by Paul Hazard
From the West Indies come accounts of the most daring adventurers that ever were on sea or land. With their headquarters on the island of Tortuga close to San Domingo, these desperadoes, drawn from every race and country, had a code of honour peculiar to themselves and a very different one from that of other folk. These men were the buccaneers or filibusters. They hunted the buffalo for its hide, and the boar for its flesh. Armed with long sporting guns manufactured expressly for them at Dieppe and Nantes, with their dogs at their heels, attended by serving men whom they take on for three years and then put on the strength if they prove satisfactory, they went forth in pursuit of their prey. When a beast was brought down, the leader of the party took out the four big bones, broke them and sucked out the marrow while it was warm. That was his breakfast. They were splendid shots, and one of their ways of passing the time was to shoot at oranges and sever the stem without touching the fruit. Some of them were such doughty fellows that they would race along after the bulls, catch them up, and slit their hamstrings in full career. Rude, violent, intractable, fierce, always ready to spill blood, they were as brave as lions and strangely loyal to the bonds of friendship. The filibusters were the huntsmen of the sea. Speeding along on the ocean billows, they would swoop down on some large vessel, usually a Spaniard, as she was sailing on laden with gold from the Indies. Scrambling aboard, they put the crew to the sword, and took possession of the ship. From fight after fight, prize upon prize, they piled up the spoils till, putting one day into some port or other, they squandered the whole lot like madmen, as witness those specimens who, having taken some magnificent prizes, at last reached Bordeaux, where they paraded the place in sedan-chairs, preceded by men bearing lighted torches, in broad daylight. The courage and ferocity of the filibusters became legendary. They used to call themselves by fanciful names, such as “Alexander Strong i’th’arm, so called from the power behind his fist”; a man who made his name as famous among gentlemen of fortune as did Alexander of old among the conquerors of nations. Then there was “Peter the Great” who hailed from Dieppe; Roc, commonly called the Brazilian, from Groningen; Morgan, the Welshman; Captain Montauban, who, for upwards of twenty years, harried the coasts of New Spain, Carthagena, Mexico, Florida, New York, the Canaries and Cape Verde. L’Olonois, a native of Poitou, with a crew of one and twenty, came one day and hove-to off Cuba. He fought and captured the vessel which had been ordered to pursue him, and was told that the Spanish governor had had a hangman put aboard with orders to string up the pirate crew. “L’Olonois, when he heard the words ‘hang’ and ‘hangman’ flew into a mighty rage. He ordered the hatches to be opened, and commanded the Spaniards to come up one at a time. Every time a head appeared above deck he struck it off with his sabre. This butchery he carried out alone, and to the very last man.” L’Olonois seized Macaraibo and Gibraltar in the province of Venezuela. When all the loot was collected together, it was found that, what with the jewels, and the various coins, calculated at ten crowns the pound, they had got the equivalent of about two hundred and sixty thousand crowns all told; apart from the rest of the plunder, which was worth at least a hundred thousand more. This is leaving out of the account all the damage they had wrought. This must have amounted to a good million, seeing the churches that had been despoiled, the furniture that had been destroyed and the ships that had been set on fire. One vessel, laden with tobacco, they towed away with them. It must have been worth at least a thousand livres. L’Olonois was less fortunate in his end. He had the ill-luck to fall into the hands of some savages belonging to the tribe which the Spaniards call Indian Braves. They cut him up into quarters, roasted, and then devoured him.[2]
It was from the East that the most wonderful stories came, “for we all know that where tales of the marvellous are concerned the Oriental races surpass all others.” During the period 1704 to 1711, Antoine Galland brought out his translation of the Arabian Nights. When Scheherazade began to recount her stories of the night, to unfold the infinite wealth of an imagination enriched with all the dreams of Araby, of Syria and the great Levant; when she began to tell of the manners and customs of the peoples of the East, their religious ceremonies, their domestic habits, the details of their dazzling and colourful existence; when she showed how mankind could be held and enthralled, not by abstruse intellectual ideas, not by recondite reasoning, but by the charm of colours and the lure of fairy tales, all Europe was fain to stop and listen. Then did the fairies Carabosse and Aurora make way for the throng of Sultanas, Viziers, Dervishes, Greek doctors, negro slaves. Light, fairylike edifices, fountains, pools guarded by lions of massy gold, spacious chambers hung with silks and tapestries from Mecca—all these replaced the palaces where the Beast had waited for Beauty to open her loving eyes. All this merely meant that a new fashion was ousting an older one, but amid the ebb and flow, the ceaseless change, there was one thing that did not change, one thing that remained constant, and that was the inexhaustible craving of the human heart for dreams and tales.
And pictures, too! Travellers embellished their narratives with drawings of their own, Chinese pagodas, African serpents, Siamese priests, the wondrous plants that grow in the gardens of Malabar. Père Bouvet had a number of plates drawn in order that the French, who were amazed at the sight, might see how the Mandarins attired themselves. M. de Fériol, French ambassador at the court of the Grand Turk, ordered a hundred prints to be executed to give the Parisians an idea of the rich costumes worn by the people of the Levant. There were some who entertained the reader with stories and incidents by means of actual pictures of these different exotic types; we see a savage setting fire to the couch on which his mistress is lying; explorers groping their way into one of the Egyptian pyramids, their torches flinging weird lights and shadows over the tombs that have lain there for thousands of years. Often enough they have great charm, these pictures of far-off, unfamiliar lands. It seemed as though their novelty were giving back to artists something of the spontaneity they had lost through their prolonged subservience to antique models. Sometimes a traveller, realizing that pictures speak louder than words, turns artist himself. Cornelius Van Bruyn confronts his models with the high seriousness of one performing a sacred office. His mission is to convey the truth.
But books were not everything. Visitors from divers lands, from the West Indies, from Bangkok, from Peking came and thronged the familiar places in their unfamiliar garb. The Flemish weavers became more and more eager to introduce into their tapestries scenes and subjects from the utmost ends of the earth. Chinamen, who had already played a part in Opera, and in the booths of country fairs, were now delineated on walls and screens. China-ware and lacquer-work come crowding hither no less speedily than the tenets of Confucius.
Spinoza, Malebranche, Leibniz, ah, yes; important names, those; but do not overlook Alexander Strong-i’th’arm, and Scheherazade. There were the great metaphysical systems based on philosophy, on reason; but there was also the imagination to reckon with, the fancy flitting from fairy tale to fairy tale; the eye that takes on a far-off look as it calmly surveys the picture of a rhinoceros or a sea-calf. Many were the efforts to probe the mysteries that lay hid beneath the surface of life, but many were the pretty toys and glittering gewgaws that sparkled on its surface.
The roysterers, the rakes, the toss-pots and rapscallions, precious little they trouble their heads about Spinoza and his philosophy; about as much as a fish might fancy a fig. The only pre-established harmony that interests these merry fellows is the harmony between their gullets and a bottle of good, sound wine. On they go, never caring whence they come, or whither they are going. Why trouble? To be alive is the main thing; a live dog is better than a dead sage, any day. The concrete, the tangible, that’s their bit of country, and with carefree hearts they go roaming about it far and wide, whistling, singing, making merry, and trading on the simplicity and innocence of any nincompoops they chance to meet on their way. As for death, and what comes after it, why worry?
There must
be something inherently attractive about your rogue, your vagabond, your scallywag—there must be something with an irresistibly human appeal about him, or else he must be a prodigiously entertaining fellow, thus, under various guises, to go on giving pleasure to generation after generation of human-kind. Immortal picaro! The sons and grandsons of Guzman d’Alfarache and of Lazarillo de Tormes still roam the world, arm-in-arm with the descendants of Panurge, and Meriton Latroon their English cousin. But this indefatigable band of brothers was not without some fresh recruits. In London, Ned Ward, the innkeeper, quits his tavern, not, however, before he has sat down to table with a few sound cronies and discussed with them a brace of roast geese, a couple of calves’ heads and an enormous hunk of Cheddar; the whole washed down with liberal draughts of ale, and port to finish up with. Leaving his tavern, and running into Locke, maybe, or Samuel Clarke, or Boyle, or Newton, on his way, he sauntered down one street after another, putting his head into taverns, houses, churches, banks, museums, wherever, in short, you might expect to come up against amusing specimens of that queer species that goes by the name of Man. These he tells us about with immense gusto, a vivid pen, and a vocabulary of rich savour. With unflagging vivacity, bubbling over with humour and irony, he makes every page of his London Spy a bit of real life. Reality and laughter, of such was the miracle he accomplished, and continued to accomplish, day after day. Not far from him, Tom Brown, a bohemian of bohemians, a satirist if ever there was one, always ready and willing to sell his pen for money, always prompt to squander the money he made by his pen, was another who observed and noted the follies of the great city. How say you? What is life but a pastime, a way of amusing ourselves? One man finds amusement in ambition, another in money-making, another in that altogether preposterous thing they call love. Little things amuse little minds. Great ones find amusement in trying to cover themselves with glory. As for myself, I find entertainment in the reflection that the whole business is just a way of passing the time, just another game.
Thus spoke our moralist in reverse, who, having drunk deep, made love, borrowed money, and slept in prison cells beyond all reasonable limits, died when he was but one and forty. Meanwhile, in Paris and Madrid, the Diable Boiteux was entertaining himself in like manner. Instead, however, of going in at the front door when he went a visiting, he preferred to lift up the roof. No matter; he discovered, just the same, anti-metaphysicians, anti-heroes, people steeped in materialism and thinking none the worse of themselves for that, that is if they ever thought at all. They were content just to exist. “The pother, the peregrinations, the pains poor mortals take to fill up as agreeably as may be the brief interval betwixt the cradle and the grave.”[3] That was about the sum of their aspirations, just that and nothing more. About higher things, about the Beyond, not a word, it would seem not a qualm, not a spark of curiosity. Reality, here, spells ugliness, unloveliness of soul, unloveliness of body. Rub the surface a little and that is what you always find, and that is all you find. “I see in the house next door a couple of rather amusing pictures: one is an elderly coquette who is just getting into bed, having deposited her hair, her eyebrows and her teeth on the dressing table. The other is a sexagenarian beau, just back from a love affair. He has already removed his glass eye, his moustache and the wig that covered his bald pate. He is waiting for his man to come and take off his wooden arm and leg, so that what is left of him may get into bed.” Is beauty non-existent, then? Can we not hope to find it anywhere? “If I can trust my own eyesight”, says Zambullo, “I perceive, in this house here, a regular picture of a girl.” “Oh, you do, do you ?” replies the cripple. “Well, the young beauty you fancy so is the elder sister of this dashing gentleman who is just about to get into bed. You might well say that she and the old battleaxe she lodges with are a proper pair. Her waist, which you so much admire, is the latest thing in mechanical devices. Her bust and her hips are artificial. Nevertheless, she puts on the airs of a bread-and-butter miss. And look! There, I see, are two young gallants competing for her favours. They have come to fisticuffs about her. They are pounding into each other like mad. They look to me for all the world like a couple of dogs fighting over a bone.” You won’t find ideas in the Diable Boiteux, but rather the workings of a grotesque or sombre imagination. Lesage achieved perfection in this particular line with his Gil Blas, the first part of which appeared in 1715; the hero is more subtle, more mercurial, more complex; the observation is more penetrating, more comprehensive; the tempo is easy and natural. But we are still worlds away from the Tragedy of Ideas.
Finally, bringing up the rear, trying to look unconcerned, as if they didn’t belong to the main body, here come some gentlemen of rather imposing mien who, however, have this defect about them; they never tackle the moral question, or, if they do, tackle it as an afterthought. We might very well say of these gentlemen what the Amiens innkeeper said of Manon Lescaut and Des Grieux, that they are charming, but a wee bit on the shady side. They are all for a life of adventure, a roving life, for dicing, for making love. They like to score off people, to pull off a bit of sharp practice, to sail as near the wind as possible, to whip out their swords and hit freely, sometimes getting hit back themselves, but never mortally. Their wounds attended to, they are duly put to bed, only to be up again a week or so later and carrying on as lawlessly as ever. Merely to hear about their doings is enough to make any decent citizen’s head turn. They could all appropriately bear the name which Gatien de Courtilz, who let loose so many rogues disguised as aristocrats on the world, bestowed on one of his heroes, they could all be dubbed le Chevalier Hasard, Sir Chance-my-Luck. How they went the pace! The Chevalier Hasard never knew either father or mother; he was found in his swaddling-clouts on the steps of a church and was brought up by the parish. He quitted his foster-parents in order to go and try his luck in the world. Some well-to-do lady apprenticed him to a goldsmith, whom he shortly abandons and enlists in the army, joining Mylord S. T.’s regiment of marines. The vessel on which he embarks is shipwrecked. By a miracle he manages to reach the shore with another member of the crew with whom he sails for Boston. His friend is killed in a gambling brawl. He avenges his death and gets into hot water with his mistress. He is accused of getting a girl into trouble. On the point of marrying another one, he is attacked in the street, and wounded with a pistol shot. The wound grows dangerous. Meanwhile there are troubles about his marriage. The girl he has wronged wants him to marry her. Her brother vows he will kill him. He is again attacked and wounded four times. On his recovery, his mistress gets smallpox and dies. . . .[4] With all these things on his hands and living at the pace he does, how should such a restless soul find time to think?
The most engaging of these illustrious adventurers is not the Marquis de Montbrun; nor that ill-starred prince, the Chevalier de Rohan; nor even M. d’Artagnan, who was completely unaware of the brilliant career that was awaiting him after he had been wrapt in slumber for a hundred and fifty years. No; it was the Comte de Grammont, whose life story Anthony Hamilton diverted himself by giving to the world.[5] Who is unacquainted with the brilliant piece of portraiture with which an Englishman enriched the literature of France? Who has not followed the Comte de Grammont through his ’prentice years, through his Piedmontese campaigns, in exile at the English court of which he was so scandalous an adornment? Who has not delighted in those entertaining pen-portraits, as that of Matta, his gossip, of Mlle. de Saint-Germain, or the Marquise de Sénantes? Who has not admired his free and flowing narrative, his eye for the picturesque, his full-blooded, and incisive, pregnant style, his vigour, his sense of humour? Hamilton himself shall tell us of his concern, not with morals, but with character; not with good or evil but with the contrast between the two. His aim is to portray life, not to philosophize about it. “It is my part”, he says, “to describe a man, whose inimitable character casts a veil over those faults which I shall neither palliate nor disguise; a man distinguished by a mixture of virtues and vices so closely linked together as in ap
pearance to form a necessary dependence, glowing with the greatest beauty when united, shining with the brightest lustre when opposed. It is indefinable brilliancy which, in war, in love, in gaming and in the various stages of a long life, has rendered the Comte de Grammont the admiration of his age.” Vital force: it is that whereof Grammont is the living symbol, and that it is which Hamilton has portrayed.
It would argue some degree of naïveté to betray astonishment at the multi-coloured swarms of humanity portrayed in literature. But by fixing our gaze too exclusively on the loftier peaks, we had almost forgotten them.
[1]Letter from le P. de Prémare to R. P. de la Chaise, confesseur du Roi, Canton, 17 February, 1699. (Lettres édifiantes et curieuses écrites des missions étrangères, tome I, 1703.)
[2]A. O. Oexmelin, De Americaensche Zee-Rovers, Amsterdam, 1678. French translation, 1686.
[3]Alain René Lesage, Le Diable Boiteux, 1707.
[4]Mémoires du chevalier Hasard, translated from the English of the original manuscript. Cologne, Pierre le Sincère, 1703. Argument.
[5]Mémoires de la vie du Comte de Grammont, Cologne, Pierre Marteau, 1713.
III
LAUGHTER AND TEARS: OPERA TRIUMPHANT
Je chante les combats, et ce prélat terrible
Qui, par ses longs travaux et sa force invincible,
Dans une illustre église exerçant son grand coeur,
Fit placer à la fin un lutrin dans le choeur.[1]
INSTEAD of parodying the Aeneid, how about taking some quite trivial theme and treating it in the “Grand Manner”? Say, the quarrels and squabbles of a treasurer of the Sainte Chapelle and some member of the choir with whom he was at loggerheads, and, with this as the subject, to burlesque the various stock ingredients and embellishments of the great poetic masterpieces, the descriptions, the battles, the tumults, the prophecies, the dreams, and so forth; is this the right recipe for provoking laughter?