OF TRAGEDY
David Hume
1757
It ems an unaccountable pleasure, which the spectators of
a well-written tragedy receive from sorrow, terror, anxiety, and
other passions, that are in themlves disagreeable and uneasy.
The more they are touched and affected, the more are they
delighted with the spectacle; and as soon as the uneasy passions
cea to operate, the piece is at an end. One scene of full joy
and contentment and curity is the utmost, that any composition
of this kind can bear; and it is sure always to be the concluding
one. If, in the texture of the piece, there be interwoven any
scenes of satisfaction, they afford only faint gleams of
pleasure, which are thrown in by way of variety, and in order to
plunge the actors into deeper distress, by means of that contrast
and disappointment. The whole heart of the poet is employed, in
rouzing and supporting the compassion and indignation, the
anxiety and rentment of his audience. They are plead in
proportion as they are afflicted, and never are so happy as when
they employ tears, sobs, and cries to give vent to their sorrow,
and relieve their heart, swoln with the tenderest sympathy and
compassion.
The few critics who have had some tincture of philosophy,
have remarked this singular phenomenon, and have endeavoured to
account for it.
L'Abb Dubos, in his reflections on poetry and painting,
asrts, that nothing is in general so disagreeable to the mind
as the languid, listless state of indolence, into which it falls
upon the removal of all passion and occupation. To get rid of
this painful situation, it eks every amument and pursuit;
business, gaming, shews, executions; whatever will rouze the
passions, and take its attention from itlf. No matter what the
passion is: Let it be disagreeable, afflicting, melancholy,
disordered; it is still better than that insipid languor, which
aris from perfect tranquillity and repo.
It is impossible not to admit this account, as being, at
least in part, satisfactory. You may obrve, when there are
veral tables of gaming, that all the company run to tho,
where the deepest play is, even though they find not there the
best players. The view, or, at least, imagination of high
passions, arising from great loss or gain, affects the spectator
by sympathy, gives him some touches of the same passions, and
rves him for a momentary entertainment. It makes the time pass
the easier with him, and is some relief to that oppression, under
which men commonly labour, when left entirely to their own
thoughts and meditations.
We find that common liars always magnify, in their
narrations, all kinds
of danger, pain, distress, sickness,
deaths, murders, and cruelties; as well as joy, beauty, mirth,
and magnificence. It is an absurd cret, which they have for
pleasing their company, fixing their attention, and attaching
them to such marvellous relations, by the passions and emotions,
which they excite.
There is, however, a difficulty in applying to the prent
subject, in its full extent, this solution, however ingenious and
satisfactory it may appear. It is certain, that the same object
of distress, which pleas in a tragedy, were it really t
before us, would give the most unfeigned uneasiness; though it be
then the most effectual cure to languor and indolence. Monsieur
Fontenelle ems to have been nsible of this difficulty; and
accordingly attempts another solution of the phaenomenon; at
least makes some addition to the theory above mentioned.[2]
'Pleasure and pain,' says he, ' which are two ntiments so
different in themlves, differ not so much in their cau. From
the instance of tickling, it appears, that the movement of
pleasure, pushed a little too far, becomes pain; and that the
movement of pain, a little moderated, becomes pleasure. Hence it
proceeds, that there is such a thing as a sorrow, soft and
agreeable: It is a pain weakened and diminished. The heart likes
naturally to be moved and affected. Melancholy objects suit it,
and even disastrous and sorrowful, provided they are softened by
some circumstance. It is certain, that, on the theatre, the
reprentation has almost the effect of reality; yet it has not
altogether that effect. However we may be hurried away by the
spectacle; whatever dominion the ns and imagination may usurp
over the reason, there still lurks at the bottom a certain idea
of falhood in the whole of what we e. This idea, though weak
and disguid, suffices to diminish the pain which we suffer from
the misfortunes of tho whom we love, and to reduce that
affliction to such a pitch as converts it into a pleasure. We
weep for the misfortune of a hero, to whom we are attached. In
the same instant we comfort ourlves, by reflecting, that it is
nothing but a fiction: And it is precily that mixture of
ntiments, which compos an agreeable sorrow, and tears that
delight us. But as that affliction, which is caud by exterior
and nsible objects, is stronger than the consolation which
aris from an internal reflection, they are the effects and
symptoms of sorrow, that ought to predominate in the
composition.'
This solution ems just and convincing; but perhaps it
wants still some new addition, in order to make it answer fully
the phaenomenon, which we here examine. All the passions, excited
by eloquence, are agreeable in the highest degree, as well as
tho which are moved by painting and the theatre. The epilogues
of Cicero are, on this account chiefly, the delight of every
reader of taste; and it is difficult to read some of them
without
the deepest sympathy and sorrow. His merit as an orator, no
doubt, depends much on his success in this particular. When he
had raid tears in his judges and all his audience, they were
then the most highly delighted, and expresd the greatest
satisfaction with the pleader. The pathetic description of the
butchery, made by Verres of the Sicilian captains, is a
masterpiece of this kind: But I believe none will affirm, that
the being prent at a melancholy scene of that nature would
afford any entertainment. Neither is the sorrow here softened by
fiction: For the audience were convinced of the reality of every
circumstance. What is it then, which in this ca rais a
pleasure from the bosom of uneasiness, so to speak; and a
pleasure, which still retains all the features and outward
symptoms of distress and sorrow?
I answer: This extraordinary effect proceeds from that very
eloquence, with which the melancholy scene is reprented. The
genius required to paint objects in a lively manner, the art
employed in collecting all the pathetic circumstances, the
judgment displayed in disposing them: the exerci, I say, of
the noble talents, together with the force of expression, and
beauty of oratorial numbers, diffu the highest satisfaction on
the audience, and excite the most delightful movements. By this
means, the uneasiness of the melancholy passions is not only
overpowered and effaced by something stronger of an opposite
kind; but the whole impul of tho passions is converted into
pleasure, and swells the delight which the eloquence rais in
us. The same force of oratory, employed on an uninteresting
subject, would not plea half so much, or rather would appear
altogether ridiculous; and the mind, being left in absolute
calmness and indifference, would relish none of tho beauties of
imagination or expression, which, if joined to passion, give it
such exquisite entertainment. The impul or vehemence, arising
from sorrow, compassion, indignation, receives a new direction
from the ntiments of beauty. The latter, being the predominant
emotion, ize the whole mind, and convert the former into
themlves, at least tincture them so strongly as totally to
alter their nature. And the soul, being, at the same time, rouzed
by passion, and charmed by eloquence, feels on the whole a strong
movement, which is altogether delightful.
The same principle takes place in tragedy; with this
addition, that tragedy is an imitation; and imitation is always
of itlf agreeable. This circumstance rves still farther to
smooth the motions of passion, and convert the whole feeling into
one uniform and strong enjoyment. Objects of the greatest terror
and distress plea in painting, and plea more than the most
beautiful objects, that appear calm and indifferent.[3] The
affection, rousing the mind, excites a large stock of spirit and
vehemence; which is all transformed into pleasure by the force
of
the prevailing movement. It is thus the fiction of tragedy
softens the passion, by an infusion of a new feeling, not merely
by weakening or diminishing the sorrow. You may by degrees weaken
a real sorrow, till it totally disappears; yet in none of its
graduations will it ever give pleasure; except, perhaps, by
accident, to a man sunk under lethargic indolence, whom it rouzes
from that languid state.
To confirm this theory, it will be sufficient to produce
other instances, where the subordinate movement is converted into
the predominant, and gives force to it, though of a different,
and even sometimes though of a contrary nature.
Novelty naturally rouzes the mind, and attracts our
attention; and the movements, which it caus, are always
converted into any passion, belonging to the object, and join
their force to it. Whether an event excite joy or sorrow, pride
or shame, anger or good-will, it is sure to produce a stronger
affection, when new or unusual. And though novelty of itlf be
agreeable, it fortifies the painful, as well as agreeable
passions.
Had you any intention to move a person extremely by the
narration of any event, the best method of encreasing its effect
would be artfully to delay informing him of it, and first to
excite his curiosity and impatience before you let him into the
cret. This is the artifice practid by Iago in the famous
scene of Shakespeare; and every spectator is nsible, that
Othello's jealousy acquires additional force from his preceding
impatience, and that the subordinate passion is here readily
transformed into the predominant one.
Difficulties encrea passions of every kind; and by rouzing
our attention, and exciting our active powers, they produce an
emotion, which nourishes the prevailing affection.
Parents commonly love that child most, who sickly infirm
frame of body has occasioned them the greatest pains, trouble,
and anxiety in rearing him. The agreeable ntiment of affection
here acquires force from ntiments of uneasiness.
Nothing endears so much a friend as sorrow for his death.
The pleasure of his company has not so powerful an influence.
Jealousy is a painful passion; yet without some share of it,
the agreeable affection of love has difficulty to subsist in its
full force and violence. Abnce is also a great source of
complaint among lovers, and gives them the greatest uneasiness:
Yet nothing is more favourable to their mutual passion than short
intervals of that kind. And if long intervals often prove fatal,
it is only becau, through time, men are accustomed to them, and
they cea to give uneasiness. Jealousy and abnce in love
compo the <dolce peccante> of the Italians, which they suppo
so esntial to all pleasure.
There is a fine obrvation of the elder Pliny, which
illustrates the principle here insisted on. <It is very
remarkable>, says he, <that the last works of celebrated artists
,
which they left imperfect, are always the most prized, such as
the Iris of Aristides, the Tyndarides of Nicomachus, the Medea of
Timomachus, and the Venus of Apelles. The are valued even above
their finished productions: The broken lineaments of the piece,
and the half-formed idea of the painter are carefully studied;
and our very grief for that curious hand, which had been stopped
by death, is an additional encrea to our pleasure>.'[4]
The instances (and many more might be collected) are
sufficient to afford us some insight into the analogy of nature,
and to show us, that the pleasure, which poets, orators, and
musicians give us, by exciting grief, sorrow, indignation,
compassion, is not so extraordinary or paradoxical, as it may at
first sight appear. The force of imagination, the energy of
expression, the power of numbers, the charms of imitation; all
the are naturally, of themlves, delightful to the mind: And
when the object prented lays also hold of some affection, the
pleasure still ris upon us, by the conversion of this
subordinate movement into that which is predominant. The passion,
though, perhaps, naturally, and when excited by the simple
appearance of a real object, it may be painful; yet is so
smoothed, and softened, and mollified, when raid by the finer
arts, that it affords the highest entertainment.
To confirm this reasoning, we may obrve, that if the
movements of the imagination be not predominant above tho of
the passion, a contrary effect follows; and the former, being now
subordinate, is converted into the latter, and still farther
encreas the pain and affliction of the sufferer.
Who could ever think of it as a good expedient for
comforting an afflicted parent, to exaggerate, with all the force
of elocution, the irreparable loss, which he has met with by the
death of a favourite child ? The more power of imagination and
expression you here employ, the more you encrea his despair and
affliction.
The shame, confusion, and terror of Verres, no doubt, ro
in proportion to the noble eloquence and vehemence of Cicero: So
also did his pain and uneasiness. The former passions were too
strong for the pleasure arising from the beauties of elocution;
and operated, though from the same principle, yet in a contrary
manner, to the sympathy, compassion, and indignation of the
audience.
Lord Clarendon, when he approaches towards the catastrophe
of the royal party, suppos, that his narration must then become
infinite]y disagreeable; and he hurries over the king's death,
without giving us one circumstance of it. He considers it as too
horrid a scene to be contemplated with any satisfaction, or even
without the utmost pain and aversion. He himlf, as well as the
readers of that age, were too deeply concerned in the events, and
felt a pain from subjects, which an historian and a reader of
another age would regard as the most pathetic and most
