François Coppée [pp. 196-205]

FR,4NCOS COPPreE.
admirers say when she would first appear in public in her new
garb, which was nothing but a decent and old-fashioned attire?
Well, he really did not care now. The worst they could do
would be to hiss her; but in France, as Boileau prettily says,
"C'est un droit qu'A la porte on achdte en entrant."
Imagine what was his surprise when he saw her, in Severo Torelli, a magnificent and high-sounding drama, welcomed by the
so-called ignorant masses with an enthusiasm which knew no
bounds, and sent through the veins of the poet one of those
sharp, thrilling sensations of pride which are never forgotten in
a man's life. Surely his public had been changed! But no; on
the 25th of November, I885, Copp6e renewed at the Od6on, the
rival of the The'atre Frangais, the experiment of his new sentiments and prosody, and lo! the same frenzy of admiration and
applause shook the old hall from the boxes and pit to the remotest altitudes of the paradis (top gallery). The new play, however
-Les 7acobites-was crowded with ample, generous, truly classical strokes that Corneille himself seemed to have sent from his
grave. Numerous and pathetic were the appeals made to the
noblest, nay, to the most religious, feelings of the human heart;'
still, verse after verse, as they rolled in the purest Alexandrine
style, provoked the wildest recognition from Academicians and
merchants, from workingmen and artists alike. Could it really
be true that the same crowd who had applauded his most sacrilegious productions were now rapt in ecstasy at the mere mention of God and the greatness and immortality of the soul?
Why, the least allusion to Christian virtues, to the glory attached
to the fulfilment of duty, to the consolation derived from faith
in an eternal reward, called forth from the "family circle" the
same thundering acclamations as from the costly seats of the
rich! Copp6e could not believe his own ears, and tears, it is
said, rolled slowly down his face.
We hope these were tears of deep regret at having so long
misunderstood the true mission of true poetry. A severe lesson
it was, indeed, to the poet who, for so many years, had forgotten
that masses are what we men of thought and culture take the
trouble to make them; that the most outwardly uncultured people thirst as much, and perhaps more, than we do after whatever
is grand and ennobling, so that, whenever the occasion is offered
them, they hail noble thoughts and fine sentiments as they would
long-absent friends suddenly brought back home, and wonder why
they had so forgotten their once cherished and familiar faces.
[May,
202