Romantique contre Classique

A timeline of the romantique and classique debate in France and England from 1813 to 1830.

Much of the romantique contre classique debate pitted an energetic, passionate and original Shakespeare against a flat, dull and unoriginal Racine. Irish novelist Sydney Owenson, Lady Morgan launched the first sally in her study of France during the early years of the Bourbon Restoration.

“Racine produced elegant paraphrases of the Greek dramas; adhering strictly to their rules and unities, but violating the propriety of action in every scene, by blending the formal frivolity of the French manners, with the grand solemnity of antique fable” (64).

“But Racine, though an historian, was not a philosopher, in any sense of the word: and it would be vain to search, in his correct pages, for one of the thousand citations referable to every point of human conduct and human feeling, which Shakespeare presents as the reading illustrations of every text in the moral existence of man” (65).

Sydney, Lady Morgan. “French Theater,”France. Vol 1. M. Thomas, 1817, Philadelphia.

The following year, Charles Dupin responds to Lady Morgan with Lettre à MyLady Morgan sur Racine et Shakespeare. Dupin writes to defend Racine against what he sees as Lady Morgan’s slanderous attack against French literature. Another source of outrage against France may well be that Lady Morgan asserts, surreptitiously, in a footnote, that there’s no way Voltaire actually understood Shakespeare and that his translations of the plays are “ill executed” and “his attempts at a version are, indeed, little more than burlesque parodies” (63). The final section of Dupin’s book begins with a list of Lady Morgan’s accusations against Racine, which she discusses in Book VII of France. Within the context of the Restoration and the continued debate between romantique and classique, the list reads as a cheat sheet for Nodier, Stedhal, Hugo, Henri de Latouche, Alexandre Guiraud and other writers who took up the cause of defending the romantiques against the classiques.

Notably, in his 1821 review of Le Petit Pierre, Henri de Latouche’s French translation of a German Gothic novel, Charles Nodier will build on criticisms similar to those that Lady Morgan outlined in 1817, and he will add in the charge that Racine isn’t really a French poet.

Racine n’est pas un poète national; c’est un poète grec, un poète hébreu, qui a la touchante éloquence d’Euripide, la majesté sublime d’Isaïe. Je trouve tout en lui, excepté ce que le coeur d’un français demande à son poète, le chant de la patrie, avec les nobles traditions de nos chroniques et les mensonges enchanteurs de nos fables.

Nodier, Charles. “Le Petit Pierre, traduit de l’allemand, de Spiess” Le Petit Pierre, Christian Heinrich Spiess, Translated by Henri de Latouche, Éditions Cartouche, 2005, Paris.

Nodier conjectures that had Schiller been born in France, he would have given French literature the originality and independence it needed to distinguish itself from classical literature. Nodier mentions Shakespeare in the context of romantiques forging a connection to the people of their day and their national history.

This question of nationalism as it relates to romantique contre classique was certainly on Stendhal’s mind in 1822 when he wrote the first part of Racine et Shakespeare for the October edition of the Paris Monthly Review. In July of that year, a troupe of English actors were unable to successfully stage Othello because a raucous and hostile audience drowned out their words. It’s French patriotism, Stendhal writes, that prompted the audience to boo Shakespeare because the bard was English. But really, Stendhal continues, the beef between Racine and Shakespeare isn’t one of nationality.

Toute la dispute entre Racine et Shakspeare [sic] se réduit à savoir si, en observant les deux unités de lieu et de temps, on peut faire des pièces qui intéressent vivement des spectateurs du dix-neuvième siècle, des pièces qui les fassent pleurer et frémir, ou, en d’autres termes, qui leur donnent des plaisirs dramatiques, au lieu des plaisirs épiques qui nous font courir à la cinquantième représentation du Paria ou de Régulus.

Stendhal. Racine et Shakespeare. Le Divan, 1928, Paris.

Regardless of Stendhal’s focus on dramatic conventions, in the first decade of the Restoration, the romantique contre classique debate had nationalistic undertones. The partisans of of the romantiques claimed that the classiques did not write a national literature and did not speak to the French people the way that Shakespeare, Byron, Scott, Goethe and Schiller spoke to their people. In 1824 académicien Simon Auger, in his speech before the Académie Française, Discours sur le romantisme, warns against “l’atmosphère brumeuse de la Grande-Bretagne ou de la Germanie.” Auger even questions Madame de Staël‘s national sympathies in his speech.

Cependant, à une époque plus rapprochée de nous, une femme justement célèbre, toute française par ses sentiments, ses affections et ses goûts, mais que les vicissitudes de sa destinée avaient rendue cosmopolite, rapporta d’une de ses plus longues excursions le système germanique, nous en apprit le nom en même temps que les principes, et nous révéla la fameuse distinction de classique et de romantique, qui divisait, à leur insu, toutes les littératures et partageait la nôtre même , qui ne s’en serait jamais doutée. Son exposé, où la prévention se cachait mal sous un air d’impartialité, fut, pendant quelque temps, l’objet d’une controverse que fit taire bientôt le fracas des événements et des intérêts politiques.

Auger, Louis-Simon. Discours sur le romantisme prononcé dans la séance annuelle des quatre académies du 24 avril 1824. Firmin Didot, 1824, Paris.

Auger’s speech takes us back to the beginning of the romantique contre classique timeline: Mme. de Staël’s De l’Allemagne. In the chapter on classical poetry and romantic poetry, she notes that the France, in its status as “la plus cultivée des nations latines,” prefers poetry imitated from classical style, while England, “la plus illustre des nations germaniques,” prefers romantic and chevaleresque poetry (162). There is, as she puts it, “la diversité des goûts.” And those tastes are developed by a variety of factors.

I will leave the question of taste for another time.

Romantique and fantastique: Lexical Dispersion Charts

Research related to my MLA conference paper, “The Genius of Vampires,” focused on the overlap of romantic manifestos and writing on the fantastic. The four core texts I studied are Stendhal’s “Racine et Shakespeare” (1823), Victor Hugo’s “Préface de Cromwell” (1827), Walter Scott’s “On the Supernatural in Fictitious Composition” (1827, trans. 1829) and Charles Nodier’s “Du Fantastique en littérature” (1830). I was interested to see in what ways these texts overlap in their references to authors and works of literature, and key terms associated with the romantique, classique and fantastique. My colleague Kirk Anne, Director of Research Technology and Strategic Projects, created these lexical dispersion charts using lists of keywords that I developed.

The following three charts show how often Hugo, Stendhal and Nodier cite certain works, authors and characters. I developed this list by working from Nodier’s text, which was written after Hugo’s and Stendhal’s, but I also included some works and authors that Stendhal or Hugo cite but Nodier does not.

While not terribly evocative, the charts allow readers to see commonalities, differences, patterns and anomalies in a corpus at a glance. They show how often and a what point in their works Stendhal, Hugo and Nodier cite certain authors, works and characters. The reader can look at the charts for clusters of references to a particular keyword, paired of references, a steady rhythm of a particular reference throughout the text. Looking at the charts, the reader is stepping back from the texts to gain a new perspective that will complement a close reading by filling in the gaps, and sending the reader to specific moments of the texts once again.

The lexical dispersion chart shows when and how often given words are used in the text.
Lexical dispersion of authors and works cited in Stendhal’s Racine et Shakespeare.
The lexical dispersion chart shows when and how often given words are used in the text.
Lexical dispersion of authors and works cited in Hugo’s Preface de Cromwell
The lexical dispersion chart shows when and how often given words are used in the text.
Lexical dispersion of authors and works cited in Nodier’s Du Fantastique en littérature

Escalier d’honneur / escaliers de rêves

I have been thinking about staircases–real and imaginary–a lot recently. The real staircases on my mind are the ones in our house. The ones that my daughters are constantly playing on. They do all sorts of death-defying feats with their stuffed animals on the main staircase, but they’re thankfully more reticent to play on the basement stairs. When we moved into our new house last year, they both decided that the best thing about it is that we finally have an upstairs. And, well, a staircase.

A few months when my husband picked up our older daughter from a birthday party, he arrived at the house to find the kids sliding down the staircase on the their stomachs, feet first. One girl sat to side, clutching her rug-burned face, while the others jostled their way down the steps, faces and bellies rubbing against the carpet all the way down. My husband was mystified by the kids’ fascination with playing on the stairs.

Clearly he didn’t grow up in a house with a staircase. My childhood stairs were heavily carpeted, with the high, brightly-colored pile of late-80’s carpets. I slid down them every way imaginable: feet first, head first, on my bottom, in a sleeping bag, in a cardboard box, in a laundry basket. So did my stuffed animals. The stairs were a place of adventure and joy.

This joy began to fade as others aged around me. First my grandparents could no longer go upstairs to see my Breyer horse collection. Years after that our family dog went upstairs one night and she was too unsure of her own legs to come back down. My dad had to carry her. For weeks we blocked the stairs to prevent her from going up, until she finally realized that the ground floor was her only domain. The staircase has the uncanny ability to mark our passing from one stage of life to the next, before we even realize we’ve taken the next step.

All the world’s a staircase, and all the men and women (and dogs) merely climbers. Stairs are a mountain to the new toddler, a challenge to be met. Gates are erected at the bottom and top of stairs. Months later they prove futile. Soon the big kid becomes so accustomed to going up and down stairs that she leaps over the bottom one, two, three steps on her way down. Later, as philosopher Gaston Bachelard wrote, ascending the stairs becomes a feat of strength for the teenager, an exercise in skipping steps, seeing how long growing legs can reach. We may do this as adults, if we’re training to hustle up the Hancock in Chicago. But in general, as we age we avoid unnecessary trips upstairs, until we finally give up all together and bed down, like an old dog, on the ground floor, sans everything upstairs.

At its most basic, the staircase is, like the hallway, simply a conduit allowing circulation from one space to the next. The main staircase of the home connects the cozy, private spaces of the upstairs to the open, family-centric spaces of the ground floor. But unlike the closed-in hallway, the staircase is a stage of domestic drama and display. Kids rush down it to find presents from Santa, knocking garland from the banister on the way. Parents use it as a makeshift podium, proclaiming demands from the foot of the stairs. Invariably, angry teenagers storm up the staircase. And then weeks later it’s prom and they’re posing on the staircase for awkward photos.

In stately homes, where the stairs and the foyer comprise one grand entrance, the drama ascends from the domestic to the aesthetic. Here the staircase follows the artistic imperative of a palatial staircase or a grand theater staircase where the form is as important as its function, according to Charles Garnier, 19th-century architect of the Opera Garnier in Paris. A good staircase, he said, has an aesthetic motif that develops in concert with the building’s décor and thus contributes to the overall look of the design. How often do we see on HGTV homeowners changing the railings and spindles of an 80’s staircase to better match their new modern farmhouse aesthetic? A dated staircase can make or break a room.  

The visual impact of the grand staircase is also in its presentation of space as a stage for those milling about it. The experience of the grand staircase of the Opera was, according to Garnier, as much a spectacle as the opera itself. We know from artists like Renoir and Degas that the theater box framed beautiful spectators to be admired, like static portraits, by male theatergoers (For a feminist perspective, see Cassatt’s brilliant reversal of this creepy 19th-century practice, below).

In the Loge
Mary Cassatt. In the Loge.

On the grand staircase of the Opera, life was staged. Here, those sitting in the luxury boxes mixed with less wealthy patrons who ascended the grand staircase on their way to secondary, very ordinary stairs. The grand staircase was the only place such social mixing occurred. The theatergoer would gaze at the crowd of fellow spectators and in turn be watched by them. Garnier declared his staircase similar in this respect to the stairs-as-stage that is the setting of Paolo Veronese’s The Wedding Feast at Cana.

Paolo Veronese. The Wedding at Cana.
Paolo Veronese. The Wedding at Cana.

We see this in popular art as well. The staircases of the film Gone With the Wind form a collective stage where the drama of Scarlett’s life play out. We see the ghostly ruins of Twelve Oaks, the family home of Ashley Wilkes, which are precariously held together by the grand staircase, skeletal and struggling to reach the second floor. Scarlett and Rhett’s tumultuous relationship is a continual staircase to run up and down, to be carried up, and to fall down. The final scene of the film depicts Rhett’s unwavering descent of the staircase in their Atlanta home, cut so that he seems to move directly from the stairs into the fog of not-giving-a-damn. Scarlett flings of herself onto the stairs, and she has her final epiphany there. Without the staircase scenes, Gone with the Wind would be less dramatic by half.

Striding down the stairs and out the door is an excellent way to definitively leave a relationship. It even works for dramatically exiting a party or a conversation. Though now we’d rather slink out on the sly. In 18th-century France, however, you’d always exit a party by means of the home’s grand staircase. Sometimes it was only in leaving the party, as you strolled down the stairs, that you would think of a good comeback for Baron de ***’s snide comment that had momentarily silenced you. Diderot called this l’esprit de l’escalier: staircase wit. He was not the only philosophe who suffered from l’esprit de l’escalier. Jean-Jacques Rousseau was notoriously slow on his comebacks, letting wounds fester for years before writing a response to those who maligned him. I tell you this so you know you’re in good company whenever you are afflicted with l’esprit de l’escalier.   

Of course none of this is why kids are so tempted to play on the stairs. I watch my daughters tie ribbons on spindles for stuffed animals to use as mountaineering ropes. They push their toys down the banister, using it as slide. For them the main staircase of the house is anything but a staircase. It is almost as if they are tapping into the symbolism of the staircase. Not the dream dictionary version of what the staircase symbolizes—a journey!—but closer to the symbolism of authors and artists. The staircase is always challenge for the soul. If it is a journey, it is a metaphysical one. We always start at the bottom and look up at something divine and exquisite at the top. From the top, the view downwards is treacherous and vertigo-inducing.

Near the end of the The Dead, Joyce positions his protagonist, Gabriel, in the shadows at the foot of a staircase, looking up longingly at his wife, who is bathed in ethereal light, listening thoughtfully to some soft and distant piano tune. In this moment he believes he sees her as a painter would and imagines the colors he would use in the painting. For her part, at the top of the stairs, Gretta is in a completely different world from her husband. From where she stands she can hear the music distinctly, not distantly, as Gabriel imagines, and it has transported her to her youth with memories of a boy who loved her. Though Joyce doesn’t mention it, one can imagine the vertigo Gretta must have felt as she descended the stairs, descended from her nostalgic reverie to find her husband lurking in the darkness at the foot of the stairs.

The view from the top of the stairs doesn’t always have to be different from the view from the bottom. M.C. Escher, my favorite artist as a teenager, designed his lithograph Ascending and Descending after the impossible Penrose stairs.

Impossible Staircase Sakurambo [Public domain]

It is an optical illusion in which any given step of this square-shaped staircase appears at once above and below the one before it or after it. Escher’s print places this illusion in the context of a Spanish-style villa, where the roof-top patio is comprised of the Penrose staircase. Escher puts two rows of human figures on the stairs, facing opposite directions, one leg lifted. Like the steps, they are always ascending and always descending at the same time. Looking at this print now that I’m far removed from my teenage years, the continual motion with no possible goal is nightmarish and suffocating. But I distinctly remember my friends and I simply seeing it as a cool optical illusion, on par with the one where you can see an old lady or a young woman.

The never-ending staircase is an often-dreamed of nightmare. Another of Escher’s prints, Relativity, depicts the interior of house with multiple staircases arising from multiple perspective points. It recalls the some of the 18th-century prints in the Carceri d’Invenzione series by Piranesi. Piranesi’s menacing staircases are self-multiplying instruments of prison torture, like the treadmill, but worse. These staircases furnished the setting of the drug-induced nightmares of 19th-century authors Thomas De Quincey and Théophile Gautier. The former dreamed of ascending them, while the latter descended; both directions led to a personal hell.

The Drawbridge, plate VII from the series Carceri d'Invenzione
Giovanni Battista Piranesi. The Drawbridge.

My own obsession with staircases began with one that abruptly and definitively ends, seemingly mid-riser. On a family trip before my teenage years, I visited The Winchester Mystery House™ in San Jose, CA. The draw of the place is the lore of hauntings in a quirky house designed by superstitious spiritualist Sarah Winchester: doors that lead to 20-foot drops, windows on floors, a secret séance room and the repetition of the number 13. What I found most intriguing was a staircase. Not grand: it was clearly the service staircase. It ascended directly into the ceiling. There was no trap door or hatch to open at the top of the stairs. The staircase looked like it was lopped off at the head by the ceiling. And that incongruous image of violence done to architecture stayed with me for decades, until finally I wrote a dissertation featuring never-ending staircases and impossible architecture.

Despite this, despite my obsession with staircases, real and imagined, I still yell at my daughters for playing on the stairs. I’m a mom and I can foresee all sorts of catastrophes. I don’t want them to actually play on the stairs. I want my daughters to climb the staircase into all the possible imaginary scenes it awakens. I want them to always see the staircase as more than functional because the gradual closing of possibilities, the eventual functionalizing of the staircase as we age marks the insidious withering of our inner lives. So play on the stairs once in a while. Tread, for a few steps at least, the ingenious staircases of artist, mathematician, architect, Scarlett, Diderot, surly teenager, and rug-burned child.

Notre-Dame de Paris

The last time I sobbed at the sight of a burning building was September 11, 2001. I was in Paris, huddled around a tiny TV with three other Americans watching New York City. We were devastated by the loss of so many lives, so many mothers and fathers and sons and daughters. We could barely talk or look at each other without collapsing into tears. We sat together silently. That day random Parisians on the street asked if we were ok, told us how sorry they were, how heartbroken.

The next day, a photo of the twin towers engulfed in smoke and flames was on the front page of all the papers. Newspapers sold out early in the morning. I managed to find Libération and I still have it. I can’t bring myself to look at the front page, but I also can’t seem to throw it away.

That horrific memory is one of the reasons why now, alone in rural New York, I’m sobbing in front of my laptop, as I watch Notre-Dame de Paris burn.

When I heard the news I immediately turned to my dear friend Théophile Gautier’s poem “Notre Dame” (1832). I hadn’t read this poem in while but I once knew it well because an analysis of it forms part of the final chapter of my dissertation.

Reading the poem again today renders our collective pain more comprehensible. The gist of Gautier’s poem is that Notre-Dame de Paris (the cathedral, and Victor Hugo’s book about the cathedral) is a salve for the wounds inflicted by modern society. As I wrote in my dissertation many moons ago…

In the opening lines of “Notre-Dame” (1832), written shortly after the publication of Hugo’s Notre-Dame de Paris, the poet thrice describe himself as “las.” He is weary of his calm life, bored with the idiotic company he keeps, and fed up with his own mediocrity. Parisian life has intellectually and spiritually diminished him. The poet’s complaints about the socially and aesthetically oppressive city open and close the poem. Within this frame of grievances, his refuge from bourgeois Paris can be found: Notre-Dame and Hugo’s Notre-Dame de Paris.

  Pour me refaire au grand et me rélargir l’âme,

  Ton livre dans ma poche, aux tours de Notre-Dame;

  Je suis allé souvent, Victor

A huit heures, l’été, quand le soleil se couche,

Et que son disque fauve, au bord des toits qu’il touche,

Flotte comme un gros ballon d’or.

The cathedral and Hugo’s novel combine to create a transformational space, an architectural fantasy capable of momentarily effacing the stultifying effects of modern bourgeois life. Viewed through the lens of art, Gautier’s Notre-Dame is estranged from the actual place in the first two sections of the poem, with the poet first presenting the cathedral as a total space that effaces Paris, and then presenting the view from Notre-Dame as evocative of the grandiose architecture in John Martin’s apocalyptic biblical paintings and in Hugo’s poem “Le Feu du ciel.” The poetic cathedral thus becomes an ideal vantage point from which to critique the characterless architectural style of the day. In the final section of the poem, Gautier subverts the religious function of Notre-Dame by employing religious terms and images to make an aesthetic argument against modern Parisian architecture. The poem closes with complaints that echo its opening stanza but that change their terms from the social vapidity of Paris to the architectural insipidity of the city’s modern constructions:

                    O vous! maçons du siècle, architectes athées,

                    Cervelles, dans un moule uniforme jetées;

                    Gens de la règle et du compas;

                    Bâtissez des boudoirs pour des agents de change,

                    Et des huttes de plâtre à des hommes de fange;

Present-day architects, like the “fats” and “frivoles” inhabitants of bourgeois Paris, lack the imagination and unique vision needed to conceive of a Paris that is in any way distinctive or different from the known. Framing “Notre-Dame” with aligned complaints about the society and architecture of modern, bourgeois Paris positions Notre-Dame cathedral as the ultimate repudiation of bourgeois culture, the distinguishing features of which are mediocrity and the lack of originality, according to Gautier’s poem. Indeed, “Notre-Dame” repeatedly reflects on the utter emptiness of bourgeois culture by contrasting it with visually dense images of doubled spaces and destabilized spatial binaries generated by the Gothic cathedral. The poem also pays homage to Hugo’s novel through a variety of explicit and implicit allusions, especially in the poem’s elevation of Gothic architecture over contemporary architectural styles.  But whereas Hugo describes Notre-Dame cathedral as a heterogeneous space in which one can read the history of architecture, Gautier sees Notre-Dame as a sort of total work of art, created from literature, painting and architecture, that acts as a bastion of unique artistic vision in the otherwise dull reality of bourgeois Paris.

Today, as Notre-Dame burns, we are all diminished culturally and architecturally, but most of all, spiritually.

A picture taken by en:Charles Negre in en:1853. Of Henri Le Secq near the 'Stryge' chimera on en:Notre Dame de Paris.
Author: Charles Nègre; Uploader: Dfrg.msc [Public domain]

Fantastique rime avec romantique

During the Restoration, the classiques tended to label anything that didn’t conform to their rules and conventions as romantique, this included fantastic literature and the frénétique. And how did the classiques define romantique? According to the sixth edition of the Dictionnaire de l’Académie française…

ROMANTIQUE se dit encore De certains écrivains qui affectent de s’affranchir des règles de composition et de style établies par l’exemple des auteurs classiques. Il se dit également Des ouvrages de ces écrivains. Auteur, écrivain, poëte romantique. L’école romantique. Poésie romantique. Style romantique. Poëme romantique.

The sixth edition of the Dictionnaire was published 1832-1835, but this entry was put together around the same time Louis-Simon Auger pronounced his Discours sur le romantisme at the Académie française. Auger’s Discours is replete with slights against the romantiques. The following is one of the most cutting jabs because he uses the  charge of imitation, one routinely leveled by the romantiques against the classiques, against the romantiques. 

…ce que j’appellerai le Romantisme français ou plutôt gaulois ; romantisme bâtard, qui n’a ni la même énergie, ni la même audace, ni les mêmes excuses que le romantisme teutonique.

It’s the 19th-century literary debate equivalent of “I know you are, but what am I?” Insults flew through the pages of newspapers and literary magazines, launched from romantiques and classiques alike. For now, I’ll end with one of my favorite mudslinging “definitions” of romantique, written by a classique.

C’est, il me semble, l’indépendance de toutes les règles et autorités consacrées; c’est tantôt l’imitation exacte d’une nature brute et sans choix, tantôt l’expression recherchée d’une nature fantastique; c’est l’alliance de l’ignoble et du maniéré, du bouffon et de l’ampoulé. En un mot, c’est l’absence du goût.

“De l’Influence de la Révolution sur la littérature, et du style romantique.” Annales de la littérature et des arts. Vol. XX, 1825.