Corneille’s Andromède and Opera: Practice Before Theory
by
Alison Calhoun
Il faut pourtant prendre bien garde
que ces representations soient bien faites,
& que les machines joüent à propos; autrement
elles donnes sujet de rire aux spectateurs,
& gâtent entierement le succez de la piece.
Père Ménestrier, Des Ballets anciens et modernes
Père Ménestrier’s reflection on the appropriateness of stage machinery
in the above epigraph invokes a theoretical expectation of classical drama
in the French seventeenth century, related to notions like “decorum” and
“necessity,” but ultimately asserting the significance of vraisemblance.
“Joüer à propos,” debatably a French translation of Aristotle’s discussion
of possibility, believability, and history in the Poetics (1454b), reflects a
rule that had two prongs for academics like Ménestrier: on the level of the
plot or the story, the proper machine needed to be paired with its subject
matter; on a moral level, stage machinery was supposed to be suitable for
the spectators, playing to their general beliefs about the past and about acceptable habits and practices.1 A driving force behind much of the treatises
on theater in classical age France was the tension such expressions as “à
propos” generated between these two forms of suitability, one the result of
the poet’s technique, the other its effect on the spectator, and to what degree they both mattered. In fact, we could argue that the challenge of this
tension was what proved to fascinate Pierre Corneille’s conception of the
stage, not just in a theoretical context as we read in his Examens and Trois
discours sur le poème dramatique from 1660, but also, as the following
will explore, in a metatheatrical discourse within the work of theater itself.2 In Andromède (1650), his first machine tragedy, Corneille tested
what would later (after 1660) be characterized as his theory of vraisem1
Corneille himself describes this in “Discours de la tragédie et des moyens de la traiter
selon le vraisemblable et le nécessaire,” Writings on the Theatre (e.g., p. 35).
2
This general view is supported by two other accounts I have encountered. See Lyons,
Kingdom of Disorder: The Theory of Tragedy in Classical France (West Lafayette, IN:
Purdue University Press, 1999), 18; and Harris, Inventing the Spectator, p. 78.
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CORNEILLE’S ANDROMÈDE AND OPERA
blance by exploring the role of the spectator, who the dramatist staged
through the allegorical potential of the play’s protagonists. The result, as
we shall study, was not only an important example of practice before theory, but also a much less “regular” 3 conception of vraisemblance than
what the dramatist theorized years later. This irregularity not only opens
up a clearer understanding of Corneille’s thoughts on spectator belief, but
also suggests that we reconsider his views on music and machines in a
much more positive light; a rethinking, thus, of the fundamental part he
played in the history of French opera.
Melpomene as Messenger
The commission Corneille received just after the mitigated success of
two Italian operas in Paris (Giulio Strozzi’s La Finta pazza in 1645 and
Luigi Rossi’s opera Orfeo in 1647) was to create a tragedy that integrated
music by Dassoucy and the elaborate machines made by the Italian
machinist and architect Giacomo Torelli. This was a difficult task because
proponents of “regular” tragedy were poised to object to these additions as
ornamental, invraisemblable, and unfortunately related to the unpopular
politics of Mazarin, who the French public thought was emptying the
French State’s coffers in order pay for Italian productions. Corneille had
his work cut out for him, then, when we consider that even a twenty-firstcentury theatergoer would find the 1650 production of Andromède opulent
and extravagant. To name just a few of its visual, machine-driven highlights: Vénus descends from the sky on a cloud; Eole appears in the air
accompanied by eight other winds; Andromède is flown by two winds
(acrobats) to her seaside prison; Persée combats the sea monster while
riding a flying Pegasus; Sea nymphs abound; Neptune emerges from the
waves on his seahorse-driven conch shell; Junon flies through the sky on
her float pulled by peacocks; Mercure appears in the air; and finally Jupiter himself comes down from the sky on his golden throne, accompanied
by the reappearance of Neptune and Junon.4 As for music, there were
probably as many as nine choral pieces, one air, a developed operatic duet,
3
I am taking a cue from John D. Lyons here and referring to regulars and regular tragedy
or theater to stay within the seventeenth-century vocabulary for what we now more often
call “classical.” See Lyons’s first chapter, “Regularity: Articulating the Aesthetic” in
Kingdom of Disorder.
4
Today, like readers of the seventeenth century, we are also struck by this spectacle
through the designs and engravings of François Chauveau, reprinted in the Christian
Delmas edition and also accessible through various online resources.
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and maybe other instrumental moments that we cannot be certain about
since the full score is not extant.5
In terms of public reception, Andromède was a huge success, a “valeur
sûre,”6 and the years following its premiere saw many different stagings in
Paris, in the provinces, and abroad, including performances in which Molière played Persée, as well as an operatic interpretation, Persée, by Lully
and Quinault in 1683.7 Andromède also enjoyed an important life in print,
between programs, the published play, and the seven glorious engravings
by François Chauveau, which appeared in an Extraordinaire of the Gazette
on February 18, 1651. As these publications and as the overwhelmingly
positive reception made evident, the public taste for spectacle, for visual
marvel and musical accompaniment, risked contradicting the academic
interpretation of Aristotle’s stance on theater conventions.8 But it is likely,
evidenced beginning in Corneille’s provocative prologue, that Corneille
anticipated his audience’s reaction, while also developing a metatheatrical
response to his prospective detractors.
As soon as the opening prologue to the machine play, the justification
of “ornements” becomes a clear objective, in this case a political one that
will set the tone for the remainder of the play. In the prologue, Melpomene
sounds Corneille’s message about the changing role of extra-poetic arts in
tragic drama, and confirms that they are safely defended and lauded by the
Sun, Louis XIV’s cosmic counterpart. In the second verse of the Prologue,
she says to the sun:
5
Christian Delmas breaks down the likely musical line-up as nine choruses, four Airs,
and one “Air dialogué.” (Andromède, xxvii-xxviii). Although we know where music was
probably sung thanks to didascalie and the poetry, all that survives of the Andromède
score is the music for one “Air à quatre parties” in which the manuscript only preserved
the haute-contre, taille, and basse parts (the missing soprano part is what makes it
difficult to know what the dominant melody would have been). The score is in Airs à
quatre parties de Sieur Dassoucy (Paris: Ballard, 1653). For a detailed study of the music
in this machine play, see John S. Powell, “Music and Corneille’s Andromède” in L’Esprit
français et la musique en Europe: Emergence, influence et limites d’une doctrine
esthétique, 191-207, ed. By Michelle Biget and Rainer Schmusch (New York: Georg
Ulms Verlag, 2007).
6
See Delmas’ introduction in Andromède.
7
For a full account of the reception and initial productions of Andromède, see the
introduction to Christian Delmas’ edition.
8
When Aristotle ranks the six essential components of a successful tragedy, melody and
spectacle are ranked dead last (Aristotle, Poetics, VI).
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CORNEILLE’S ANDROMÈDE AND OPERA
Mon théâtre, Soleil, mérite bien tes yeux;
Tu n’en vis jamais en ces lieux
La pompe plus majestueuse:
J’ai réuni, pour la faire admirer,
Tout ce qu’ont de plus beau la France et l’Italie;
De tous leurs arts mes sœurs l’ont embellie:
Prête-moi tes rayons pour la mieux éclairer. (16)
The choice of Melpomene, muse of tragedy, refers explicitly to the genre
in which Corneille situates his machine play, at least in the initial editions.
This is significant, because in using Torelli’s sets, Andromède might have
been categorized in a less “regular” form of theater, a “pièce à machines,”
similar to the Italian operas, and not a “tragédie” that happens to be “en
machines” and “en musique.”9
Next, Corneille develops the metaphor of the sun as both the light that
will illuminate the tragic stage, “Prête-moi tes rayons pour la [la pompe
majestueuse] mieux éclairer,” and the allegorical representation of the support of the Roi-Soleil, or sovereign favor that might be shown upon Corneille for creating Andromède: “Mon théâtre, Soleil, mérite bien tes yeux.”
Melpomene continues: “Daigne…/Donner un parfait agrement/Et rends
cette merveille entière/En lui servant toi-même d’ornement” (16-17).
These simple verses provide one clear message: By rhyming “agrement”
and “ornement,” Corneille emphasized that the ornamental aspects of the
play that would follow should be approved of and enjoyed. But Corneille
goes one step further when he refers to the sun, a traditional allegory for
the sovereign and, in this case, Louis XIV, as the ornament proper (“En lui
servant toi-même d’ornament”). This term “ornement” made synonymous
with the king is an essential borrowing from Aristotle, who, in the sixth
part of the Poetics, refers to extra-poetic arts as “ta hédusmata,” translated
into French as “ornements,” “assaisonnements,” and in English as
“embellishments.” The result is a clever rhetorical trick in which the arts
of France and Italy, specifically the extra-poetic elements of Corneille’s
play, are given authority and approval thanks to their intimate association
with Louis XIV.
Employing the sovereign to raise awareness about his art, Corneille
solidified a tradition of prologue writing (common in composite drama,
and perhaps the most developed in early opera) that used a rhetoric of
sovereign praise in its opening scene as a kind of safety measure, equating
9
As we can see in the epigraph to this essay, the excess of Italian modes were less
serious and more likely to provoke laughter and ridicule.
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attention to the tragedy with the fealty and devotion subjects owed their
king. As a consequence, criticizing the music and the machines by calling
them superfluous could be rendered tantamount to treason. This was therefore a perfect opening for a play that would challenge its public to enjoy a
tragedy mixed with the machines and music of more modern modes of
representation.
But Corneille was not satisfied with simply rendering these ornaments,
debatably Italianate, acceptable to his critics. By making his eponymous
character an allegory for the French theatergoing public, he proved to have
been driven to make Andromède contribute not only to the general acceptance of marvelous verisimilitude, but to a more general attitude about
vraisemblance in which he gives the spectator more credit than Aristotle
did to make judgments based on the carefully chosen elements in a wellwritten play. Indeed, Corneille’s Andromède should be viewed as a play at
the very crux of the history of vraisemblance, where the dramatist began
to carefully distance himself from his peers’ theoretical views, while
remaining still attached to many conventions (his insistence upon the
tragic genre alone is evidence of his desire to be judged within the context
of regular drama). This could be understood as opening the door for the
development, only a few years later, of the first French operas, especially
because it also puts Corneille at the center of a literary and musical trend
that wanted to train the early modern spectator to think with images (imagine) 10 and music in ways that the “regulars” would have rejected as “monstrous.”11 The first sign that the play aims to double as a form of audience
training is when it opens with a scene about judgment.
The Boast of Cassiopeia
Corneille’s first important metatheatrical point after the prologue appears in the first scene of the play, in a dialogue between Cassiope and
Persée about judgment. One effect of this discourse on judgment is that it
recalls Chapelain’s piercing opening to the Sentiments de l’Académie
10
John D. Lyons studied the concept of training the early modern imagination through
the novel in these terms in Before Imagination: Embodied Thought from Montaigne to
Rousseau (Palo Alto: Stanford University Press, 2005).
11
As Joseph Harris explains, “regulars” like Chapelain were even known to argue that
music was a helpful aspect for the illusion of a play, but that it was ultimately the
challenge of getting an audience to harmonize several forms of representation at once
(dialogue, machines, music, dance, and so forth) that posed serious problems to the
“impulses” of the spectators (45-47).
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CORNEILLE’S ANDROMÈDE AND OPERA
Française sur la tragi-comédie du Cid, the Academy’s 1637 report that
highlighted the alleged weaknesses of Corneille’s tragicomedy by that
name. This official statement from the recently formed Academy begins
with the words: “Ceux qui abandonnent leurs ouvrages au public ne doivent trouver étrange que le public s’en fasse le juge” (Chapelain 280). As
for the dramatists’ reputations: “Ils la doivent attendre des autres et
n’estimer leurs travaux bon ou mauvais selon le jugement qu’ils en verront
faire” (Chapelain 280). This form of theater critique, specifically as it attempts to use Aristotle and Horace as authorities for a rather recent, seventeenth-century view of rules for the dramatic arts, enraged Corneille
enough to write, in 1660, a critique of his own in the Trois Discours sur le
poème dramatique. For example, in the first Discours titled “Discours de
l’utilité des parties du poème dramatique,” Corneille exposes the cryptic
and incomplete nature of ancient texts (“Aristote et Horace après lui en ont
écrit assez obscurément”) (Writings on the Theatre 3) and the therefore
highly debatable evidence his contemporary critics are using to form their
doctrine, specifically to form a rule of verisimilitude in tragedy. As Corneille argues, Aristotle’s use of vraisemblance was actually quite vague
and broad (Writings on the Theatre 1-2). But Corneille’s opening scene
might also be read as a practical manual for the viewer, its perspective on
judgment meant to override the overly conventional guide that academicians like Chapelain promoted.
The judgment we hear about at the opening of the play is specific:
Corneille’s poetry emphasizes judging based on what one sees or witnesses:
CASSIOPE
Généreux inconnu qui chez tous les monarques
Portez de vos vertus les éclatantes marques,
Et dont l’aspect suffit à convaincre nos yeux
Que vous sortez du sang, ou des Rois, ou des Dieux […]
(24)
Cassiope addresses the matter of Persée’s identity by claiming that the
sight of him is convincing proof of Persée’s valor as the son of a god. But
we might also argue that her verses, in a metatheatrical sense, introduce
Corneille’s views on verisimilitude, specifically as they relate to the use of
machines and music. Four keywords point to this metatheatricality, other
than the significance in and of itself of being the first lines of Act 1:
“éclatantes,” “sortez,” and the rhyme between “yeux” and “Dieux.” As a
continuation of Melpomene’s message about the royal status of ornaments
in the prologue, Cassiope’s first four lines reinforce the link between
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royalty, godliness, and stunning sights and sounds. In terms of sounds, the
choice of “éclantantes” brings out the possible inclusion of music into the
discourse. As for the machines, the assembling of the words “yeux,” “sortez” and “Dieux” could serve to foreshadow Corneille’s abundant use of
the deus ex machina. The point of these lines was not only a conventional
way of introducing the back story to Ovid’s myth, therefore, but also a
brief theoretical sketch on how the audience would need to use their eyes
to make judgments about the visual content to come.
After the verdict of Persée’s identity, the judgment to be passed is on
Cassiope herself, again a judgment that stems from sight:
Puisque vous avez vu le sujet de ce crime
Que chaque mois expie une telle victime,
Cependant qu’en ce lieu nous attendrons le Roi,
Soyez-y juste juge entre les Dieux et moi.
Jugez de mon forfait, jugez de leur colère,
Jugez s’ils ont eu droit d’en punir une mère,
S’ils ont dû faire agir leur haine au même instant. (24)
Once we have seen the object in question, she explains, it is possible to
judge it, which she conveys with the anaphor “jugez” as well as the repetition of semantically related terms such as “criminel,” “victime,” and the
etymological figure “juste juge.” She is asking Persée to use his imagination, in the sense of thinking with images (“puisque vous avez vu le sujet”), to make his judgment about her transgressions. This part of the
myth, which Corneille chooses to have the queen recount to Persée in retrospect, is known as the “Boast of Cassiopeia”: the moment when, vainly
comparing her beauty to that of the Sea Nymphs, Cassiope’s daughter and
the entire town are punished by the god Neptune. In Corneille’s version,
however, the boast is not of Cassiope’s own beauty, but the attractiveness
of her daughter, Andromède. As Persée says to Cassiope: “[Neptune]
voyait mieux que vous que vous aviez raison./Il venge, et c’est de là que
votre mal procède,/L’injustice rendue aux beautés d’Andromède” (29).
Her judgment, we learn, is not punished because she is wrong, but more
ironically, because Neptune, upon inspecting Andromède for himself, concludes she is right. It is in this sense that the Boast of Cassiopeia, in Corneille’s version, resembles, on a metatheatrical level, Corneille’s own
troubles during the judgment of Le Cid, a plot also based on truth (historical), but judged invraisemblable for the regular tragic stage. Following
this parallel between Cassiope and Corneille, Cassiope’s well-known
“crime” was about vraisemblance or the appropriateness of the truth about
her daughter, who was possibly but not believably (factually true but not
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CORNEILLE’S ANDROMÈDE AND OPERA
vraisemblant) as beautiful as the Naïades, not suited, not “à propos” as a
mere mortal, to exceed divine beauty.
The judgment at the opening of Act 1 is not only on the level of Ovid’s
myth, therefore, but also a metatheatrical discourse about Corneille’s own
struggle with the limitations of overly rigorous “regulars.” Cassiope’s
speech highlights former errors as a well-known “crime” (her boast) relating herself and her daughter as victims, to Corneille and his work, particularly Le Cid. As for Neptune’s punishment, if we continue our
metatheatrical reading, then judging the Boast of Cassiopeia, which, in
Corneille’s version, is a boast about the beauty of Andromède, is the
equivalent of judging Corneille’s tragedy of that same name. This parallel
is further supported by the fact that this would not be the first time Corneille referred to the “beauté” of his own verse as the vain praise of a
metaphorical child.12 Rooted in the power of double enunciation, therefore, the Ethiopian queen becomes a doubling of the dramatist, who has
also been judged harshly in the past for promoting his work.
What was at stake in this first scene was Andromède’s reception:
academicians were meant to be roused by the subtle comparison between
Cassiope’s boast and Corneille’s Le Cid as a reminder that regularity
might be more of a modern ideal than an ancient rule. As for the spectator,
he or she had the choice between judging Corneille based on his past
transgressions (i.e., lack of verisimilitude in Le Cid) or on his new innovations (i.e., what the spectator is currently seeing and hearing). If the
audience followed the cues first in the prologue and then given by Cassiope in the first scene, both justifying the elevated status of “ornements”
(machines and music), both suggesting that the eyes be the judge, their
decision was weighted from the start in favor of the marvelous spectacle to
come. As he will later do in his Discours, Corneille next turns to strategies
that invite the spectator to make up his or her own mind about vraisemblance.
Andromède as Spectator
As early as Ronsard, the unjustly victimized Andromeda became a
popular (especially iconographic) symbol of the French kingdom in need
of rescue from a metaphorical monster in times of war and religious
persecution (the myth’s sea monster was often the metaphor for
Protestantism, for example) (Williams 79–84). The rescue of Andromeda
12
See, for example, his “Excuse à Ariste.”
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generated a commonplace comparison between successful monarchs and
Perseus: the just sovereign as “nouveau Persée” or “Persée françois” saved
his innocent kingdom from harm. But Corneille’s Persée is different
thanks to some small changes to Ovid’s demigod, which in turn reorients
the victimization of Andromède. 13 In Corneille’s version, Andromède
continues to allegorize the French public, but she trades her passivity and
blind allegiance, as I shall argue, for agency, autonomy, and judgment. It
is particularly helpful to consider these changes in light of a possible
metatheatricality, specifically Corneille’s thoughts on the important role
the spectator played in judging matters of theatrical belief.
In Ovid’s fourth book, Perseus saves Andromeda in exchange for her
hand in marriage and after the rescue, “claims Andromeda as the prize of
his great deed, seeking no further dowry” (IV.759-762). Corneille’s
Persée, on the other hand, is not only willing to save Andromède without
the guarantee of marriage, but also wants to let her decide for herself if she
wants to marry him, or go back to her fiancé Phinée. After he rescues Andromède from the monster, Persée wonders if she could love him the way
she did Phinée, to which Andromède responds that her heart follows her
father’s orders “aveuglément.” In seventeenth-century terms, we could say
she was not using her imagination, since she closes her eyes and attempts
to make the decision without images.
Persée counters that he would rather she choose for herself. As the
hero says to her, “[although your parents] vous donnent à moi, je vous
rends à vous-même” (90). Read with the well established visual history in
mind, taking Andromède as an allegory of the French public, Persée
encourages both the eponymous heroine and the spectator to decide independently (instead of obeying blindly), an ideological addition to the fable
that lends itself quite well to what Corneille was attempting to accomplish
with his audience and their taste for the theater. Furthermore, this ‘being
given back to oneself’ stands out because it marks the difference between
Corneille’s version and his ancient source. The argument for audience
autonomy is one Corneille makes in his theoretical work ten years later in
tackling the issue of catharsis, when he claims that audience members
13
See Gethner on how her “realistic” reaction to her imminent death defies the tragic
hierarchy of values “in which self-preservation is never given high priority” (55). This
self-preservation is the same inglorious quality that renders Phinée, who chooses not to
sacrifice his safety for the sake of his endangered betrothed, unworthy of Andromède’s
love. See Gethner (60). Gethner ultimately argues that the etymological sense of
“générosité” as “genus” or “race” is at the heart of Corneille’s recasting of the tragic hero
in his machine plays as one whose birth dictates their merit, or heroism as preordained.
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CORNEILLE’S ANDROMÈDE AND OPERA
should decide for themselves if their hearts are touched by moments of
pity and fear (Writings on Theatre 32).14 He also hints at this sort of reimagining in the key passage about vraisemblance in the Discours, where
he suggests that what is possible or impossible (for which Aristotle gives
no examples) is a function of the public’s cognitive flexibility, that “il y a
des choses impossibles en elle-même qui paraissent aisément possible, et
par conséquent croyables, quand on les envisage d’une autre manière.”
(Writings on Theatre 58). In this sense, just as Persée ignores the custom
of collecting his bride as reward and instead asks her to think about who
she wants to marry, Corneille-as-New-Persée refuses to conform to
conventions to please the regulars, and instead mobilizes a discourse about
the spectator’s mind, which can be coaxed by a well-crafted play to suspend certain aspects of disbelief (can be made to ‘envision the impossible
as possible’). Both Persée and Corneille are perhaps overly confident that
their audience will make the right choice.
Challenging his critics, but also encouraging his other viewers, Corneille’s exchange between Andromède and Persée reminds the spectator
that following blindly is a tyrannical way of thinking about love, but perhaps also a dangerously limited (and unimaginative) way of experiencing
the possibilities of the tragic stage. To give more weight to these possibilities without completely divorcing himself from the ancients, however,
Corneille uses Cassiope throughout the play as a figure that orchestrates
and directs the more spectacular and musical moments. He proves that he
can operate within many of the ancient modes of tragedy in addition to
using new stage technology and music, what he later refers to as working
with goals of “ordre” and “éclat” (Writings on Theatre, 144).
Cassiope as Chorêgos
“Cassiope” is the very first word we read after letters and titles in the
1650 and 1651 editions. She is also the first one to speak after the Prologue. This is no coincidence since, as we have already seen, Cassiope
delivers Corneille’s message about judgment in the opening scene to the
play. But beyond the play’s first scene, Cassiope continues to be the voice
of Corneille’s theoretical thoughts about the abundant presence of
spectacular and musical elements on stage. She is a perfect blend of radical modernism and rigorous “regularity” in that she promotes Corneille’s
more adaptable theory of verisimilitude, but she does so by playing the
role of the ancient Greek theater’s chorêgos, coordinating the machines
14
On this point, see also Harris, Inventing the Spectator, 77.
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and the singers (see Térence justifié, 209-211).15 For example, just before
the descent of Vénus in the second scene of Act I, Cassiope commands the
Ethiopian people (represented by the Choeur de Peuple) to listen:
“Ecoutez.” This is of course to ready them for the arrival of the goddess.
Next, she tells the people to sing the goddess’s praises, effectively serving
as a choral director: “Peuple, faites des vœux, tandis qu’elle descend”
(36). Cassiope’s directions to the choir are verisimilar, since it is conceivable that a queen might speak to her people in times of prosperity or hardship. Furthermore, when she asks the people to sing, the ceremonial aspect
of celebrating the presence of a god takes the spectator into the realm of
what might be mythologically plausible. But I would argue that it is in the
regularity Corneille establishes between Cassiope’s intervention, the singing, and the deus ex machina, that the dramatist provides a form of
audience training in which the three become related and acceptable (à
propos). In Act 5, Cassiope again calls upon the people to sing during the
flight of the messenger god Mercure: “Redoublons donc nos vœux, redoublons nos ferveurs,/Pour mériter du ciel ces nouvelles faveurs” (127). At
this point, the audience would already be prepared to equate the singing of
the chorus with the descent or ascent of a godly presence. Moreover, as we
will consider in more detail below, and as Corneille himself admits in his
Argument and Discours,16 the singing of the chorus would happily cover
up a good portion of the grinding machines used to make these marvelous
moments possible. In this way, Corneille prepared his audience for the
potential weakness of the flying machine, minimizing the “shock” of the
spectacular entrances and exits. His real innovation is that he was using an
ancient technique to attenuate and even promote the new (some might
argue renewed from the Greeks) technologies and musicality of the Italians. Cassiope’s role in the first act, doubling the role Corneille played in
the face of his critics, is to render the music and the singing verisimilar.
The reason this is significant is that Corneille’s theoretical explanation for
his use of music and machines in the Argument and in the Discours does
15
For a current definition of this term, see: “Director/directing,” The Oxford
Encyclopedia of Theatre and Performance,
< http://www.oxford-theatreandperformance.com > [Accessed April 20, 2012]: “In
earlier ages in the West theatrical production was generally in the hands of the playwright
or the actors. The ancient Greek dramatists taught or coached the actors in their texts,
while the training and costuming of the chorus were nominally in the hands of the
chorêgus [sic], the wealthy citizen who, out of civic duty, financed the performance.” My
thanks go to Corinne Noirot for helping me realize the link between Cassiope and the
chorêgos.
16
Corneille, Andromède, 11 and Corneille, Writings on the Theatre, 19-20.
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not reflect the extent of his practice in the play. Whereas the treatises will
downplay and even criticize the use of these spectacular and musical elements, the play incorporates them both abundantly and rigorously.
Anytime a machine is lowering or lifting a flying god or goddess, the
chorus is either instructed to sing, or the spectator is carefully forewarned.
The same goes for when the motion of the machine is completed, and the
god or goddess is in place for their lines. For example, when Vénus is
ready to speak, Cassiope tells the people to be silent and to prepare themselves for Vénus’ speech:
CASSIOPE
Silence, et préparez vos cœurs à l’allégresse.
Elle a reçu nos vœux, et les daigne exaucer;
Ecoutez-en l’effet qu'elle va prononcer. (I, iii, 37-38)
Addressing the people, but also thereby simultaneously, in a double
enunciation, arousing the attention of the spectator-reader, Cassiope-aschorêgos is Corneille’s ingenious way of combining an ancient tool with
modern esthetics, just as we see when Vénus rises back to the heavens:
CASSIOPE
Suivons-la dans le ciel par nos remerciements;
Et du’une voix commune adorant sa puissance,
Montrons à ses faveurs notre reconnaissance. (I, iii. 39)
Here Corneille successfully anchors the spectacular presence of machines
and gods in the stabilizing presence of Cassiope. Her role averts excessive
invraisemblance by maintaining unity and decorum. Most importantly, she
forms a foundation for how to introduce more and more scenes of great
singing into a tragedy, promoting a movement toward a more operatic
French stage.
Corneille and Opera
In his Argument and, in 1660, in his Examen d’Andromède and Trois
discours sur le poème dramatique, Corneille claims that he used choral
singing simply to please the ears of his spectators while their eyes were
occupied by the machines: “je n’ai employée [la musique] qu’à satisfaire
les oreilles des spectateurs, tandis que leurs yeux sont arrêtés à voir
descendre ou remonter une machine” (11). We have seen this to be factually true: in scenes with machines, even the elaborate battle scene in Act 3,
the Chorus of the People “chante cependant que Persée combat le Mon-
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13
stre” (79). But if we look at Torelli’s set design, engraved by Chauveau,
for Act 3 of Andromède,17 we notice that there was a lot more at stake than
the simple ascending and lowering of a god or goddess. The battle between Persée and the Monster is a scene that included a flying machine for
Persée and his flying horse, a wave machine for the sea’s troubled waters,
a monster machine for Persée’s opponent, and more flying machines for
the winds that transport Andromède. As for his claim about music, which
he says he only used during these moments of machinery, we also know
that at least once in the play, in Act 2, a serenade is sung both offstage (by
Phinée’s page) and onstage (in response, by Andromède’s confidante) in a
lyrical mode, expressing the feelings of the two lovers. With an
understanding now of the threat this amount of spectacle and music posed
to the regularity of Corneille’s work, to the “regulars” of the Academy,
Corneille’s Andromède should be analyzed as a crucial moment in the history of his own struggle with what we now term “classicism,” especially
as classicism related to the issue of vraisemblance and its relationship to
the genre of sung tragedy.
Music was at once a practical solution to the improbability and distraction that would be caused by such a great number of machines moving all
at once. But in establishing moments when singing was not essential but
complementary to the plot, and in effect piling on machines in moments
like the great battle scene, Corneille was opening up an opportunity for
more singing and more technology to dawn the tragic stage in years to
come, not just “regularizing” the machines as Hélène Visentin has argued,
but legitimizing and promoting the music as well.18 In this light, I would
argue that we learn more about Corneille’s role in the history of French
opera from Cornelian practice, that is to say the facts and realities of the
production, than we do from his theory, which downplays his use of both
machines and music, and consistently paints the picture of a dramatist who
scorned these new modes.
For a theorist who all but spits on what we would now call operatic
esthetics, in his Andromède, Corneille in practice was paradoxically
favorable to the choruses, duets, airs, and machines. Perry Gethner’s argument that the heroic values in Andromède represent a transition to a lyrical
17
The image is printed in Delmas’ critical edition from which I am citing, just before Act
III facing p. 69.
18
Powell agrees that the music may have played a much more important role than we are
led to believe based on the documents surviving today. In Act 2 there is even a scene in
which Corneille introduces music for its own sake. See Powell (202-203).
14
CORNEILLE’S ANDROMÈDE AND OPERA
heroism is an essential starting place for what I have tried to argue here:19
that ten years before the Discours and twelve years after the Querelle du
Cid, the poetry of Andromède can be read metatheatrically as a response
both to the critique of verisimilitude Corneille endured during the 1630s
and as a foreshadowing of the theory of going beyond verisimilitude that
he will more modestly and carefully propound in his theoretical work of
1660.20 As a happy by-product for Philippe Quinault and Jean-Baptiste
Lully, a close reading of Corneille’s machine play reveals it was a laboratory for lyrical tragedy that proved that in practice, so-called “classical”
esthetics could not be reduced to the limited regularity formulated by dramatic theorists.
Conclusion
Around the middle of the seventeenth century, when France began to
see more and more fantastical feats materialize on stage, especially thanks
to Cardinal Mazarin’s importation of Italian architects and artists, the
audience and critics were moderately delighted. Mythological subjects,
despite their unrealistic nature, were accepted as a verisimilar source for
tragic poets since Aristotle, though “regular” tragedy was supposed to
place the most unlikely, surprising, or violent parts of the myth offstage,
recounted instead in a récit. Ignoring this convention, opera displayed
most of the action, violent, divine, or otherwise, on stage, albeit by following a strict adherence to the internal logic of its marvelous and mythological worlds. By the time Corneille theorized the marvelous elements of
mythology in the Discours, myths were part of popular culture, and could
well have been understood as part of the “vraisemblance merveilleuse”
(Kintzler 142-143).21 Before that, as we have seen, Corneille’s Andromède
served as a practical experiment for this new and acceptable translation of
verisimilitude. As a musical machine tragedy, it had the advantage of be19
Perry Gethner began this line of argument by suggesting Andromède’s lyricism (in its
unabashed expression of interior emotions), its rethinking of the tragic hero to include a
new definition of “générosité” (as pre-ordained and not self-generated), and its
abundance of divine intervention, all pointed to an aspect of Corneille’s genius that
suggest he was moving in the direction of “operatic discourse.” (64-65).
20
As Joseph Harris argues, the theoretical works, “can certainly be read as an attempt to
work through [Corneille’s] early clash with authority—not only by proving his “regular”
credentials to his critics, but also by wrestling their position of authority from them” (77).
21
While understanding the stage’s relationship to the “true” or the “real” is a critical part
of Kintzler’s discussion, her argument does not account for the importance of the
spectator, as John D. Lyons explains in detail in Kingdom of Disorder, 39-41.
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15
ing both a challenge to so-called “regular” tragedy and a French response
to Italian opera, just recently introduced to the French stage. While many
scholars have explored the significance of this play in the history of theater,22 most have tended to concentrate on Corneille’s later, theoretical
critique of his work in the Examens and the Discours. The main problem
with this perspective is that in those works, Corneille often projects an image of himself as more “regular” than he proves to have been in practice,
whereas already in his Andromède of 1650, Corneille laid the groundwork
for a theory of verisimilitude meant to compliment an evolved theatrical
practice filled with new machines and even music, often but not always
balancing innovation with strategies based on ancient authority. In this
way, he may not have written the first French opera, but he proved how
elements we would now call “operatic” could be both believable (thanks
to a new spectator) and related to ancient Greece and therefore classicist
France, certainly paving the way for the first French operas nine years
later.
Indiana University, Bloomington
22
See, in alphabetical order, Bolduc, Delmas in Corneille Andromède, Ecorcheville,
Gethner, Gros, Guarino, Kintzler, Launay, and Powell. While several of these scholars
mention Andromède as a transitional work before French opera, they use the theoretical
work to justify their claims, especially the claim that Corneille hated music. As I show in
this article, I think the work of Andromède itself paints a slightly different picture driven
by the tension of the rules of verisimilitude, but perhaps also revealing a high tolerance
for music and spectacular machines.
16
CORNEILLE’S ANDROMÈDE AND OPERA
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