But the gravest difficulty, and perhaps the most important, in poetry
meant solely for recitation, is the difficulty of achieving verbal
beauty, or rather of making verbal beauty tell.
meant solely for recitation, is the difficulty of achieving verbal
beauty, or rather of making verbal beauty tell.
Lascelle Abercrombie
The _Song of Roland_, for instance,
begins with a long series of exceedingly dull stanzas; to a reader, the
preliminaries of the story seem insufferably drawn out. But by the time
the reciter had got through this unimportant dreariness, no doubt his
audience had settled down to listen. The _Chanson d'Antioche_ contains
perhaps the most illuminating admission of this difficulty. In the first
"Chant," the first section opens:[4]
Seigneurs, faites silence; et que tout bruit cesse,
Si vous voulez entendre une glorieuse chanson.
Aucun jongleur ne vous en dira une meilleure.
Then some vaguely prelusive lines. But the audience is clearly not quite
ready yet, for the second section begins:
Barons, ecoutez-moi, et cessez vos querelles!
Je vous dirai une tres-belle chanson.
And after some further prelude, the section ends:
Ici commence la chanson ou il y a tant a apprendre.
The "Chanson" does, indeed, make some show of beginning in the third
section, but it still moves with a cautious and prelusive air, as if
anxious not to launch out too soon. And this was evidently prudent, for
when the fourth section opens, direct exhortation to the audience has
again become necessary:
Maintenant, seigneurs, ecoutez ce que dit l'Ecriture.
And once more in the fifth section:
Barons, ecoutez un excellent couplet.
In the sixth, the jongleur is getting desperate:
Seigneurs, pour l'amour de Dieu, faites silence, ecoutez-moi,
Pour qu'en partant de ce monde vous entriez dans un meilleur;
but after this exclamation he has his way, though the story proper is
still a good way off. Perhaps not all of these hortatory stanzas were
commonly used; any or all of them could certainly be omitted without
damaging the poem. But they were there to be used, according to the
judgment of the jongleur and the temper of his audience, and their
presence in the poem is very suggestive of the special difficulties in
the art of rhapsodic poetry.
But the gravest difficulty, and perhaps the most important, in poetry
meant solely for recitation, is the difficulty of achieving verbal
beauty, or rather of making verbal beauty tell. Vigorous but controlled
imagination, formative power, insight into the significance of
things--these are qualities which a poet must eminently possess; but
these are qualities which may also be eminently possessed by men who
cannot claim the title of poet. The real differentia of the poet is his
command over the secret magic of words. Others may have as delighted a
sense of this magic, but it is only the poet who can master it and do
what he likes with it. And next to the invention of speaking itself, the
most important invention for the poet has been the invention of writing
and reading; for this has added immensely to the scope of his mastery
over words. No poet will ever take the written word as a substitute for
the spoken word; he knows that it is on the spoken word, and the spoken
word only, that his art is founded. But he trusts his reader to do as he
himself does--to receive written words always as the code of spoken
words. To do so has wonderfully enlarged his technical opportunities;
for apprehension is quicker and finer through the eye than through the
ear. After the invention of reading, even poetry designed primarily for
declamation (like drama or lyric) has depths and subtleties of art which
were not possible for the primitive poet. Accordingly we find that, on
the whole, in comparison with "literary" epic, the texture of
"authentic" epic is flat and dull. The story may be superb, and its
management may be superb; but the words in which the story lives do not
come near the grandeur of Milton, or the exquisiteness of Virgil, or the
deliciousness of Tasso. Indeed, if we are to say what is the real
difference between _Beowulf_ and _Paradise Lost_, we must simply say
that _Beowulf_ is not such good poetry. There is, of course, one
tremendous exception; Homer is the one poet of authentic epic who had
sufficient genius to make unfailingly, nobly beautiful poetry within the
strict and hard conditions of purely auricular art. Compare Homer's
ambrosial glory with the descent tap-water of Hesiod; compare his
continuous burnished gleam of wrought metal with the sparse grains that
lie in the sandy diction of all the "authentic" epics of the other
nations. And, by all ancient accounts, the other early Greek epics would
not fare much better in the comparison. Homer's singularity in this
respect is overwhelming; but it is frequently forgotten, and especially
by those who think to help in the Homeric question by comparing him with
other "authentic" epics.
begins with a long series of exceedingly dull stanzas; to a reader, the
preliminaries of the story seem insufferably drawn out. But by the time
the reciter had got through this unimportant dreariness, no doubt his
audience had settled down to listen. The _Chanson d'Antioche_ contains
perhaps the most illuminating admission of this difficulty. In the first
"Chant," the first section opens:[4]
Seigneurs, faites silence; et que tout bruit cesse,
Si vous voulez entendre une glorieuse chanson.
Aucun jongleur ne vous en dira une meilleure.
Then some vaguely prelusive lines. But the audience is clearly not quite
ready yet, for the second section begins:
Barons, ecoutez-moi, et cessez vos querelles!
Je vous dirai une tres-belle chanson.
And after some further prelude, the section ends:
Ici commence la chanson ou il y a tant a apprendre.
The "Chanson" does, indeed, make some show of beginning in the third
section, but it still moves with a cautious and prelusive air, as if
anxious not to launch out too soon. And this was evidently prudent, for
when the fourth section opens, direct exhortation to the audience has
again become necessary:
Maintenant, seigneurs, ecoutez ce que dit l'Ecriture.
And once more in the fifth section:
Barons, ecoutez un excellent couplet.
In the sixth, the jongleur is getting desperate:
Seigneurs, pour l'amour de Dieu, faites silence, ecoutez-moi,
Pour qu'en partant de ce monde vous entriez dans un meilleur;
but after this exclamation he has his way, though the story proper is
still a good way off. Perhaps not all of these hortatory stanzas were
commonly used; any or all of them could certainly be omitted without
damaging the poem. But they were there to be used, according to the
judgment of the jongleur and the temper of his audience, and their
presence in the poem is very suggestive of the special difficulties in
the art of rhapsodic poetry.
But the gravest difficulty, and perhaps the most important, in poetry
meant solely for recitation, is the difficulty of achieving verbal
beauty, or rather of making verbal beauty tell. Vigorous but controlled
imagination, formative power, insight into the significance of
things--these are qualities which a poet must eminently possess; but
these are qualities which may also be eminently possessed by men who
cannot claim the title of poet. The real differentia of the poet is his
command over the secret magic of words. Others may have as delighted a
sense of this magic, but it is only the poet who can master it and do
what he likes with it. And next to the invention of speaking itself, the
most important invention for the poet has been the invention of writing
and reading; for this has added immensely to the scope of his mastery
over words. No poet will ever take the written word as a substitute for
the spoken word; he knows that it is on the spoken word, and the spoken
word only, that his art is founded. But he trusts his reader to do as he
himself does--to receive written words always as the code of spoken
words. To do so has wonderfully enlarged his technical opportunities;
for apprehension is quicker and finer through the eye than through the
ear. After the invention of reading, even poetry designed primarily for
declamation (like drama or lyric) has depths and subtleties of art which
were not possible for the primitive poet. Accordingly we find that, on
the whole, in comparison with "literary" epic, the texture of
"authentic" epic is flat and dull. The story may be superb, and its
management may be superb; but the words in which the story lives do not
come near the grandeur of Milton, or the exquisiteness of Virgil, or the
deliciousness of Tasso. Indeed, if we are to say what is the real
difference between _Beowulf_ and _Paradise Lost_, we must simply say
that _Beowulf_ is not such good poetry. There is, of course, one
tremendous exception; Homer is the one poet of authentic epic who had
sufficient genius to make unfailingly, nobly beautiful poetry within the
strict and hard conditions of purely auricular art. Compare Homer's
ambrosial glory with the descent tap-water of Hesiod; compare his
continuous burnished gleam of wrought metal with the sparse grains that
lie in the sandy diction of all the "authentic" epics of the other
nations. And, by all ancient accounts, the other early Greek epics would
not fare much better in the comparison. Homer's singularity in this
respect is overwhelming; but it is frequently forgotten, and especially
by those who think to help in the Homeric question by comparing him with
other "authentic" epics.
