vessel,
cup: Socrates paene in manu iam mortiferum illud tenens poculum,
T. 1, 71.
Redimiculum (redimio) is anything used for binding, a band or
fillet: et tunicae manicas, et habent redimicula mitrae, Aen. 9, 616;
ut esset aliquis laqueus et redimiculum, reversionem ut ad me
fecerit denuo, Truc. 395.
Retinaculum (retineo), always used in the plural, is anything
which holds back or binds: ratem pluribus validis retinaculis
parte superiore ripae religatam humo iniecta constraverunt, Liv.
21, 28; missae pastum retinacula mulae nauta piger saxo religat,
Hor. S. 1, 5, 18.
Spiraculum (spiro) is a breathing hole: per spiracula mundi
exitus introitusque elementis redditus exstat, Lucr. 6, 493.
Subligaculum (subligo) is a waistband, judging from the context
in which the only example of it occurs: scenicorum quidem mos
tantam habet veteri disciplina verecundiam, ut in scenam sine
subligaculo prodeat nemo, Off. 1, 35.
Sarculum (sario) is an instrument for hoeing, a hoe: familiam
cum ferreis sarculis exire oportet, Cato, R. R. 155; gaudentem
patrios findere sarculo agros numquam dimoveas, Hor. C. 1, 1, 11.
Vehiculum (vehor) is a means of transportation, a carriage or
ship; its meaning and that of ferculum differ exactly as their stems
differ: ut procul divinum et novum vehiculum Argonautorum e
monte conspexit, N. II, 89; mihi aequum est dare vehicula, qui
vehar, Aul. 502.
2. Nouns denoting place.
—Cenaculum (ceno) originally was
the dining room.
187 As this was usually in an upper story, the word
came to have the regular meaning of attic or garret, and the force
of the stem meaning was lost: in superiore qui habito cenaculo,
Am. 863; ipse Circenses ex amicorum cenaculis spectabat, Suet.
Aug. 45.
Conventiculum (convenio) like conciliabulum, means both the
place of assembly and the assembly itself. As far as the form is
concerned, it might be a diminutive from conventus, but it shows
no such meaning: exstructa sunt apud nemus conventicula, Tac. A.
14, 15; conventicula hominum quae postea civitates nominatae sunt,
Sest. 91.
Cubiculum (cubo) always means a place for reclining, a bedroom:
cubui in eodem lecto tecum una in cubiculo, Am. 808.
Deverticulum (deverto) is a place to turn aside, a by-path, also
a lodging: ubi ad ipsum veni deverticulum, constiti, Eun. 635;
cum gladii abditi ex omnibus locis deverticuli protraherentur,
Liv. 1, 51.
Hibernaculum (hiberno) is a place for spending the winter,
and, particularly in the plural, the winter quarters of soldiers:
hoc hibernaculum, hoc gymnasium meorum est, Plin. Ep. 2, 17, 7;
legionum aliae itinere terrestri in hibernacula remissae sunt, Tac.
A. 2, 23.
Propugnaculum (propugno) is the place for (means of?) defending,
a bulwark or tower: solidati muri, propugnacula addita,
auctae turres, Tac. H. 2, 19; lex Aelia, et Fufia eversa est, propugnacula
tranquillitatis atque otii, Piso, 9.
Receptaculum (recepto) is a place to receive or keep things,
also a place of refuge: illud tibi oppidum receptaculum praedae
fuit, Verr. 5, 59; insula incolis valida et receptaculum perfugarum,
Tac. A. 14, 29.
Tabernaculum (taberna), “tent,” has a meaning specialized
from its noun stem: Caesar eo die tabernacula statui passus non
est, B. C. 1, 81.
Umbraculum (umbra) means both a shady place and the thing
that furnishes shade: aurea pellebant tepidos umbracula soles,
Ov. F. 2, 311; prope aream faciundum umbracula, quo succedant
homines in aestu tempore meridiano, Varro, R. R. 1, 51, 2.
3. Nouns denoting object of action.
—There is also a small
group of concrete
-culum words which are alike in that they denote
the object of the action expressed by their verb stems.
Deridiculum (derideo) is something to laugh at, an object of
derision, (also ridicule itself): deridiculo fuit senex foedissimae
adulationis tantum infamia usurus, Tac. A. 3, 57; quid tu me
deridiculi gratia sic salutas? Am. 682.
Ientaculum (iento) is something to eat, or breakfast: epulas
interdum quadrifariam dispertiebat: in ientacula et prandia et
cenas commissationesque, Suet. Vit. 13.
Miraculum (miror) is something to wonder at, a miracle:
audite portenta et miracula philosophorum somniantium, N. 1, 18;
omnia transformat sese in miracula rerum, Ignemque horribilemque
feram, Georg. 4, 441.
Spectaculum is something to look at, a spectacle, show: quom
hoc mihi optulisti tam lepidum spectaculum, Poen. 209.
The verb stems of these four nouns, with the exception of the
first, could conceivably form nouns meaning instrument, or
result of action, or place; but only one of them, spectaculum,
has any of these meanings, and that, of place: tantus est ex omnibus
spectaculis usque a Capitolio plausus excitatus est, Sest. 124.
B. Abstract -culum Words, All Denoting Action
There are four abstract -culum words, all expressing primarily
action itself.
Curriculum (curro) is a running: curre in Piraeum atque unum
curriculum face, Trin. 1103.
Periculum (stem seen in experire) is a trial, attempt, also danger,
risk: fac semel periculum, Cist. 504; nescio quanto in periculo
sumus, Phor. 58.
Saeculum (sero), if this etymology is correct, is originally a
sowing, then the thing sown, a generation, race, period of time:
quid mirum si se temnunt mortalia saecula, Lucr. 5, 1238; et
muliebre oritur patrio de semine saeculum, Lucr. 4, 1227; saeculum
spatium annorum centum vocarunt, Varro, L. L. 6, 2.
Oraculum (oro) is an utterance, usually of some god or prophet,
sometimes the place where it is given: oracula ex eo ipso appellata
sunt, quod inest in his deorum oratio, Top. 20, 77; exposui somnii
et furoris oracula, quae carere arte dixeram, Div. 1, 32, 70; numquam
illud oraculum Delphis tam celebre fuisset nisi...., Div. 1, 19,
37.
With regard, then, to the verb stems of the -culum nouns we
may say that they are such as require an instrument, suggest a
place, or imply the object of their action, while a few form nouns
denoting action itself.
* * * * *
The tendency seen in the above classification must not be
taken as a systematic and conscious process of language for the
purpose of making these suffixes mean one thing more than another.
The verb stems do strongly influence the meaning of the whole
noun, usually more than anything else does, but the variety of
precise meanings due to context, which will be shown in the next
chapter, almost precludes a systematic classification on any basis.
CHAPTER III
Influence of Context
An attempt was made in the preceding chapter to show how
the meaning of words formed with -mentum, -bulum and -culum
was influenced by the verb stem. It will be the purpose of this
chapter to illustrate how such general meanings get still greater
precision from some element in the context. This study, as is
intimated in the introductory paragraph of this paper, is a semantic
one, but it is not lexicographical; and no attempt will be made to
explain, any farther than was done in the preceding chapter, such
words as show no variation in meaning due to context. For
example, frumentum always means grain, no matter in what
context it stands; iumentum, cattle; testamentum, a will; venabulum,
a hunting spear; cubiculum, a bed-room. The reason is
that these words are neat expressions of a precise idea and their
meaning is therefore less likely to be shifted. This fact also illustrates,
in general, the difference in variation possible in a noun and
in an adjective. The latter, being in so many instances equivalent
to a genitive, can, like the genitive, express a great variety of
relations between its governing noun and its noun stem; while a
noun, being a more finished product, that is, its meaning settling
more easily in clear-cut limits, cannot be expected to show such
wide variations. Aside from the figurative use of the nouns, the
most frequent influence of context comes from a genitive dependent
on the noun. The other elements that enter in will be noticed as
each word is discussed, and wherever possible, the word or group
of words which contributes to the meaning will be italicized.
First, there are a few nouns which are used in apposition with
a proper noun, or are applied to persons. This use is a special
illustration of the figurative meaning of these words: intercessit
iste Ligus nescio qui, additamentum inimicorum meorum, Sest. 68;
Sertia uxor, quae incitamentum mortis et particeps fuit, Tac. A.
6, 29; in conspectu parentum coniugumque ac liberorum, quae
magna etiam absentibus hortamenta animi sunt, Liv. 7, 11, 6;
acerrima seditionum ac discordiae incitamenta, interfectores
Galbae, Tac. H. 2, 23; Fufidius, ancilla turpis bonorum omnium
dehonestamentum, Sall. Lep. 22; P. Rutilius qui fuit documentum
hominibus nostris virtutis, antiquitatis, prudentiae, Rab. Post. 27;
illius sum integumentum corporis, Bacc. 602; vidi hunc ipsum
Hortensium, ornamentum rei publicae, paene interfici, Milo, 37;
ipsa quae sis stabulum nequitiae, Truc. 587; quod umquam huiuscemodi
everriculum [Verres] ulla in provincia fuit, Verres, 4, 5, 3;
quid, duo propugnacula belli Punici, Cn. et P. Scipiones cogitassene
videntur, P. 12; qui sibi me pro deridiculo et delectamento
putat, Heaut. 952.
These examples show that the suffixes do not imprint on the
nouns the idea of instrument, or any other idea, so strongly that
the nouns may not be applied to human beings as well.
Of those nouns which get precision of meaning from a dependent
genitive, perhaps there is no better example than fragmentum,
which, expressing the result of the action of breaking, may mean a
piece or fragment of any breakable object: tribunum adoriuntur
fragmentis saeptorum, Sest. 79; ut glaebum aut fragmentum
lapidis dicemus, N. II, 82; fragmenta tegularum, Liv. 34, 89, 11;
fragmenta ramorum, Liv. 23, 24, 10; fragmenta crystalli sarciri
nullo modo queunt, Plin. 37, 2, 10; fragmenta panis, Plin. 9, 8, 8;
mille carinis abstulit Emathiae secum fragmenta ruinae [the
remnants of the army], Lucan, 9, 38. The genitives all answer the
question, fragments of what?
Another noun of general meaning which gets precision from a
genitive is fundamentum; whether literal or figurative, we want
to know, the foundations of what? and the context tells, though
not always merely by means of a genitive: quin cum fundamento
aedes perierunt, Most. 148; solum et quasi fundamentum oratoris
vides, locutionem emendatam et Latinam, Brut. 258; fundamenta
rei publicae ieci, Fam. XII, 25, 2; fundamenta ieci salutis tuae,
Fam. X, 29, 1; arcem Syracusis a fundamentis disiecit, Nepos,
XX, 3, 3; hic locus sicut aliquod fundamentum est huius constitutionis,
Inv. II, 19; qui a fundamentis mi usque movisti mare,
Rud. 539; prima fundamenta urbi iacere, Liv. 1, 12, 4; alta
fundamenta theatri locare, Aen. 1, 428; fundamenta altae Carthaginis
locare, Aen. 4, 266; urbs a fundamentis diruta, Liv. 42, 63,
11; fodere fundamenta delubro, Plin. 28, 2, 4; pietas fundamentum
est omnium virtutum, Planc. 29; fundamentum iustitiae est
fides, Off. 1, 7, 23; narratio est fundamentum constituendae
fidei, Part. 9, 31; fundamentum eloquentiae, De Or. 3, 151;
fundamentum philosophiae, Div. 2, 1, 2; initium ac fundamentum
defensionis, Clu. 10, 30; quod fundamentum huius quaestionis
est, id videtis, N. I, 44; fundamentum horum criminum, Cael.
13, 30; disciplina nixa fundamento veritatis, Gell. 14, 1, 20;
fundamentum et causa imperii, Sen. Ep. 87, 41; fundamenta
libertatis, Balb. 13, 31; fundamentum consulatus tui, Pis. 4, 9;
senectus quae fundamentis adolescentiae constituta est, C. 18, 62;
fundamenta pacis ieci, Phil. 1, 1, 1; fundamentum domus novae
iacere, Suet. Cal. 22; villa a fundamentis inchoata, Suet. Caes. 46.
Incitamentum is nearly always followed by a genitive or a
gerundive construction expressing the object toward which a thing
or circumstance is an inducement. The noun is used most frequently
in Tacitus: hoc maximum et periculorum incitamentum
est et laborum, Arch. 23; uxor, quae incitamentum mortis fuit,
Tac. A. 6, 29; incitamenta irarum, Tac. A. 1, 55; incitamenta
victoriae, Tac. Agr. 32; incitamentum ad honeste moriendum,
Curt. 9, 5, 4; incitamentum fortitudinis, Tac. G. 7, 9; incitamentum
cupidinis, Tac. A. 6, 1, 10; incitamenta belli, Tac. A. 12,
34, 2; est magna illa eloquentia alumna licentiae, comes seditionum,
effrenati populi incitamentum, Tac. D. 40, 11. In the last
example the genitive is a real objective genitive, while the participle
limiting it expresses the result of incitement expressed by the
genitives in the other examples.
Like incitamentum, invitamentum and irritamentum usually
get precision of meaning from a genitive: invitamenta urbis et
fori, Sulla, 74; honos, non invitamentum ad tempus, sed perpetuae
virtutis praemium, Fam. X, 10, 2; invitamenta temeritatis, Liv.
2, 42, 6; invitamentum sceleris, Vell. 2, 67, 3; pulchritudinem eius
non libidinis habuerat invitamentum, sed gloriae, Curt. 4, 10, 24;
fons reperiendus est, in quo sint prima invitamenta naturae, Fin.
5, 6; neque irritamenta gulae quaerebant, Sall. Jug. 89, 7; quod
irritamentum certaminum equestrium est, Liv. 30, 11; opes, irritamenta
malorum, Ov. M. 1, 140; irritamenta luxuriae, Val.
Max. 2, 6, 1; irritamentum invidiae, Tac. A. 3, 9; irritamentum
pacis, Tac. Agr. 20.
Tegumentum and integumentum have only their general
meaning of “cover” which they get from their verb stem, unless
something in the context tells what it is a covering for: lanx
cum integumentis, quae Iovi adposita fuit, Liv. 40, 59, 7; illius
sum integumentum corporis, Bacc. 602; istaec ego mihi semper
habui integumentum meae, Trin. 313; integumentum frontis,
Cic. post Red. in Sen. 7, 15; integumentum flagitiorum, Cael. 20,
47; integumentum dissimulationis, De Or. 2, 86; tegumenta
galeis milites ex viminibus facere iubet, B. C. 3, 62, 1; ad tegumenta
detrahenda scutis tempus defuerit, B. G. 2, 21, 5; quae [palpebrae]
sunt tegmenta oculorum, N. II, 142; tunicos aut tegimenta fuerant,
B. G. 3, 44, 7; humus satis solidum est tegimentum repellendis
caloribus, Sen. Ep. 90; equo purpurea tegumenta dedit, Suet. Cal.
55.
Documentum has the meaning of “example”, particularly
when there is a limiting genitive: Rutilius qui documentum fuit
virtutis, antiquitatis, prudentiae, Rab. Post. 10, 27. The common
occurrence of the word with verbs like dare, together with an
indirect question, shows it to mean proof: dederas enim, quam contemneres
populares insanias, iam ab adolescentia documenta maxima,
Mil. 8; multa documenta egregii principis dedit, Suet. Galb. 14.
With capere the natural meaning is “warning” or “instruction”:
ex quo documentum nos capere fortuna voluit, quid esset victis
pertimescendum, Phil. 11, 2. This meaning is also very commonly
seen in the use of the dative case to express purpose, followed
by a supplementary clause of purpose. The noun need not be
in the dative, however: insigne documentum Sagunti ruinae erunt
ne quis fidei Romanae aut societati confidat, Liv. 21, 19, 10;
deletum cum duce exercitum documento fuisse, ne deinde turbato
gentium iure comitia haberentur, Liv. 7, 6, 11.
Monumentum is quite as general in meaning as documentum,
and shows as great variety of meaning. It is applied to a whip:
vos monumentis commonefaciam bubulis, Stich. 63; a statue:
statuam volt dare, factis monumentum suis, Curc. 441; a literary
record: monumenta rerum gestarum oratori nota esse debent, De
Or. I, 201; an action or circumstance: cum Sex. Pompeium restituit
civitati, clarissimum monimentum clementiae suae, Phil. 5, 39;
a tomb: sepultus est in monumento avunculi sui, Nepos, Att.
22, 4. Sometimes the word gets precision of meaning from an
appositional genitive: hoc statuae monumento non eget, Phil. 9, 11;
ut tu monumentum aliquod decreti aut litterarum tuarum relinquas,
Q. fr. I, 2, 11; sepulcri monumento donatus est, Nep. Dion. 10.
Sometimes it is used without any suggestion of a concrete object
(cf. also the third example above): nullum monumentum laudis
postulo praeterquam huius diei memoriam sempiternam, Cat. 3, 11,
26.
Argumentum (always abstract) has the very frequent general
meaning of proof, reason, argument: quid nunc? vincon argumentis
te non esse Sosiam?, Am. 437; nunc, huc qua causa veni, argumentum
eloquar, Rud. 31; quod pridie noctu conclamatum esset
in Caesaris castris argumenti sumebant loco non posse clam exiri
B. C. 1, 67, 1. A common meaning in comedy is plot, or theme of a
play (our “argument” of an epic or a drama): ne exspectetis
argumentum fabulae, Adel. 22. Then it comes to mean the subject
matter of a speech or letter: ut mihi nascatur epistulae argumentum,
Fam. XV, 1, 22, 2; a sign or indication: ubi lyrae, tibia et
cantus, animi felicia laeti argumenta, sonant, Ov. M. 4, 762;
reality or meaning: haec tota fabella quam est sine argumento,
Cael. 27; the subject of artistic representations: ex ebore perfecta
argumenta erant in valvis, Verr. II, 4, 56. Twice in Ciceronian
Latin this word is defined in two of the ways mentioned: argumentum
est ficta res quae tamen fieri potuit, velut argumentum
comoediarum, Ad Her. 1, 8; argumentum esse rationem quae rei
dubiae faciat fidem, Top. 8.
Experimentum, when followed by indirect discourse, as in
the following example, must mean the result of trial; viz., “proof”:
hoc maximum est experimentum hanc vim esse in cogitatione
diuturna, T. 4, 56. In the plural, being the accumulation
of a number of trials, it is equivalent to experientia,
(experience): Metello experimentis cognitum erat, genus Numidarum
infidum esse, Sall. Jug. 46, 3.
Firmamentum often gets precise meaning from a limiting
genitive, which is also sometimes appositional: ossa nervique et
articuli, firmamenta totius corporis, Sen. De Ira, 2, 1, 2; firmamenta
stabilitatis constantiaeque est eius quam in amicitia quaerimus fides,
Lael. 65; eum ordinem firmamentum ceterorum ordinum recte esse
dicimus, Pomp. 17; transversaria tigna iniciuntur, quae firmamento
esse possint, B. G. 2, 15, 2; firmamentum ac robur totius
accusationis, Mur. 28, 58; firmamentum rei publicae, Planc. 9, 23;
firmamentum dignitatis, T. 4, 7; inventa ratione firmamentum
[orationi] quaerendum est, Inv. I, 34.
Instrumentum is a word which has the most general meaning,
and really receives less influence from its verb stem than from the
context. Even when there is a qualifying genitive or other limiting
factor it retains more or less of its general character. Probably
its most definite meaning is that of furniture (of a house): decora
atque ornamentum fanorum in instrumento ac supellectili C.
Verris nominabuntur, Verr. 2, 4, 44; instrumenti ne magni siet (of a
villa), Cato, R. R. I. 5. A common meaning is that of a tool, or
utensil of any kind: inest huic computationi sumptus fabrorum et
venatorii instrumenti, Plin. 3, 19; crudelia iussae instrumenta
necis, ferrumque ignisque parantur, Ov. M. 3, 697; arma, tela,
equos et cetera instrumenta militiae parare, Sall. Jug. 43, 3;
naves nautico instrumento aptae, Liv. 30, 10, 3. The following
example shows it meaning a legal document: opus est intueri
omne litis instrumentum; quod videre non est satis, perlegendum
est, Quint. 12, 8, 12. The meaning of supply, provisions (both
literal and figurative) is illustrated by the following examples:
quid viatici, quid instrumenti satis sit, Att. XII, 32, 2; instrumenta
naturae deerant, sed tantus animi splendor erat ut.., Brut. 77, 268;
in oratoris vero instrumento tam lautam supellectilem numquam
videram, De Or. I, 36, 165. In one instance it plainly means
apparel, dress: in iuvenem rediit, anilia demit instrumenta,
Ov. M. 14, 766. The meaning of aid or assistance is seen in these
citations: quanta instrumenta habeat ad obtinendam adipiscendamque
sapientiam, Leg. 1, 22; industriae subsidia atque instrumenta
virtutis in libidine audaciaque consumpsit, Cat. 2, 5.
Ornamentum is very similar in meaning to instrumentum, and
shows similar variety of signification due to context, although
the verb stem is a little more specialized. The number of things
which may be spoken of as having ornamenta are seen from the
examples: ornamenta bubus, ornamenta asinis instrata (esse
oporteat), Cato, R. R. 11, 4; elephantos ornatos armatosque cum
turribus et ornamentis capit, Auct. B. Afr. 86; pecuniam omniaque
ornamenta ex fano Herculis in oppidum Gadis contulit, B. C. 2,
18, 2; eloquentia principibus maximo ornamento est, F. 4, 61;
pecuniam et ornamenta triumphi Caesaris retinenda curaret,
Auct. B. Afr. 28, 2; audieram quae de orationis ipsius ornamentis
traderentur, De Or. I, 144; pulcherrima totius Galliae urbs, quae
praesidio et ornamento est civitati, B. G. 7, 15; mihi hoc subsidium
comparavi ad decus atque ornamentum senectutis, Orat. 1, 45;
Hortensius, lumen atque ornamentum rei publicae, Mil. 14;
urceoli sex, ornamentum abaci, Juv. 3, 203; neminem omnium
tot et tanta, quanta sunt in Crasso, habuisse ornamenta dicendi,
Orat. 2, 28. Sometimes adjectives show the ornamenta to be a
special sort of distinction: pluribus triumphalia ornamenta
decernenda curavit, Suet. Aug. 38; decem praetoriis viris consularia
ornamenta tribuit, Suet. Caes. 76. In comedy especially
it means dress, costume: ipse ornamenta a chorago haec sumpsit:
si potero ornamentis hominem circumducere, dabo operam ut....,
Trin. 859, 860; hominem cum ornamentis omnibus exornatum
adducite ad me, Pseud. 756; also trinkets: i, Palaestrio, aurum,
ornamenta, vestem, omnia duc, M. G. 1302; in one instance, the
dress of tragedy: ornamenta absunt: Aiacem, hunc quom vides
ipsum vides, Capt. 615.
Stramentum is applied to a number of things which can be conceived
of as being strewn or covered with straw, but is also sometimes
used absolutely: fasces stramentorum virgultorumque
incenderunt, B. G. 8, 15, 5; iubet magnum numerum mulorum
produci deque his stramenta detrahi, B. G. 7, 45; cum ea noctem
in stramentis pernoctare (a bed), Truc. 278; stramenta si deerunt,
frondem ligneam legito: eam substernito ovibus bubusque, Cato, R.
R. 5. There are two examples in which it means the roof of a
house, or thatch: casae, quae stramentis tectae erant, B. G. 5, 43;
pars ignes casis stramento arido tectis iniciunt, Liv. 25, 39.
Tormentum, an instrument with which anything is turned or
twisted, is applied especially to a military engine for hurling
missiles: aciem eo loco constituit, unde tormento missa tela in
hostium cuneos conici possent, B. G. 8, 14, 5; the missile itself:
quod unum genus tegumenti nullo telo neque tormento transici
posse, B. C. 2, 9; a (twisted) cord or rope: praesectis omnium
mulierum crinibus tormenta effecerunt, B. C. 3, 9, 3; a chain or
fetter: nam si non ferat, tormento non retineri potuit ferreo, Curc.
227; an instrument of torture: rotam, id est genus quoddam tormenti
apud Graecos, T. 5, 24; tum verberibus ac tormentis
quaestionem habuit pecuniae publicae, Phil. 11, 2, 5; torture,
pain: cum incredibles cruciatus et indignissima tormenta pateretur,
Plin. Ep. 1, 12, 6; hinc licebit tum dicere se beatum in summo
cruciatu atque tormentis, T. 5, 73.
Vestimentum, in addition to having its common meaning of
clothing: me vides ut sim vestimentis uvidis, Rud. 573; is once
applied to the covering of a bed: huc est intro latus lectus, vestimentis
stratus, Heaut. 903.
From the above examples it will be clear that at least some
-mentum words get precision of meaning from the context.
The different means by which the context exerts influence would
be difficult to classify; still less could one assert that -mentum
tends to have any meaning. Perhaps we should not speak of a
word varying semantically when it is used figuratively, yet it
is only from the context that we can ascertain whether it is used
figuratively or not. A word can be used in a figurative sense
only when, in one context, it has certain elements identical with
those which it has in another context. The more definite and
concrete the object expressed by a noun, the less variability
will be expected, either in a literal or figurative use. This is
true of the -bulum and -culum words, which, while admitting
a small range of variation, are much more limited in their variation
than the -mentum words were found to be. The best examples
will be given below.
Conciliabulum is a place of assembly and is expressly so defined
by Festus (cf. Chapter II, p. 25): mulieres ex oppidis conciliabulisque
conveniebant, Liv. 34, 1, 6; sacerdotes non Romae modo,
sed per omnia fora et conciliabula conquiri, Liv. 39, 14, 7. The
following example, however, shows that it may also mean the
assembly itself: igitur per conciliabula et coetus seditiosa disserebant,
Tac. A. 3, 40. In a few instances it takes on a bad meaning:
ne penetrarem me usquam ubi esset damni conciliabulum, Trin.
314; forte aut cena, ut solet in istis fieri conciliabulis, Bacc. 80.
Latibulum is seen to be a hiding place for different animals
and even of men, and also a refuge (figurative): cum etiam se
ferae latibulis tegant, Rab. Post. 42; repente te tamquam serpens
a latibulis intulisti, Vatin. 4; defendendi facilis est cautio non
solum latibulis occultorum locorum, sed etiam tempestatum
moderatione et conversione (of pirates), Flacc. 13, 31; ego autem
volo aliquod emere latibulum et perfugium doloris mei, Att.
XII, 13, 2.
Pabulum is used not only of food for animals but also, in poetry,
of food for men, and sometimes for the pastures, or feeding places.
Its figurative meaning is also quite common: bubus pabulum parare
oportet, Cato, R. R. 54, 1; pabula carpsit ovis, Ov. F. 4, 750;
ferae pecudes persultant pabula laeta, Lucr. 1, 14; novitas mundi
pabula dura tulit, miseris mortalibus ampla, Lucr. 5, 944; si
animus habet aliquod tamquam pabulum studii atque doctrinae,
C. 49; sed fugitare decet simulacra et pabula amoris, Lucr. 4, 1063.
Stabulum has its literal and general meaning of standing-place
in only two examples: neutrubi habeam stabile stabulum, siquid
divorti fuat, Aul. 233; nusquam stabulum confidentiae, Most. 350.
Most frequently it means a stable for animals or lair of wild beasts:
neque iam stabulis gaudet pecus aut arator igni, Hor. C. 1, 4, 3;
itur in antiquam silvam, stabula alta ferarum, Aen. 6, 179. The
agricultural writers use it in speaking of a variety of animals, birds
and fishes: pecudibus sient stabula, Col. 1, 6, 4; avium cohortalium
stabula (an aviary), Col. 8, 1; ut sit pavonum stabulum, Col. 8,
11, 3; hac ratione stabulis ordinatis aquatile pecus inducemus,
Col. 8, 17, 7; absint et picti squalentia terga lacerti pinguibus a
stabulis (of bees), Georg. 4, 14. It also means a cottage, a hut, a
dwelling like a stable: cum Catilina pastorum stabula praedari
coepisset, Sest. 12; pueros ab eo ad stabula Larentiae uxori
educandos datos, Liv. 1, 4, 7. A number of times the context
shows it applied to a house of ill fame: pistorum amicas, quae
tibi olant stabulum stratumque, Poen. 267. Twice it is applied to
persons as a term of reproach: ipsa quae sis stabulum flagitii,
Truc. 587; faciam uti proinde ut est dignus vitam colat, Acheruntis
pabulum, stabulum nequitiae, Cas. 160. In the last example
pabulum is also used with an emotional tone.
Vocabulum is a name or appellation, the name of the thing
itself being expressed, if at all, in the genitive, or in the nominative
with vocabulum in the ablative: si res suum nomen et proprium
vocabulum non habet, De Or. III, 159; deligitur artifex talium
vocabulo Locusta, Tac. A. 12, 66. It also signifies as a grammatical
term, a noun, as opposed to a verb: Aristotelis orationis duas
partes esse dicit, vocabula et verba, ut homo et equus, et legis et
currit, Varro, L. L. 8.
Conventiculum regularly means an assembly (without any
diminutive notion): conventicula hominum quae postea civitates
nominatae sunt, Sest. 91; but it may also mean the place of
assembly: exstructa sunt apud nemus conventicula, Tac. A. 14, 15.
Oraculum may mean a prophetic declaration by gods, or by men:
cum praesertim deorum immortalium iussis atque oraculis id
fecisse dicantur, Sex. Rosc. 66; haec ego nunc physicorum oracula
fundo, vera an falsa nescio, N. 1, 66. Also the place where
oracular responses were given: numquam illud oraculum Delphis
tam celebre fuisset nisi...., Div. I, 19, 37.
Periculum, in the sense of trial, is always the object of the verb
facere: fac semel periculum, Cist. 504; priusquam periculum
faceret, B. G. 4, 21. Its change to the meaning of danger must
have been by some such step as is seen in the following example,
although periculum facere, “make a trial,” is also practically
the same as “run a risk”: nescio quanto in periculo sumus,
Phor. 58. The common meaning of risk or danger hardly needs to
be illustrated: salus sociorum summum in periculum vocatur,
Pomp. 5, 12. The context shows it to have also two other meanings;
viz., a lawsuit: meus labor in periculis privatorum caste integreque
versatus, Pomp. 1, 2; a judicial sentence: petiit ut in periculo suo
inscriberent, Nep. Ep. 8; est honestus, quod eorum hominum
fidei tabulae publicae periculaque magistratuum committuntur,
Verr. 2, 3, 79.
Piaculum is properly an offering performed as a means of
appeasing a deity: porco femina piaculum faciundum est, Leg. II,
57; apparet omnia nec ullis piaculis expiari posse, Liv. 5, 53; and
then naturally it is applied to the victim itself: duc nigras pecudes:
ea prima piacula sunto, Aen. 6, 153; then also a sinful action,
which needs expiation: nonne in mentem venit, quantum piaculi
committatur?, Liv. 5, 52.
Spectaculum is properly a “sight”, anything seen: quom hoc
mihi optulisti tam lepidum spectaculum, Poen. 209; then a show,
on the stage or in the arena: spectacula sunt tributim data,
Muren. 72. Once in Plautus it clearly means a part of the theater
itself: exoritur ventus turbo, spectacula ibi ruont, Curc. 647;
that it means also the theater in general is seen from a few examples:
resonant spectacula plausu, Ov. M. 10, 668; ex omnibus spectaculis
plausus est excitatus, Sest. 58.
Umbraculum is a shady place: faciundum umbracula, quo
succedant homines in aestu tempore meridiano, Varro, R. R. I, 51;
also anything that furnishes shade, an umbrella: aurea pellebant
tepidos umbracula soles, Ov. F. II, 311. The limiting genitive in
the following example shows the noun to have lost its regular
stem-meaning and to have been used for “school”: Demetrius
mirabiliter doctrinam ex umbraculis eruditorum otioque produxit,
Leg. III, 14.
Vehiculum, a means of transportation, is applied to wagons or
carts: omnes di, qui vehiculis tensarum solemnes coitus ludorum
initis, Verr. 5, 186; but also to ships: ut procul divinum et
novum vehiculum Argonautarum e monte conspexit, N. II, 89.
* * * * *
That the words which we have treated vary in meaning according
to the context seems perfectly obvious; but the extent to which
this is true in general has received little if any attention from
linguistic students. The tracing of the meaning of a word through
various periods of the language has been commonly enough done;
that side of the question, however, this investigation has not
touched except incidentally. But the material presented in this
chapter and the preceding has, it is hoped, been sufficient to
illustrate how the words formed with our suffixes, while revealing
a limited tendency in meaning due to their verb stems, often also
owe much of their meaning to the context in which they are used.
CHAPTER IV
Overlapping of Suffixes
However great a tendency the suffixes under investigation
have toward giving to the nouns a certain meaning, the variations
of which they are capable,—due, as has been shown, to stem and
context,—strongly suggest that there can be nothing very stable
in the suffix itself. If there really were a fundamental meaning
in the suffixes, there would be no such variation as we find.
But a consideration which points even more to the comparatively
fluid condition of these suffixes is the fact that we find other
words, formed on the same stem, but with a different suffix,
meaning precisely the same as the nouns made with these suffixes.
Here again, the meanings are derived from an examination of the
context. Sometimes the contexts are exactly parallel, at other
times there is a sufficiently large element common to both to warrant
us in saying that the nouns do not, at least in these particular
instances, differ in meaning.
The fact that some of these parallel words occur at different
periods in the language does not weaken the argument, as the
mere occurrence of them shows the unstable influence of the
suffix; and, moreover, we need not suppose because one word is
not found at a certain period while another on the same stem with
a different suffix is found, that the first word was not in existence.
It is just as reasonable to assume that the preservation of one
word and not the other is due merely to common usage or the
personal preference of the author. Metrical considerations
might exclude the use of a certain word in poetry, but the instances
are very rare, and will be noted in the proper place.
The most common suffix which makes accessory forms with
-mentum is -men. Most authorities regard -mentum as an extension
of -men by the addition of -to. Whether this is true or
not, there are many -mentum words that have no accessory forms
in -men, and a large number of -men words that have no accessory
forms in -mentum. Corssen (Krit. Nach. p. 125 ff.) gives fifty-one
-men words from old, classical, and later Latin to which there
are no forms in -mentum, fifty-two -mentum words from the same
periods to which there are no forms in -men; twenty-five
words with both forms in any one period. He also gives a table
showing how the words in the older and classical language preferred
the form -men while in later Latin the same words preferred
the form -mentum. He says the suffix -mentum is only the
the extension, on Latin soil, of the suffix -men (Sanskrit, -man)
with -to; and this explains why in later Latin the forms in -mentum
become more frequent, also why they are not found in other
Italic dialects, nor in the Greek and other related languages.
Lindsay says (p. 335) that the suffix -men is found more often
in poetry, while -mentum predominates in prose.
Etymologically, the suffixes -bulum and -culum go back to
original -dhlo and -tlo respectively (Lindsay pp. 334 and 332).
A study of the other suffixes which make accessory forms to
these words would probably yield results similar to those seen in
the case of our suffixes; but all that will be attempted here will
be to show parallels wherever possible. Italics will be used here,
also, to show what elements in the context go to prove the equivalence
in semantic content of the nouns under discussion.
A. Parallels of -mentum and Accessory Suffixes
One of the neatest examples of identity in meaning is the
following exactly parallel usage of stramen and stramentum:
tectam stramine vidit casam, Ov. M. 5, 443; casae, quae stramentis
tectae erant, B. G. 5, 43.
From the use of a genitive denoting a concrete object,
fragmentum and fragmen are seen to be identical in meaning in
the following examples: adiacebant fragmina telorum equorumque
artus, Tac. A. 1, 61; tribunum adoriuntur fragmentis saeptorum,
Sest. 79.
The genitives depending on irritamen and irritamentum in
the following examples are not exactly alike, one being concrete
and the other abstract; but they are near enough in meaning,
and the nouns themselves are used in sufficiently similar contexts
to justify us in saying that either one might have been used in
place of the other: nisi adiecisset opes, irritamen animi avari,
Ov. M. 13, 434; neque salem neque alia irritamenta gulae quaerebant,
Sall. Jug. 89, 7.
Levamen and levamentum are used in parallel examples:
cuius mali (debt) plebes nullum levamen speraret, Liv. 6, 35, 1;
non aliud malorum levamentum quam si linquerent castra, Tac.
H. 1, 30, 9.
The verbs used with medicamen and medicamentum show a lack
of differentiation between these nouns: quod diceres te violentis
quibusdam medicaminibus solere curari, Pis. 6, 13; si eo medicamento
sanus factus esset, Off. 3, 92.
The verbs with molimen and molimentum in the following examples
are very similar, and there is the same adjective modifying
each noun: temptat revellere annosam pinum magno molimine,
Ov. M. 12, 357; neque exercitum sine magno commeatu atque
molimento in unum locum contrahere posse, B. G. I, 34, 3.
Identity of verbs and the case of momen and momentum show
there is no difference in their meaning: momine uti parvo possint
impulsa moveri, Lucr. 3, 188; animus paulo momento huc vel
illuc impellitur, And. 266.
Parallel instances of blanditia and blandimenta are seen in
these examples: haec meretrix meum erum sua blanditia intulit
in pauperiem, Truc. 572; illum spero immutari potest blandimentis,
oramentis, ceteris meretriciis, Truc. 318; benevolentiam civium
blanditiis et adsentando colligere turpe est, Lael. 61; Lepida
blandimentis ac largitionibus iuvenilem animum devinciebat,
Tac. H. 13, 13.
Adiutorium is a rare word, but in the following examples it
is seen to have the same general meaning as adiumentum, “help”:
sine adiutorio ignis nihil calidum est, Sen. Ep. 31; neque apud
homines res est ulla difficilior neque quae plura adiumenta
doctrinae desideret, De Or. III, 84.
Experimentum in the plural naturally means the same as experientia
(experience), but in the singular also they both mean a
trial or attempt, or the result of trial, proof: debemus temptare
experientia quaedam, sequentes non aleam, sed rationem aliquam,
Varro, R. R. 1, 18, 8; hoc est maximum experimentum, hanc
vim esse non in die positam sed in cogitatione diuturna, T. 3, 74.
With the meaning of experience: Agrippa non aetate neque
rerum experientia tantae moli par, Tac. A. 1, 4; Metello experimentis
cognitum erat, genus Numidarum infidum esse, Sall. Jug.
40, 3.
Firmamen and firmamentum might be interchanged, in both
their figurative and literal meanings: ruptosque obliqua per ungues
porrigitur radix, longi firmamina trunci, Ov. M. 10, 491;
ossa nervique, firmamenta totius corporis, Sen. De Ira, 2, 1, 2.
Both the dependent genitives above express concrete objects;
in the following they express abstract objects: unicum lapsae
domus firmamen, unum lumen afflicto malis temet reserva, Sen.
Herc. Fur. 1251; sic ille annus duo firmamenta rei publicae per
me unum constituta evertit, Att. I, 18, 3.
Documen occurs only once, but its context shows it to be
equivalent in meaning to documentum, which is used in strikingly
similar contexts: flammas ut fulguris halent pectore perfixo,
documen mortalibus acre, Lucr. 6, 391; ut sint reliquis documento
et magnitudine poenae perterreant alios, B. G. 7, 4, 10.
Words with the suffix -tio we naturally think of as verbals,
or nomina actionis, but in the following examples the context
makes it fairly certain that they mean the same as their corresponding
-mentum nouns.
Formamenta is found only twice: omnia principiorum formamenta
queunt in quovis esse nitore, Lucr. 2, 819; si vos
fateremini id quod vestra suspicio credidisset formamentis
divinis attribuisse, minus erat iniuriae praesumpta in opinatione
peccasse, Arn. 3, 16. In the first example, formamenta is used
closely following formae and must mean the same thing, the
“shapes” of the atoms; in the second example the adjective
“divinis” indicates a similar meaning for formamentum; in the
following example Vitruvius is giving directions concerning the
building of a forum: ita enim erit oblonga eius [forum] formatio et
ad spectaculorum rationem utilis dispositio, Vitr. 5, 1. While
the directions for the future building might lead us to believe that
the word has a predominant verbal force, yet it is just as possible
to conceive of it as expressing the result of the process; and this
interpretation is even more probable, as the adjective oblonga
would properly not be applied to a purely verbal noun.
The verb fodior shows the identity in meaning between fundatio
and fundamenta in the following instances: cum fodientes delubro
fundamenta caput humanum invenissent, Plin. 28, 2, 4; fundationes
eorum operum fodiantur, Vitr. 3, 3. Res Romana and
libertas are near enough alike to show that fundamen and
fundamentum have the same general meaning in these instances:
fundamine magno res Romana valet, Ov. M. 4, 808; haec sunt
fundamenta firmissima nostrae libertatis, Balb. 13.
The contexts of hortamen and hortamentum in the two following
examples are near enough alike to warrant our saying that the
nouns might be interchanged: Decii eventus, ingens hortamen ad
omnia pro re publicia audenda, Liv. 10, 29, 5; in conspectu parentum
coniugumque ac liberorum quae magna etiam absentibus
hortamenta animi sunt, Liv. 7, 11, 6.
There is undoubtedly no more verbal force in the following
example of allevatio than in the example of allevamentum, (which
is the only one extant): tantis rebus urgemur, nullam ut allevationem
quisquam non stultissimus sperare debeat, Fam. IX, 1; Sulla
coactus est in adversis fortunis sine ullo remedio atque allevamento
permanere, Sulla, 66.
Besides alimentum there are two other nouns, formed on the
verb alo, alimonium and alimonia, which also mean support or
nourishment, as seen from these parallel examples: plus alimenti
in pane quam in ullo alio est, Cels. 2, 18; quid temperatus ab
alimonio panis, cui rei dedistis nomen castus?, Arn. 5, 16; amisso
omni naturalis alimoniae fundamento, homo exhaustus intereat,
Gell. 17, 15, 5.
Although -tus is also usually considered as forming nomina
actionis, the example of cruciatus clearly is parallel with that
of cruciamentum: confectus iam cruciatu maximorum dolorum,
ne id quidem scribere possim, quod...., Att. XI. 11, 1; nec graviora
sunt tormenta carnificum, quam interdum cruciamenta morborum,
Phil. 11, 4.
Calceamentum, “shoe” or covering for the feet, has two accessory
forms, calceamen and calceatus, which are synonymous
with it (the former being found only in Pliny): mihi est calciamentum
solorum callum, amictui Scythicum tegimen, T. 5, 90;
vestitu calceatuque et cetero habitu neque patrio neque civili
usus est, Suet. Calig. 52; hinc [sparto] strata rusticis eorum, hinc
ignes facesque, hinc calceamina et pastorum vestis, Plin. 19, 2, 7.
The use of ad and a gerund after both invitatio and invitamenta
indicate their lack of difference in meaning in these two instances:
ad eundem fontem revertendum est, aegritudinem omnem abesse
a sapiente, quod inanis sit, quod frustra suscipiatur, quod
non natura exoriatur, sed iudicio, sed opinione sed quadam
invitatione ad dolendum, cum id decreverimus ita fieri oportere,
T. 3, 82; quocirca intellegi necesse est in ipsis rebus, quae
discuntur et cognoscuntur, invitamenta inesse, quibus ad discendum
cognoscendumque moveamur, F. 5, 52.
Munitio is another -tio noun that ordinarily has verbal force,
but not at all infrequently it coincides in meaning with both
munimen and munimentum: cum urbem operibus munitionibusque
saepsisset, Phil. 13, 9, 20; castella et munitiones idoneis locis
imponens, Tac. A. 3, 74. The genitives following munimen and
munitio are alike in meaning and function, both being appositional:
confisus munitione fossae, B. C. 1, 42, 3; narrat esse locum
solidae tectum munimine molis, Ov. M. 4, 771. Munimentum is
used of the same kind of “fortification”: fossa, haud parvum munimentum,
Liv. 1, 33, 7.
Natura and ignis are the similar elements in the following
contexts that indicate the identity in meaning between nutrimen
and nutrimentum:
nempe ubi terra cibos alimentaque pinguia flammae
non dabit absumptis per longum viribus aevum
naturaeque suum nutrimen deerit edaci, Ov. M. 15, 354;
suscepit ignem foliis atque arida circum
nutrimenta dedit, Aen. 1, 176.
In the first example, curiously enough, nutrimen seems to be also
synonymous with alimenta in the second line before it.
Nato and puerorum following oblectamina and oblectamenta
indicate identity in meaning, although the latter is still vague,
while the former is specified by “flores”: carpserat flores, quos
oblectamina nato porrigeret, Ov. M. 9, 342; obsecro te non ut
vincla virorum sint, sed ut oblectamenta puerorum, Par. 5, 2, 38.
We have the clear testimony of Varro that operculum and
operimentum are both used to mean “covering”: quibus operibantur
operimenta et opercula dixerunt, Varro, L. L. 5, 167; and
the fact is illustrated by the following examples, in which both
are used in the ablative after tego: aspera arteria tegitur quasi
quodam operculo, N. 2, 54; nuces gemino protectae operimento
sunt, Plin. 15, 22.
Both ornatus and ornamentum are used of a speech, oratio:
mihi eripuisti ornamentum orationis meae, Planc. 83;
reliqua quasi lumina afferunt magnum ornatum orationi, Or. 39,
134. The following examples of these nouns, although still general
in meaning, are interesting as being used with the verb which is
their stem: ornatus appellatur cultus ipse, quo quis ornatur,
Fest. 184; hominem cum ornamentis omnibus exornatum adducite
ad me, Bacc. 756.
Although the circumstances in the following passages are
not alike, the immediate contexts are similar enough to show that
sarmen and sarmentum have the same meaning: iam iubeo
ignem et sarmen arae, carnifex, circumdari, Most. 1114; ligna
et sarmenta ignemque circumdare coeperunt, Verr. 2, 1, 69.
Tegimen and tegimentum both mean a covering for the body:
mihi amictui Scythicum tegimen est, T. 5, 90; pennarum contextu
corpori tegimentum faciebat, F. 5, 32.
As shown earlier in this paper, tinnimentum in its single
occurrence undoubtedly means a “tinkling” in the ears, caused
by chattering talk; tinnitus also seems to mean the same thing
in the following contexts: cuminum silvestre auribus instillatur ad
sonitus atque tinnitus, Plin. 20, 15, 57; illud tinnimentumst
auribus, Rud. 806.
If there is any difference between vestitus and vestimentum
in these two examples, it is difficult to find: credo te audisse,
venisse, eo muliebri vestitu virum, Att. I, 13, 3; mulierem aequomst
vestimentum muliebre dare foras, virum virile, Men. 659.
From the fragments in Nonius we find that two of our -mentum
nouns have accessory forms in -menta (fem.) with the same meaning:
ipsius armentas ad easdem, Ennius ap. Non. 190, 20; tu
cornifrontes pascere armentas soles, Pacuvius ap. Non. 190, 22;
labei labuntur saxa, caementae cadunt, Ennius ap. Non. 196, 30.
B. Parallels of -bulum and Accessory Suffixes
Latibulum and latebra: repente te tamquam serpens e latibulis
intulisti, Vat. 2; curvis frustra defensa latebris vipera, Georg. 3,
544; cum etiam ferae latibulis se tegant, Rab. Post. 15, 42;
Maenala transieram latebris horrenda ferarum, Ov. M. 1, 216.
Latibulum is an example of a word that could not be used in verse
on account of the quantity of its syllables.
Common elements in the context show identity of meaning in
sedile and sessibulum: cum pater assedisset appositumque esset
aliud filio quoque eius sedile, Gell. 2, 2, 8; asside istic, nam prae
metu latronum nulla sessibula parare nobis licet, App. Met. 1.
Varro (L. L. 8, 54) says that a form sediculum is also correctly
made, but not in use.
Stabulatio, another apparent verbal noun, must mean the
same as stabulum in the following examples, both on account of
the adjective and the general significance of the passages:
hibernae stabulationi eorum (cattle) praeparanda sunt stramenta,
Col. 6, 3, 1; iubeo stabula a ventis hiberno opponere soli, Georg.
3, 302.
Besides a few examples in Arnobius, only one instance of vocamen
is found, in Lucretius, but that it means the same as vocabulum
can be seen from the parallel passages: si quis Bacchi nomine
abuti Mavult quam laticis proprium proferre vocamen, Lucr. 2,
657; si res suum nomen et vocabulum proprium non habet, De Or.
III, 159.
C. Parallels of -culum and Accessory Suffixes
Among -culum words, we find cenaculum having an accessory
form cenatio that has, not the verbal idea, but the genuine
meaning of place for eating, while cenaculum has lost its literal
meaning and taken a more general signification: vel cubiculum
grande vel modica cenatio [sit] quae plurimo sole lucet, Plin. Ep.
2, 17, 10; nos ampliores triginta vidimus in cenatione quam
Callistus exaedificaverat, Plin. 36, 7, 12; ubi cubabant, cubiculum, ubi
cenabant, cenaculum vocitabant; posteaquam in superiore parte
cenitare coeperunt superioris domus universa cenacula dicta,
Varro, L. L. 5, 162.
On the stem curro there are three nouns, all signifying “a
running”: exercent sese ad cursuram, Most. 861; ibi cursu,
luctando sese exercebant, Bacc. 428; unum curriculum face, Trin.
1103. A use of curriculum with exerceo would parallel the first
two examples, but in such a case it takes on the meaning of place
(running course): cum athletae se exercentes in curriculo videret,
C. 27.
In the same paragraph deversorium and deverticulum are
used of the same place: ut in deversorium eius vim magnam
gladiorum inferri clam sineret, Liv. 1, 51; cum gladii abditi ex
omnibus locis deverticuli protraherentur, Liv. 1, 51.
Feretrum and ferculum both are used depending on suspensa
in the two following examples, but mean different kinds of “instruments
for carrying”: quis opima volenti dona Iovis portet feretro
suspensa cruento, Sil. 5, 168; spolia ducis hostium caesi suspensa
fabricato ad id apte ferculo gerens in Capitolium ascendit, Liv.
1, 10, 5.
The stem cerno (sift) forms two nouns which both mean a
sieve, although the use of them side by side indicates that there
must be some difference; as there are no other examples of
incerniculum, this difference cannot be discovered: in torcularium
quod opus est cribrum unum, incerniculum unum, Cato, R. R. I,
13, 3; caseum per cribrum facito transeat in mortarium, Cato,
R. R. 76, 3.
In the following examples, spiramen and spiracula are both
used to mean “breathing holes” in the earth or universe, while
spiramenta is applied to the cells in a beehive:
sunt qui spiramina terris
esse putent magnosque cavae compages hiatus,
Lucan, 10, 247;
quasi per magni circum spiracula mundi
exitus introitusque elementis redditus exstat, Lucr. 6, 493;
apes in tectis certatim tenuia cera
spiramenta linunt, Georg. 4, 39.
No difference can be seen in spectamen and spectaculum in
these examples: miserum funestumque spectamen aspexi, App. M.
4, 151; potius quam hoc spectaculum viderem, Mil. 38, 103;
constitutur in foro Laodiceae spectaculum acerbum et miserum,
Verr. I, 76.
CHAPTER V
Suffixes and the Theory of Adaptation
As stated in the introductory chapter, it has been the primary
object of this paper to examine certain word-building suffixes
for the purpose of finding out, if possible, what the force of the
suffixes themselves is, and how the nouns formed with them get
their meaning. The material presented has, it is hoped, shown
that these nouns are capable of wide semantic variation, the
influencing elements being the verb stem and context (the former
exerting greater influence than the latter); also that these suffixes
overlap with other suffixes in forming words of identical semantic
content to such an extent that they cannot be said to have any
sort of fundamental meaning whatever. This is the significance
of our investigation in so far as semantics is concerned.
But it is possible also to connect our results with another
question, the entire solution of which will doubtless never be
possible, at least not soon; viz., the theory of the origin of
inflection. Nothing but mere suggestion can be made in this
direction from the conclusions of this study; the field will need
much wider working-over before any thing definite can be asserted.
Of the two chief explanations of the origin of inflection, one,
the theory of adaptation, as held at the present time, answers
the question by saying that “inflectional endings are not essentially
different from word-building suffixes, but are rather to be regarded
as word-building suffixes in a new rôle and partially systematized
into paradigms. Inflection comes at the point—wherever in the
long course of development that point may be—where the endings
of two or more different forms of a word begin to be felt to be the
carriers of relations of case, or of mode and tense, to a certain
extent independently of stem and context. It is therefore not
properly a matter of forms, but of meanings, and that theory which
accounts for the meanings and for their association with forms
explains inflection, whether it accounts for the forms or not.”188
In other words, inflectional forms got their meanings in a manner
similar to that we have illustrated in the case of our nouns.
(1.) The apparent definiteness that case-endings have does
depend largely on their stem-meaning. Many of the functional
distinctions of case can be made only by the meaning of the nouns,
e. g., in “gladiis pugnatum est”, Caes. B. G. 1, 52; “uno tempore
omnibus locis pugnatur,” B. G. 7, 84; “pugnatum continenter
horis quinque vario certamine,” B. C. 1, 46, we have five ablatives,
expressing instrument, time when, duration of time, manner, and
place, only because the words in the ablative are capable of these
meanings. Just so, we saw that our nouns got their general
meaning of instrument, place, result of action, etc., because their
verb stems were such as to admit of such meaning.
(2.) While our nouns naturally get an important part of their
meaning from the verb stem, yet they derive great specialization
of meaning from some element in the context. It is very probable,
too, that originally our so-called inflectional system was in reality
only a large number of undifferentiated forms which, by a process
of centralization and adaptation, and influenced by the associations
in which they were used, acquired their present meaning.
(3.) The variety and overlapping of suffixes may also be paralleled
by case-endings; for example, in both the first and second declensions
the same form serves for the dative and ablative plural,
while there is another form for the other declensions. The
genitive singular, and nominative and accusative plural of
the fourth declension are alike in form. In the historical language,
the genitive singular, dative singular, and nominative plural of
the first declension have become identical in form. Other similar
comparisons might be drawn to illustrate the similarity in meaning
of forms with different endings, and from the verb as well as the
noun. The very fact that we have five declensions and four conjugations,
with many variations inside the system and irregularities
outside, goes to show that it is not real system that we have here,
but the survival of an original mass of undifferentiated forms, which
through a long period of development have acquired their present
inflectional meaning.
The parallel suggested here is put forth merely as a suggestion;
all we can say is, that it is possible that inflectional forms did
get their meaning in some such way as the nouns treated in this
paper got theirs. More evidence will be necessary for establishing
this theory, if it can be established at all.