TRANSLATORS' PREFACE
This work, by Professor Bergson, has been revised in detail by the
author himself, and the present translation is the only authorised
one. For this ungrudging labour of revision, for the thoroughness
with which it has been carried out, and for personal sympathy in
many a difficulty of word and phrase, we desire to offer our
grateful acknowledgment to Professor Bergson. It may be pointed out
that the essay on Laughter originally appeared in a series of three
articles in one of the leading magazines in France, the Revue de
Paris. This will account for the relatively simple form of the work
and the comparative absence of technical terms. It will also explain
why the author has confined himself to exposing and illustrating his
novel theory of the comic without entering into a detailed
discussion of other explanations already in the field. He none the
less indicates, when discussing sundry examples, why the principal
theories, to which they have given rise, appear to him inadequate.
To quote only a few, one may mention those based on contrast,
exaggeration, and degradation.
The book has been highly successful in France, where it is in its
seventh edition. It has been translated into Russian, Polish, and
Swedish. German and Hungarian translations are under preparation.
Its success is due partly to the novelty of the explanation offered
of the comic, and partly also to the fact that the author
incidentally discusses questions of still greater interest and
importance. Thus, one of the best known and most frequently quoted
passages of the book is that portion of the last chapter in which
the author outlines a general theory of art.
C. B. F. R.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I
THE COMIC IN GENERAL--THE COMIC ELEMENT IN FORMS AND MOVEMENTS--
EXPANSIVE FORCE OF THE COMIC
CHAPTER II
THE COMIC ELEMENT IN SITUATIONS AND THE COMIC ELEMENT IN WORDS
CHAPTER III
THE COMIC IN CHARACTER
CHAPTER I
THE COMIC IN GENERAL--THE COMIC ELEMENT IN FORMS AND MOVEMENTS--
EXPANSIVE FORCE OF THE COMIC.
What does laughter mean? What is the basal element in the laughable?
What common ground can we find between the grimace of a merry-
andrew, a play upon words, an equivocal situation in a burlesque and
a scene of high comedy? What method of distillation will yield us
invariably the same essence from which so many different products
borrow either their obtrusive odour or their delicate perfume? The
greatest of thinkers, from Aristotle downwards, have tackled this
little problem, which has a knack of baffling every effort, of
slipping away and escaping only to bob up again, a pert challenge
flung at philosophic speculation. Our excuse for attacking the
problem in our turn must lie in the fact that we shall not aim at
imprisoning the comic spirit within a definition. We regard it,
above all, as a living thing. However trivial it may be, we shall
treat it with the respect due to life. We shall confine ourselves to
watching it grow and expand. Passing by imperceptible gradations
from one form to another, it will be seen to achieve the strangest
metamorphoses. We shall disdain nothing we have seen. Maybe we may
gain from this prolonged contact, for the matter of that, something
more flexible than an abstract definition,--a practical, intimate
acquaintance, such as springs from a long companionship. And maybe
we may also find that, unintentionally, we have made an acquaintance
that is useful. For the comic spirit has a logic of its own, even in
its wildest eccentricities. It has a method in its madness. It
dreams, I admit, but it conjures up, in its dreams, visions that are
at once accepted and understood by the whole of a social group. Can
it then fail to throw light for us on the way that human imagination
works, and more particularly social, collective, and popular
imagination? Begotten of real life and akin to art, should it not
also have something of its own to tell us about art and life?
At the outset we shall put forward three observations which we look
upon as fundamental. They have less bearing on the actually comic
than on the field within which it must be sought.
I
The first point to which attention should be called is that the
comic does not exist outside the pale of what is strictly HUMAN. A
landscape may be beautiful, charming and sublime, or insignificant
and ugly; it will never be laughable. You may laugh at an animal,
but only because you have detected in it some human attitude or
expression. You may laugh at a hat, but what you are making fun of,
in this case, is not the piece of felt or straw, but the shape that
men have given it,--the human caprice whose mould it has assumed. It
is strange that so important a fact, and such a simple one too, has
not attracted to a greater degree the attention of philosophers.
Several have defined man as "an animal which laughs." They might
equally well have defined him as an animal which is laughed at; for
if any other animal, or some lifeless object, produces the same
effect, it is always because of some resemblance to man, of the
stamp he gives it or the use he puts it to.
Here I would point out, as a symptom equally worthy of notice, the
ABSENCE OF FEELING which usually accompanies laughter. It seems as
though the comic could not produce its disturbing effect unless it
fell, so to say, on the surface of a soul that is thoroughly calm
and unruffled. Indifference is its natural environment, for laughter
has no greater foe than emotion. I do not mean that we could not
laugh at a person who inspires us with pity, for instance, or even
with affection, but in such a case we must, for the moment, put our
affection out of court and impose silence upon our pity. In a
society composed of pure intelligences there would probably be no
more tears, though perhaps there would still be laughter; whereas
highly emotional souls, in tune and unison with life, in whom every
event would be sentimentally prolonged and re-echoed, would neither
know nor understand laughter. Try, for a moment, to become
interested in everything that is being said and done; act, in
imagination, with those who act, and feel with those who feel; in a
word, give your sympathy its widest expansion: as though at the
touch of a fairy wand you will see the flimsiest of objects assume
importance, and a gloomy hue spread over everything. Now step aside,
look upon life as a disinterested spectator: many a drama will turn
into a comedy. It is enough for us to stop our ears to the sound of
music, in a room where dancing is going on, for the dancers at once
to appear ridiculous. How many human actions would stand a similar
test? Should we not see many of them suddenly pass from grave to
gay, on isolating them from the accompanying music of sentiment? To
produce the whole of its effect, then, the comic demands something
like a momentary anesthesia of the heart. Its appeal is to
intelligence, pure and simple.
This intelligence, however, must always remain in touch with other
intelligences. And here is the third fact to which attention should
be drawn. You would hardly appreciate the comic if you felt yourself
isolated from others. Laughter appears to stand in need of an echo,
Listen to it carefully: it is not an articulate, clear, well-defined
sound; it is something which would fain be prolonged by
reverberating from one to another, something beginning with a crash,
to continue in successive rumblings, like thunder in a mountain.
Still, this reverberation cannot go on for ever. It can travel
within as wide a circle as you please: the circle remains, none the
less, a closed one. Our laughter is always the laughter of a group.
It may, perchance, have happened to you, when seated in a railway
carriage or at table d'hote, to hear travellers relating to one
another stories which must have been comic to them, for they laughed
heartily. Had you been one of their company, you would have laughed
like them; but, as you were not, you had no desire whatever to do
so. A man who was once asked why he did not weep at a sermon, when
everybody else was shedding tears, replied: "I don't belong to the
parish!" What that man thought of tears would be still more true of
laughter. However spontaneous it seems, laughter always implies a
kind of secret freemasonry, or even complicity, with other laughers,
real or imaginary. How often has it been said that the fuller the
theatre, the more uncontrolled the laughter of the audience! On the
other hand, how often has the remark been made that many comic
effects are incapable of translation from one language to another,
because they refer to the customs and ideas of a particular social
group! It is through not understanding the importance of this double
fact that the comic has been looked upon as a mere curiosity in
which the mind finds amusement, and laughter itself as a strange,
isolated phenomenon, without any bearing on the rest of human
activity. Hence those definitions which tend to make the comic into
an abstract relation between ideas: "an intellectual contrast," "a
palpable absurdity," etc.,--definitions which, even were they really
suitable to every form of the comic, would not in the least explain
why the comic makes us laugh. How, indeed, should it come about that
this particular logical relation, as soon as it is perceived,
contracts, expands and shakes our limbs, whilst all other relations
leave the body unaffected? It is not from this point of view that we
shall approach the problem. To understand laughter, we must put it
back into its natural environment, which is society, and above all
must we determine the utility of its function, which is a social
one. Such, let us say at once, will be the leading idea of all our
investigations. Laughter must answer to certain requirements of life
in common. It must have a SOCIAL signification.
Let us clearly mark the point towards which our three preliminary
observations are converging. The comic will come into being, it
appears, whenever a group of men concentrate their attention on one
of their number, imposing silence on their emotions and calling into
play nothing but their intelligence. What, now, is the particular
point on which their attention will have to be concentrated, and
what will here be the function of intelligence? To reply to these
questions will be at once to come to closer grips with the problem.
But here a few examples have become indispensable.
II
A man, running along the street, stumbles and falls; the passers-by
burst out laughing. They would not laugh at him, I imagine, could
they suppose that the whim had suddenly seized him to sit down on
the ground. They laugh because his sitting down is involuntary.
Consequently, it is not his sudden change of attitude that raises a
laugh, but rather the involuntary element in this change,--his
clumsiness, in fact. Perhaps there was a stone on the road. He
should have altered his pace or avoided the obstacle. Instead of
that, through lack of elasticity, through absentmindedness and a
kind of physical obstinacy, AS A RESULT, IN FACT, OF RIGIDITY OR OF
MOMENTUM, the muscles continued to perform the same movement when
the circumstances of the case called for something else. That is the
reason of the man's fall, and also of the people's laughter.
Now, take the case of a person who attends to the petty occupations
of his everyday life with mathematical precision. The objects around
him, however, have all been tampered with by a mischievous wag, the
result being that when he dips his pen into the inkstand he draws it
out all covered with mud, when he fancies he is sitting down on a
solid chair he finds himself sprawling on the floor, in a word his
actions are all topsy-turvy or mere beating the air, while in every
case the effect is invariably one of momentum. Habit has given the
impulse: what was wanted was to check the movement or deflect it. He
did nothing of the sort, but continued like a machine in the same
straight line. The victim, then, of a practical joke is in a
position similar to that of a runner who falls,--he is comic for the
same reason. The laughable element in both cases consists of a
certain MECHANICAL INELASTICITY, just where one would expect to find
the wide-awake adaptability and the living pliableness of a human
being. The only difference in the two cases is that the former
happened of itself, whilst the latter was obtained artificially. In
the first instance, the passer-by does nothing but look on, but in
the second the mischievous wag intervenes.
All the same, in both cases the result has been brought about by an
external circumstance. The comic is therefore accidental: it
remains, so to speak, in superficial contact with the person. How is
it to penetrate within? The necessary conditions will be fulfilled
when mechanical rigidity no longer requires for its manifestation a
stumbling-block which either the hazard of circumstance or human
knavery has set in its way, but extracts by natural processes, from
its own store, an inexhaustible series of opportunities for
externally revealing its presence. Suppose, then, we imagine a mind
always thinking of what it has just done and never of what it is
doing, like a song which lags behind its accompaniment. Let us try
to picture to ourselves a certain inborn lack of elasticity of both
senses and intelligence, which brings it to pass that we continue to
see what is no longer visible, to hear what is no longer audible, to
say what is no longer to the point: in short, to adapt ourselves to
a past and therefore imaginary situation, when we ought to be
shaping our conduct in accordance with the reality which is present.
This time the comic will take up its abode in the person himself; it
is the person who will supply it with everything--matter and form,
cause and opportunity. Is it then surprising that the absent-minded
individual--for this is the character we have just been describing--
has usually fired the imagination of comic authors? When La Bruyere
came across this particular type, he realised, on analysing it, that
he had got hold of a recipe for the wholesale manufacture of comic
effects. As a matter of fact he overdid it, and gave us far too
lengthy and detailed a description of Menalque, coming back to his
subject, dwelling and expatiating on it beyond all bounds. The very
facility of the subject fascinated him. Absentmindedness, indeed, is
not perhaps the actual fountain-head of the comic, but surely it is
contiguous to a certain stream of facts and fancies which flows
straight from the fountain-head. It is situated, so to say, on one
of the great natural watersheds of laughter.
Now, the effect of absentmindedness may gather strength in its turn.
There is a general law, the first example of which we have just
encountered, and which we will formulate in the following terms:
when a certain comic effect has its origin in a certain cause, the
more natural we regard the cause to be, the more comic shall we find
the effect. Even now we laugh at absentmindedness when presented to
us as a simple fact. Still more laughable will be the
absentmindedness we have seen springing up and growing before our
very eyes, with whose origin we are acquainted and whose life-
history we can reconstruct. To choose a definite example: suppose a
man has taken to reading nothing but romances of love and chivalry.
Attracted and fascinated by his heroes, his thoughts and intentions
gradually turn more and more towards them, till one fine day we find
him walking among us like a somnambulist. His actions are
distractions. But then his distractions can be traced back to a
definite, positive cause. They are no longer cases of ABSENCE of
mind, pure and simple; they find their explanation in the PRESENCE
of the individual in quite definite, though imaginary, surroundings.
Doubtless a fall is always a fall, but it is one thing to tumble
into a well because you were looking anywhere but in front of you,
it is quite another thing to fall into it because you were intent
upon a star. It was certainly a star at which Don Quixote was
gazing. How profound is the comic element in the over-romantic,
Utopian bent of mind! And yet, if you reintroduce the idea of
absentmindedness, which acts as a go-between, you will see this
profound comic element uniting with the most superficial type. Yes,
indeed, these whimsical wild enthusiasts, these madmen who are yet
so strangely reasonable, excite us to laughter by playing on the
same chords within ourselves, by setting in motion the same inner
mechanism, as does the victim of a practical joke or the passer-by
who slips down in the street. They, too, are runners who fall and
simple souls who are being hoaxed--runners after the ideal who
stumble over realities, child-like dreamers for whom life delights
to lie in wait. But, above all, they are past-masters in
absentmindedness, with this superiority over their fellows that
their absentmindedness is systematic and organised around one
central idea, and that their mishaps are also quite coherent, thanks
to the inexorable logic which reality applies to the correction of
dreams, so that they kindle in those around them, by a series of
cumulative effects, a hilarity capable of unlimited expansion.
Now, let us go a little further. Might not certain vices have the
same relation to character that the rigidity of a fixed idea has to
intellect? Whether as a moral kink or a crooked twist given to the
will, vice has often the appearance of a curvature of the soul.
Doubtless there are vices into which the soul plunges deeply with
all its pregnant potency, which it rejuvenates and drags along with
it into a moving circle of reincarnations. Those are tragic vices.
But the vice capable of making us comic is, on the contrary, that
which is brought from without, like a ready-made frame into which we
are to step. It lends us its own rigidity instead of borrowing from
us our flexibility. We do not render it more complicated; on the
contrary, it simplifies us. Here, as we shall see later on in the
concluding section of this study, lies the essential difference
between comedy and drama. A drama, even when portraying passions or
vices that bear a name, so completely incorporates them in the
person that their names are forgotten, their general characteristics
effaced, and we no longer think of them at all, but rather of the
person in whom they are assimilated; hence, the title of a drama can
seldom be anything else than a proper noun. On the other hand, many
comedies have a common noun as their title: l'Avare, le Joueur, etc.
Were you asked to think of a play capable of being called le Jaloux,
for instance, you would find that Sganarelle or George Dandin would
occur to your mind, but not Othello: le Jaloux could only be the
title of a comedy. The reason is that, however intimately vice, when
comic, is associated with persons, it none the less retains its
simple, independent existence, it remains the central character,
present though invisible, to which the characters in flesh and blood
on the stage are attached. At times it delights in dragging them
down with its own weight and making them share in its tumbles. More
frequently, however, it plays on them as on an instrument or pulls
the strings as though they were puppets. Look closely: you will find
that the art of the comic poet consists in making us so well
acquainted with the particular vice, in introducing us, the
spectators, to such a degree of intimacy with it, that in the end we
get hold of some of the strings of the marionette with which he is
playing, and actually work them ourselves; this it is that explains
part of the pleasure we feel. Here, too, it is really a kind of
automatism that makes us laugh--an automatism, as we have already
remarked, closely akin to mere absentmindedness. To realise this
more fully, it need only be noted that a comic character is
generally comic in proportion to his ignorance of himself. The comic
person is unconscious. As though wearing the ring of Gyges with
reverse effect, he becomes invisible to himself while remaining
visible to all the world. A character in a tragedy will make no
change in his conduct because he will know how it is judged by us;
he may continue therein, even though fully conscious of what he is
and feeling keenly the horror he inspires in us. But a defect that
is ridiculous, as soon as it feels itself to be so, endeavours to
modify itself, or at least to appear as though it did. Were Harpagon
to see us laugh at his miserliness, I do not say that he would get
rid of it, but he would either show it less or show it differently.
Indeed, it is in this sense only that laughter "corrects men's
manners." It makes us at once endeavour to appear what we ought to
be, what some day we shall perhaps end in being.
It is unnecessary to carry this analysis any further. From the
runner who falls to the simpleton who is hoaxed, from a state of
being hoaxed to one of absentmindedness, from absentmindedness to
wild enthusiasm, from wild enthusiasm to various distortions of
character and will, we have followed the line of progress along
which the comic becomes more and more deeply imbedded in the person,
yet without ceasing, in its subtler manifestations, to recall to us
some trace of what we noticed in its grosser forms, an effect of
automatism and of inelasticity. Now we can obtain a first glimpse--a
distant one, it is true, and still hazy and confused--of the
laughable side of human nature and of the ordinary function of
laughter.
What life and society require of each of us is a constantly alert
attention that discerns the outlines of the present situation,
together with a certain elasticity of mind and body to enable us to
adapt ourselves in consequence. TENSION and ELASTICITY are two
forces, mutually complementary, which life brings into play. If
these two forces are lacking in the body to any considerable extent,
we have sickness and infirmity and accidents of every kind. If they
are lacking in the mind, we find every degree of mental deficiency,
every variety of insanity. Finally, if they are lacking in the
character, we have cases of the gravest inadaptability to social
life, which are the sources of misery and at times the causes of
crime. Once these elements of inferiority that affect the serious
side of existence are removed--and they tend to eliminate themselves
in what has been called the struggle for life--the person can live,
and that in common with other persons. But society asks for
something more; it is not satisfied with simply living, it insists
on living well. What it now has to dread is that each one of us,
content with paying attention to what affects the essentials of
life, will, so far as the rest is concerned, give way to the easy
automatism of acquired habits. Another thing it must fear is that
the members of whom it is made up, instead of aiming after an
increasingly delicate adjustment of wills which will fit more and
more perfectly into one another, will confine themselves to
respecting simply the fundamental conditions of this adjustment: a
cut-and-dried agreement among the persons will not satisfy it, it
insists on a constant striving after reciprocal adaptation. Society
will therefore be suspicious of all INELASTICITY of character, of
mind and even of body, because it is the possible sign of a
slumbering activity as well as of an activity with separatist
tendencies, that inclines to swerve from the common centre round
which society gravitates: in short, because it is the sign of an
eccentricity. And yet, society cannot intervene at this stage by
material repression, since it is not affected in a material fashion.
It is confronted with something that makes it uneasy, but only as a
symptom--scarcely a threat, at the very most a gesture. A gesture,
therefore, will be its reply. Laughter must be something of this
kind, a sort of SOCIAL GESTURE. By the fear which it inspires, it
restrains eccentricity, keeps constantly awake and in mutual contact
certain activities of a secondary order which might retire into
their shell and go to sleep, and, in short, softens down whatever
the surface of the social body may retain of mechanical
inelasticity. Laughter, then, does not belong to the province of
esthetics alone, since unconsciously (and even immorally in many
particular instances) it pursues a utilitarian aim of general
improvement. And yet there is something esthetic about it, since the
comic comes into being just when society and the individual, freed
from the worry of self-preservation, begin to regard themselves as
works of art. In a word, if a circle be drawn round those actions
and dispositions--implied in individual or social life--to which
their natural consequences bring their own penalties, there remains
outside this sphere of emotion and struggle--and within a neutral
zone in which man simply exposes himself to man's curiosity--a
certain rigidity of body, mind and character, that society would
still like to get rid of in order to obtain from its members the
greatest possible degree of elasticity and sociability. This
rigidity is the comic, and laughter is its corrective.
Still, we must not accept this formula as a definition of the comic.
It is suitable only for cases that are elementary, theoretical and
perfect, in which the comic is free from all adulteration. Nor do we
offer it, either, as an explanation. We prefer to make it, if you
will, the leitmotiv which is to accompany all our explanations. We
must ever keep it in mind, though without dwelling on it too much,
somewhat as a skilful fencer must think of the discontinuous
movements of the lesson whilst his body is given up to the
continuity of the fencing-match. We will now endeavour to
reconstruct the sequence of comic forms, taking up again the thread
that leads from the horseplay of a clown up to the most refined
effects of comedy, following this thread in its often unforeseen
windings, halting at intervals to look around, and finally getting
back, if possible, to the point at which the thread is dangling and
where we shall perhaps find--since the comic oscillates between life
and art--the general relation that art bears to life.
III
Let us begin at the simplest point. What is a comic physiognomy?
Where does a ridiculous expression of the face come from? And what
is, in this case, the distinction between the comic and the ugly?
Thus stated, the question could scarcely be answered in any other
than an arbitrary fashion. Simple though it may appear, it is, even
now, too subtle to allow of a direct attack. We should have to begin
with a definition of ugliness, and then discover what addition the
comic makes to it; now, ugliness is not much easier to analyse than
is beauty. However, we will employ an artifice which will often
stand us in good stead. We will exaggerate the problem, so to speak,
by magnifying the effect to the point of making the cause visible.
Suppose, then, we intensify ugliness to the point of deformity, and
study the transition from the deformed to the ridiculous.
Now, certain deformities undoubtedly possess over others the sorry
privilege of causing some persons to laugh; some hunchbacks, for
instance, will excite laughter. Without at this point entering into
useless details, we will simply ask the reader to think of a number
of deformities, and then to divide them into two groups: on the one
hand, those which nature has directed towards the ridiculous; and on
the other, those which absolutely diverge from it. No doubt he will
hit upon the following law: A deformity that may become comic is a
deformity that a normally built person, could successfully imitate.
Is it not, then, the case that the hunchback suggests the appearance
of a person who holds himself badly? His back seems to have
contracted an ugly stoop. By a kind of physical obstinacy, by
rigidity, in a word, it persists in the habit it has contracted. Try
to see with your eyes alone. Avoid reflection, and above all, do not
reason. Abandon all your prepossessions; seek to recapture a fresh,
direct and primitive impression. The vision you will reacquire will
be one of this kind. You will have before you a man bent on
cultivating a certain rigid attitude--whose body, if one may use the
expression, is one vast grin.
Now, let us go back to the point we wished to clear up. By toning
down a deformity that is laughable, we ought to obtain an ugliness
that is comic. A laughable expression of the face, then, is one that
will make us think of something rigid and, so to speak, coagulated,
in the wonted mobility of the face. What we shall see will be an
ingrained twitching or a fixed grimace. It may be objected that
every habitual expression of the face, even when graceful and
beautiful, gives us this same impression of something stereotyped?
Here an important distinction must be drawn. When we speak of
expressive beauty or even expressive ugliness, when we say that a
face possesses expression, we mean expression that may be stable,
but which we conjecture to be mobile. It maintains, in the midst of
its fixity, a certain indecision in which are obscurely portrayed
all possible shades of the state of mind it expresses, just as the
sunny promise of a warm day manifests itself in the haze of a spring
morning. But a comic expression of the face is one that promises
nothing more than it gives. It is a unique and permanent grimace.
One would say that the person's whole moral life has crystallised
into this particular cast of features. This is the reason why a face
is all the more comic, the more nearly it suggests to us the idea of
some simple mechanical action in which its personality would for
ever be absorbed. Some faces seem to be always engaged in weeping,
others in laughing or whistling, others, again, in eternally blowing
an imaginary trumpet, and these are the most comic faces of all.
Here again is exemplified the law according to which the more
natural the explanation of the cause, the more comic is the effect.
Automatism, inelasticity, habit that has been contracted and
maintained, are clearly the causes why a face makes us laugh. But
this effect gains in intensity when we are able to connect these
characteristics with some deep-seated cause, a certain fundamental
absentmindedness, as though the soul had allowed itself to be
fascinated and hypnotised by the materiality of a simple action.
We shall now understand the comic element in caricature. However
regular we may imagine a face to be, however harmonious its lines
and supple its movements, their adjustment is never altogether
perfect: there will always be discoverable the signs of some
impending bias, the vague suggestion of a possible grimace, in short
some favourite distortion towards which nature seems to be
particularly inclined. The art of the caricaturist consists in
detecting this, at times, imperceptible tendency, and in rendering
it visible to all eyes by magnifying it. He makes his models
grimace, as they would do themselves if they went to the end of
their tether. Beneath the skin-deep harmony of form, he divines the
deep-seated recalcitrance of matter. He realises disproportions and
deformations which must have existed in nature as mere inclinations,
but which have not succeeded in coming to a head, being held in
check by a higher force. His art, which has a touch of the
diabolical, raises up the demon who had been overthrown by the
angel. Certainly, it is an art that exaggerates, and yet the
definition would be very far from complete were exaggeration alone
alleged to be its aim and object, for there exist caricatures that
are more lifelike than portraits, caricatures in which the
exaggeration is scarcely noticeable, whilst, inversely, it is quite
possible to exaggerate to excess without obtaining a real
caricature. For exaggeration to be comic, it must not appear as an
aim, but rather as a means that the artist is using in order to make
manifest to our eyes the distortions which he sees in embryo. It is
this process of distortion that is of moment and interest. And that
is precisely why we shall look for it even in those elements of the
face that are incapable of movement, in the curve of a nose or the
shape of an ear. For, in our eyes, form is always the outline of a
movement. The caricaturist who alters the size of a nose, but
respects its ground plan, lengthening it, for instance, in the very
direction in which it was being lengthened by nature, is really
making the nose indulge in a grin. Henceforth we shall always look
upon the original as having determined to lengthen itself and start
grinning. In this sense, one might say that Nature herself often
meets with the successes of a caricaturist. In the movement through
which she has slit that mouth, curtailed that chin and bulged out
that cheek, she would appear to have succeeded in completing the
intended grimace, thus outwitting the restraining supervision of a
more reasonable force. In that case, the face we laugh at is, so to
speak, its own caricature.
To sum up, whatever be the doctrine to which our reason assents, our
imagination has a very clear-cut philosophy of its own: in every
human form it sees the effort of a soul which is shaping matter, a
soul which is infinitely supple and perpetually in motion, subject
to no law of gravitation, for it is not the earth that attracts it.
This soul imparts a portion of its winged lightness to the body it
animates: the immateriality which thus passes into matter is what is
called gracefulness. Matter, however, is obstinate and resists. It
draws to itself the ever-alert activity of this higher principle,
would fain convert it to its own inertia and cause it to revert to
mere automatism. It would fain immobilise the intelligently varied
movements of the body in stupidly contracted grooves, stereotype in
permanent grimaces the fleeting expressions of the face, in short
imprint on the whole person such an attitude as to make it appear
immersed and absorbed in the materiality of some mechanical
occupation instead of ceaselessly renewing its vitality by keeping
in touch with a living ideal. Where matter thus succeeds in dulling
the outward life of the soul, in petrifying its movements and
thwarting its gracefulness, it achieves, at the expense of the body,
an effect that is comic. If, then, at this point we wished to define
the comic by comparing it with its contrary, we should have to
contrast it with gracefulness even more than with beauty. It
partakes rather of the unsprightly than of the unsightly, of
RIGIDNESS rather than of UGLINESS.
IV
We will now pass from the comic element in FORMS to that in GESTURES
and MOVEMENTS. Let us at once state the law which seems to govern
all the phenomena of this kind. It may indeed be deduced without any
difficulty from the considerations stated above. THE ATTITUDES,
GESTURES AND MOVEMENTS OF THE HUMAN BODY ARE LAUGHABLE IN EXACT
PROPORTION AS THAT BODY REMINDS US OF A MERE MACHINE. There is no
need to follow this law through the details of its immediate
applications, which are innumerable. To verify it directly, it would
be sufficient to study closely the work of comic artists,
eliminating entirely the element of caricature, and omitting that
portion of the comic which is not inherent in the drawing itself.
For, obviously, the comic element in a drawing is often a borrowed
one, for which the text supplies all the stock-in-trade. I mean that
the artist may be his own understudy in the shape of a satirist, or
even a playwright, and that then we laugh far less at the drawings
themselves than at the satire or comic incident they represent. But
if we devote our whole attention to the drawing with the firm
resolve to think of nothing else, we shall probably find that it is
generally comic in proportion to the clearness, as well as the
subtleness, with which it enables us to see a man as a jointed
puppet. The suggestion must be a clear one, for inside the person we
must distinctly perceive, as though through a glass, a set-up
mechanism. But the suggestion must also be a subtle one, for the
general appearance of the person, whose every limb has been made
rigid as a machine, must continue to give us the impression of a
living being. The more exactly these two images, that of a person
and that of a machine, fit into each other, the more striking is the
comic effect, and the more consummate the art of the draughtsman.
The originality of a comic artist is thus expressed in the special
kind of life he imparts to a mere puppet.
We will, however, leave on one side the immediate application of the
principle, and at this point insist only on the more remote
consequences. The illusion of a machine working in the inside of the
person is a thing that only crops up amid a host of amusing effects;
but for the most part it is a fleeting glimpse, that is immediately
lost in the laughter it provokes. To render it permanent, analysis
and reflection must be called into play.
In a public speaker, for instance, we find that gesture vies with
speech. Jealous of the latter, gesture closely dogs the speaker's
thought, demanding also to act as interpreter. Well and good; but
then it must pledge itself to follow thought through all the phases
of its development. An idea is something that grows, buds, blossoms
and ripens from the beginning to the end of a speech. It never
halts, never repeats itself. It must be changing every moment, for
to cease to change would be to cease to live. Then let gesture
display a like animation! Let it accept the fundamental law of life,
which is the complete negation of repetition! But I find that a
certain movement of head or arm, a movement always the same, seems
to return at regular intervals. If I notice it and it succeeds in
diverting my attention, if I wait for it to occur and it occurs when
I expect it, then involuntarily I laugh. Why? Because I now have
before me a machine that works automatically. This is no longer
life, it is automatism established in life and imitating it. It
belongs to the comic.
This is also the reason why gestures, at which we never dreamt of
laughing, become laughable when imitated by another individual. The
most elaborate explanations have been offered for this extremely
simple fact. A little reflection, however, will show that our mental
state is ever changing, and that if our gestures faithfully followed
these inner movements, if they were as fully alive as we, they would
never repeat themselves, and so would keep imitation at bay. We
begin, then, to become imitable only when we cease to be ourselves.
I mean our gestures can only be imitated in their mechanical
uniformity, and therefore exactly in what is alien to our living
personality. To imitate any one is to bring out the element of
automatism he has allowed to creep into his person. And as this is
the very essence of the ludicrous, it is no wonder that imitation
gives rise to laughter.
Still, if the imitation of gestures is intrinsically laughable, it
will become even more so when it busies itself in deflecting them,
though without altering their form, towards some mechanical
occupation, such as sawing wood, striking on an anvil, or tugging
away at an imaginary bell-rope. Not that vulgarity is the essence of
the comic,--although certainly it is to some extent an ingredient,--
but rather that the incriminated gesture seems more frankly
mechanical when it can be connected with a simple operation, as
though it were intentionally mechanical. To suggest this mechanical
interpretation ought to be one of the favourite devices of parody.
We have reached this result through deduction, but I imagine clowns
have long had an intuition of the fact.
This seems to me the solution of the little riddle propounded by
Pascal in one passage of his Thoughts: "Two faces that are alike,
although neither of them excites laughter by itself, make us laugh
when together, on account of their likeness." It might just as well
be said: "The gestures of a public speaker, no one of which is
laughable by itself, excite laughter by their repetition." The truth
is that a really living life should never repeat itself. Wherever
there is repetition or complete similarity, we always suspect some
mechanism at work behind the living. Analyse the impression you get
from two faces that are too much alike, and you will find that you
are thinking of two copies cast in the same mould, or two
impressions of the same seal, or two reproductions of the same
negative,--in a word, of some manufacturing process or other. This
deflection of life towards the mechanical is here the real cause of
laughter.
And laughter will be more pronounced still, if we find on the stage
not merely two characters, as in the example from Pascal, but
several, nay, as great a number as possible, the image of one
another, who come and go, dance and gesticulate together,
simultaneously striking the same attitudes and tossing their arms
about in the same manner. This time, we distinctly think of
marionettes. Invisible threads seem to us to be joining arms to
arms, legs to legs, each muscle in one face to its fellow-muscle in
the other: by reason of the absolute uniformity which prevails, the
very litheness of the bodies seems to stiffen as we gaze, and the
actors themselves seem transformed into automata. Such, at least,
appears to be the artifice underlying this somewhat obvious form of
amusement. I daresay the performers have never read Pascal, but what
they do is merely to realise to the full the suggestions contained
in Pascal's words. If, as is undoubtedly the case, laughter is
caused in the second instance by the hallucination of a mechanical
effect, it must already have been so, though in more subtle fashion,
in the first.
Continuing along this path, we dimly perceive the increasingly
important and far-reaching consequences of the law we have just
stated. We faintly catch still more fugitive glimpses of mechanical
effects, glimpses suggested by man's complex actions, no longer
merely by his gestures. We instinctively feel that the usual devices
of comedy, the periodical repetition of a word or a scene, the
systematic inversion of the parts, the geometrical development of a
farcical misunderstanding, and many other stage contrivances, must
derive their comic force from the same source,--the art of the
playwright probably consisting in setting before us an obvious
clockwork arrangement of human events, while carefully preserving an
outward aspect of probability and thereby retaining something of the
suppleness of life. But we must not forestall results which will be
duly disclosed in the course of our analysis.
V
Before going further, let us halt a moment and glance around. As we
hinted at the outset of this study, it would be idle to attempt to
derive every comic effect from one simple formula. The formula
exists well enough in a certain sense, but its development does not
follow a straightforward course. What I mean is that the process of
deduction ought from time to time to stop and study certain
culminating effects, and that these effects each appear as models
round which new effects resembling them take their places in a
circle. These latter are not deductions from the formula, but are
comic through their relationship with those that are. To quote
Pascal again, I see no objection, at this stage, to defining the
process by the curve which that geometrician studied under the name
of roulette or cycloid,--the curve traced by a point in the
circumference of a wheel when the carriage is advancing in a
straight line: this point turns like the wheel, though it advances
like the carriage. Or else we might think of an immense avenue such
as are to be seen in the forest of Fontainebleau, with crosses at
intervals to indicate the cross-ways: at each of these we shall walk
round the cross, explore for a while the paths that open out before
us, and then return to our original course. Now, we have just
reached one of these mental crossways. Something mechanical
encrusted on the living, will represent a cross at which we must
halt, a central image from which the imagination branches off in
different directions. What are these directions? There appear to be
three main ones. We will follow them one after the other, and then
continue our onward course.
1. In the first place, this view of the mechanical and the living
dovetailed into each other makes us incline towards the vaguer image
of SOME RIGIDITY OR OTHER applied to the mobility of life, in an
awkward attempt to follow its lines and counterfeit its suppleness.
Here we perceive how easy it is for a garment to become ridiculous.
It might almost be said that every fashion is laughable in some
respect. Only, when we are dealing with the fashion of the day, we
are so accustomed to it that the garment seems, in our mind, to form
one with the individual wearing it. We do not separate them in
imagination. The idea no longer occurs to us to contrast the inert
rigidity of the covering with the living suppleness of the object
covered: consequently, the comic here remains in a latent condition.
It will only succeed in emerging when the natural incompatibility is
so deep-seated between the covering and the covered that even an
immemorial association fails to cement this union: a case in point
is our head and top hat. Suppose, however, some eccentric individual
dresses himself in the fashion of former times: our attention is
immediately drawn to the clothes themselves, we absolutely
distinguish them from the individual, we say that the latter IS
DISGUISING HIMSELF,--as though every article of clothing were not a
disguise!--and the laughable aspect of fashion comes out of the
shadow into the light.
Here we are beginning to catch a faint glimpse of the highly
intricate difficulties raised by this problem of the comic. One of
the reasons that must have given rise to many erroneous or
unsatisfactory theories of laughter is that many things are comic de
jure without being comic de facto, the continuity of custom having
deadened within them the comic quality. A sudden dissolution of
continuity is needed, a break with fashion, for this quality to
revive. Hence the impression that this dissolution of continuity is
the parent of the comic, whereas all it does is to bring it to our
notice. Hence, again, the explanation of laughter by surprise,
contrast, etc., definitions which would equally apply to a host of
cases in which we have no inclination whatever to laugh. The truth
of the matter is far from being so simple. But to return to our idea
of disguise, which, as we have just shown, has been entrusted with
the special mandate of arousing laughter. It will not be out of
place to investigate the uses it makes of this power.
Why do we laugh at a head of hair which has changed from dark to
blond? What is there comic about a rubicund nose? And why does one
laugh at a negro? The question would appear to be an embarrassing
one, for it has been asked by successive psychologists such as
Hecker, Kraepelin and Lipps, and all have given different replies.
And yet I rather fancy the correct answer was suggested to me one
day in the street by an ordinary cabby, who applied the expression
"unwashed" to the negro fare he was driving. Unwashed! Does not this
mean that a black face, in our imagination, is one daubed over with
ink or soot? If so, then a red nose can only be one which has
received a coating of vermilion. And so we see that the notion of
disguise has passed on something of its comic quality to instances
in which there is actually no disguise, though there might be.
In the former set of examples, although his usual dress was distinct
from the individual, it appeared in our mind to form one with him,
because we had become accustomed to the sight. In the latter,
although the black or red colour is indeed inherent in the skin, we
look upon it as artificially laid on, because it surprises us.
But here we meet with a fresh crop of difficulties in the theory of
the comic. Such a proposition as the following: "My usual dress
forms part of my body" is absurd in the eyes of reason. Yet
imagination looks upon it as true. "A red nose is a painted nose,"
"A negro is a white man in disguise," are also absurd to the reason
which rationalises; but they are gospel truths to pure imagination.
So there is a logic of the imagination which is not the logic of
reason, one which at times is even opposed to the latter,--with
which, however, philosophy must reckon, not only in the study of the
comic, but in every other investigation of the same kind. It is
something like the logic of dreams, though of dreams that have not
been left to the whim of individual fancy, being the dreams dreamt
by the whole of society. In order to reconstruct this hidden logic,
a special kind of effort is needed, by which the outer crust of
carefully stratified judgments and firmly established ideas will be
lifted, and we shall behold in the depths of our mind, like a sheet
of subterranean water, the flow of an unbroken stream of images
which pass from one into another. This interpenetration of images
does not come about by chance. It obeys laws, or rather habits,
which hold the same relation to imagination that logic does to
thought.
Let us then follow this logic of the imagination in the special case
in hand. A man in disguise is comic. A man we regard as disguised is
also comic. So, by analogy, any disguise is seen to become comic,
not only that of a man, but that of society also, and even the
disguise of nature.
Let us start with nature. You laugh at a dog that is half-clipped,
at a bed of artificially coloured flowers, at a wood in which the
trees are plastered over with election addresses, etc. Look for the
reason, and you will see that you are once more thinking of a
masquerade. Here, however, the comic element is very faint; it is
too far from its source. If you wish to strengthen it, you must go
back to the source itself and contrast the derived image, that of a
masquerade, with the original one, which, be it remembered, was that
of a mechanical tampering with life. In "a nature that is
mechanically tampered with" we possess a thoroughly comic theme, on
which fancy will be able to play ever so many variations with the
certainty of successfully provoking the heartiest hilarity. You may
call to mind that amusing passage in Tartarin Sur Les Alpes, in
which Bompard makes Tartarin--and therefore also the reader to some
slight extent--accept the idea of a Switzerland choke-full of
machinery like the basement of the opera, and run by a company which
maintains a series of waterfalls, glaciers and artificial crevasses.
The same theme reappears, though transposed in quite another key, in
the Novel Notes of the English humorist, Jerome K. Jerome. An
elderly Lady Bountiful, who does not want her deeds of charity to
take up too much of her time, provides homes within easy hail of her
mansion for the conversion of atheists who have been specially
manufactured for her, so to speak, and for a number of honest folk
who have been made into drunkards so that she may cure them of their
failing, etc. There are comic phrases in which this theme is
audible, like a distant echo, coupled with an ingenuousness, whether
sincere or affected, which acts as accompaniment. Take, as an
instance, the remark made by a lady whom Cassini, the astronomer,
had invited to see an eclipse of the moon. Arriving too late, she
said, "M. de Cassini, I know, will have the goodness to begin it all
over again, to please me." Or, take again the exclamation of one of
Gondiinet's characters on arriving in a town and learning that there
is an extinct volcano in the neighbourhood, "They had a volcano, and
they have let it go out!"
Let us go on to society. As we are both in and of it, we cannot help
treating it as a living being. Any image, then, suggestive of the
notion of a society disguising itself, or of a social masquerade, so
to speak, will be laughable. Now, such a notion is formed when we
perceive anything inert or stereotyped, or simply ready-made, on the
surface of living society. There we have rigidity over again,
clashing with the inner suppleness of life. The ceremonial side of
social life must, therefore, always include a latent comic element,
which is only waiting for an opportunity to burst into full view. It
might be said that ceremonies are to the social body what clothing
is to the individual body: they owe their seriousness to the fact
that they are identified, in our minds, with the serious object with
which custom associates them, and when we isolate them in
imagination, they forthwith lose their seriousness. For any
ceremony, then, to become comic, it is enough that our attention be
fixed on the ceremonial element in it, and that we neglect its
matter, as philosophers say, and think only of its form. Every one
knows how easily the comic spirit exercises its ingenuity on social
actions of a stereotyped nature, from an ordinary prize-distribution
to the solemn sitting of a court of justice. Any form or formula is
a ready-made frame into which the comic element may be fitted.
Here, again, the comic will be emphasised by bringing it nearer to
its source. From the idea of travesty, a derived one, we must go
back to the original idea, that of a mechanism superposed upon life.
Already, the stiff and starched formality of any ceremonial suggests
to us an image of this kind. For, as soon as we forget the serious
object of a solemnity or a ceremony, those taking part in it give us
the impression of puppets in motion. Their mobility seems to adopt
as a model the immobility of a formula. It becomes automatism. But
complete automatism is only reached in the official, for instance,
who performs his duty like a mere machine, or again in the
unconsciousness that marks an administrative regulation working with
inexorable fatality, and setting itself up for a law of nature.
Quite by chance, when reading the newspaper, I came across a
specimen of the comic of this type. Twenty years ago, a large
steamer was wrecked off the coast at Dieppe. With considerable
difficulty some of the passengers were rescued in a boat. A few
custom-house officers, who had courageously rushed to their
assistance, began by asking them "if they had anything to declare."
We find something similar, though the idea is a more subtle one, in
the remark of an M.P. when questioning the Home Secretary on the
morrow of a terrible murder which took place in a railway carriage:
"The assassin, after despatching his victim, must have got out the
wrong side of the train, thereby infringing the Company's rules."
A mechanical element introduced into nature and an automatic
regulation of society, such, then, are the two types of laughable
effects at which we have arrived. It remains for us, in conclusion,
to combine them and see what the result will be.
The result of the combination will evidently be a human regulation
of affairs usurping the place of the laws of nature. We may call to
mind the answer Sganarelle gave Geronte when the latter remarked
that the heart was on the left side and the liver on the right:
"Yes, it was so formerly, but we have altered all that; now, we
practise medicine in quite a new way." We may also recall the
consultation between M. de Pourceaugnac's two doctors: "The
arguments you have used are so erudite and elegant that it is
impossible for the patient not to be hypochondriacally melancholic;
or, even if he were not, he must surely become so because of the
elegance of the things you have said and the accuracy of your
reasoning." We might multiply examples, for all we need do would be
to call up Moliere's doctors, one after the other. However far,
moreover, comic fancy may seem to go, reality at times undertakes to
improve upon it. It was suggested to a contemporary philosopher, an
out-and-out arguer, that his arguments, though irreproachable in
their deductions, had experience against them. He put an end to the
discussion by merely remarking, "Experience is in the wrong." The
truth is, this idea of regulating life as a matter of business
routine is more widespread than might be imagined; it is natural in
its way, although we have just obtained it by an artificial process
of reconstruction. One might say that it gives us the very
quintessence of pedantry, which, at bottom, is nothing else than art
pretending to outdo nature.
To sum up, then, we have one and the same effect, which assumes ever
subtler forms as it passes from the idea of an artificial
MECHANISATION of the human body, if such an expression is
permissible, to that of any substitution whatsoever of the
artificial for the natural. A less and less rigorous logic, that
more and more resembles the logic of dreamland, transfers the same
relationship into higher and higher spheres, between increasingly
immaterial terms, till in the end we find a mere administrative
enactment occupying the same relation to a natural or moral law that
a ready-made garment, for instance, does to the living body. We have
now gone right to the end of the first of the three directions we
had to follow. Let us turn to the second and see where it will lead
us.
2. Our starting-point is again "something mechanical encrusted upon
the living." Where did the comic come from in this case? It came
from the fact that the living body became rigid, like a machine.
Accordingly, it seemed to us that the living body ought to be the
perfection of suppleness, the ever-alert activity of a principle
always at work. But this activity would really belong to the soul
rather than to the body. It would be the very flame of life, kindled
within us by a higher principle and perceived through the body, as
if through a glass. When we see only gracefulness and suppleness in
the living body, it is because we disregard in it the elements of
weight, of resistance, and, in a word, of matter; we forget its
materiality and think only of its vitality, a vitality which we
regard as derived from the very principle of intellectual and moral
life, Let us suppose, however, that our attention is drawn to this
material side of the body; that, so far from sharing in the
lightness and subtlety of the principle with which it is animated,
the body is no more in our eyes than a heavy and cumbersome vesture,
a kind of irksome ballast which holds down to earth a soul eager to
rise aloft. Then the body will become to the soul what, as we have
just seen, the garment was to the body itself--inert matter dumped
down upon living energy. The impression of the comic will be
produced as soon as we have a clear apprehension of this putting the
one on the other. And we shall experience it most strongly when we
are shown the soul TANTALISED by the needs of the body: on the one
hand, the moral personality with its intelligently varied energy,
and, on the other, the stupidly monotonous body, perpetually
obstructing everything with its machine-like obstinacy. The more
paltry and uniformly repeated these claims of the body, the more
striking will be the result. But that is only a matter of degree,
and the general law of these phenomena may be formulated as follows:
ANY INCIDENT IS COMIC THAT CALLS OUR ATTENTION TO THE PHYSICAL IN A
PERSON WHEN IT IS THE MORAL SIDE THAT IS CONCERNED.
Why do we laugh at a public speaker who sneezes just at the most
pathetic moment of his speech? Where lies the comic element in this
sentence, taken from a funeral speech and quoted by a German
philosopher: "He was virtuous and plump"? It lies in the fact that
our attention is suddenly recalled from the soul to the body.
Similar instances abound in daily life, but if you do not care to
take the trouble to look for them, you have only to open at random a
volume of Labiche, and you will be almost certain to light upon an
effect of this kind. Now, we have a speaker whose most eloquent
sentences are cut short by the twinges of a bad tooth; now, one of
the characters who never begins to speak without stopping in the
middle to complain of his shoes being too small, or his belt too
tight, etc. A PERSON EMBARRASSED BY HIS BODY is the image suggested
to us in all these examples. The reason that excessive stoutness is
laughable is probably because it calls up an image of the same kind.
I almost think that this too is what sometime makes bashfulness
somewhat ridiculous. The bashful man rather gives the impression of
a person embarrassed by his body, looking round for some convenient
cloak-room in which to deposit it.
This is just why the tragic poet is so careful to avoid anything
calculated to attract attention to the material side of his heroes.
No sooner does anxiety about the body manifest itself than the
intrusion of a comic element is to be feared. On this account, the
hero in a tragedy does not eat or drink or warm himself. He does not
even sit down any more than can be helped. To sit down in the middle
of a fine speech would imply that you remembered you had a body.
Napoleon, who was a psychologist when he wished to be so, had
noticed that the transition from tragedy to comedy is effected
simply by sitting down. In the "Journal inedit" of Baron Gourgaud--
when speaking of an interview with the Queen of Prussia after the
battle of Iena--he expresses himself in the following terms: "She
received me in tragic fashion like Chimene: Justice! Sire, Justice!
Magdeburg! Thus she continued in a way most embarrassing to me.
Finally, to make her change her style, I requested her to take a
seat. This is the best method for cutting short a tragic scene, for
as soon as you are seated it all becomes comedy."
Let us now give a wider scope to this image of THE BODY TAKING
PRECEDENCE OF THE SOUL. We shall obtain something more general--THE
MANNER SEEKING TO OUTDO THE MATTER, THE LETTER AIMING AT OUSTING THE
SPIRIT. Is it not perchance this idea that comedy is trying to
suggest to us when holding up a profession to ridicule? It makes the
lawyer, the magistrate and the doctor speak as though health and
justice were of little moment,--the main point being that we should
have lawyers, magistrates and doctors, and that all outward
formalities pertaining to these professions should be scrupulously
respected. And so we find the means substituted for the end, the
manner for the matter; no longer is it the profession that is made
for the public, but rather the public for the profession. Constant
attention to form and the mechanical application of rules here bring
about a kind of professional automatism analogous to that imposed
upon the soul by the habits of the body, and equally laughable.
Numerous are the examples of this on the stage. Without entering
into details of the variations executed on this theme, let us quote
two or three passages in which the theme itself is set forth in all
its simplicity. "You are only bound to treat people according to
form," says Doctor Diafoirus in the "Malade imaginaire". Again, says
Doctor Bahis, in "L'Amour medecin": "It is better to die through
following the rules than to recover through violating them." In the
same play, Desfonandres had previously said: "We must always observe
the formalities of professional etiquette, whatever may happen." And
the reason is given by Tomes, his colleague: "A dead man is but a
dead man, but the non-observance of a formality causes a notable
prejudice to the whole faculty." Brid'oison's words, though.
embodying a rather different idea, are none the less significant:
"F-form, mind you, f-form. A man laughs at a judge in a morning
coat, and yet he would quake with dread at the mere sight of an
attorney in his gown. F-form, all a matter of f-form."
Here we have the first illustration of a law which will appear with
increasing distinctness as we proceed with our task. When a musician
strikes a note on an instrument, other notes start up of themselves,
not so loud as the first, yet connected with it by certain definite
relations, which coalesce with it and determine its quality. These
are what are called in physics the overtones of the fundamental
note. It would seem that comic fancy, even in its most far-fetched
inventions, obeys a similar law. For instance, consider this comic
note: appearance seeking to triumph over reality. If our analysis is
correct, this note must have as its overtones the body tantalising
the mind, the body taking precedence of the mind. No sooner, then,
does the comic poet strike the first note than he will add the
second on to it, involuntarily and instinctively. In other words, HE
WILL DUPLICATE WHAT IS RIDICULOUS PROFESSIONALLY WITH SOMETHING THAT
IS RIDICULOUS PHYSICALLY.
When Brid'oison the judge comes stammering on to the stage, is he
not actually preparing us, by this very stammering, to understand
the phenomenon of intellectual ossification we are about to witness?
What bond of secret relationship can there be between the physical
defect and the moral infirmity? It is difficult to say; yet we feel
that the relationship is there, though we cannot express it in
words. Perhaps the situation required that this judging machine
should also appear before us as a talking machine. However it may
be, no other overtone could more perfectly have completed the
fundamental note.
When Moliere introduces to us the two ridiculous doctors, Bahis and
Macroton, in L'Amour medecin, he makes one of them speak very
slowly, as though scanning his words syllable by syllable, whilst
the other stutters. We find the same contrast between the two
lawyers in Monsieur de Pourceaugnac. In the rhythm of speech is
generally to be found the physical peculiarity that is destined to
complete the element of professional ridicule. When the author has
failed to suggest a defect of this kind, it is seldom the case that
the actor does not instinctively invent one.
Consequently, there is a natural relationship, which we equally
naturally recognise, between the two images we have been comparing
with each other, the mind crystallising in certain grooves, and the
body losing its elasticity through the influence of certain defects.
Whether or not our attention be diverted from the matter to the
manner, or from the moral to the physical, in both cases the same
sort of impression is conveyed to our imagination; in both, then,
the comic is of the same kind. Here, once more, it has been our aim
to follow the natural trend of the movement of the imagination. This
trend or direction, it may be remembered, was the second of those
offered to us, starting from a central image. A third and final path
remains unexplored, along which we will now proceed.
3. Let us then return, for the last time, to our central image:
something mechanical encrusted on something living. Here, the living
being under discussion was a human being, a person. A mechanical
arrangement, on the other hand, is a thing. What, therefore, incited
laughter was the momentary transformation of a person into a thing,
if one considers the image from this standpoint. Let us then pass
from the exact idea of a machine to the vaguer one of a thing in
general. We shall have a fresh series of laughable images which will
be obtained by taking a blurred impression, so to speak, of the
outlines of the former and will bring us to this new law: WE LAUGH
EVERY TIME A PERSON GIVES US THE IMPRESSION OF BEING A THING.
We laugh at Sancho Panza tumbled into a bed-quilt and tossed into
the air like a football. We laugh at Baron Munchausen turned into a
cannon-ball and travelling through space. But certain tricks of
circus clowns might afford a still more precise exemplification of
the same law. True, we should have to eliminate the jokes, mere
interpolations by the clown into his main theme, and keep in mind
only the theme itself, that is to say, the divers attitudes, capers
and movements which form the strictly "clownish" element in the
clown's art. On two occasions only have I been able to observe this
style of the comic in its unadulterated state, and in both I
received the same impression. The first time, the clowns came and
went, collided, fell and jumped up again in a uniformly accelerated
rhythm, visibly intent upon affecting a CRESCENDO. And it was more
and more to the jumping up again, the REBOUND, that the attention of
the public was attracted. Gradually, one lost sight of the fact that
they were men of flesh and blood like ourselves; one began to think
of bundles of all sorts, falling and knocking against each other.
Then the vision assumed a more definite aspect. The forms grew
rounder, the bodies rolled together and seemed to pick themselves up
like balls. Then at last appeared the image towards which the whole
of this scene had doubtless been unconsciously evolving--large
rubber balls hurled against one another in every direction. The
second scene, though even coarser than the first, was no less
instructive. There came on the stage two men, each with an enormous
head, bald as a billiard ball. In their hands they carried large
sticks which each, in turn, brought down on to the other's cranium.
Here, again, a certain gradation was observable. After each blow,
the bodies seemed to grow heavier and more unyielding, overpowered
by an increasing degree of rigidity. Then came the return blow, in
each case heavier and more resounding than the last, coming, too,
after a longer interval. The skulls gave forth a formidable ring
throughout the silent house. At last the two bodies, each quite
rigid and as straight as an arrow, slowly bent over towards each
other, the sticks came crashing down for the last time on to the two
heads with a thud as of enormous mallets falling upon oaken beams,
and the pair lay prone upon the ground. At that instant appeared in
all its vividness the suggestion that the two artists had gradually
driven into the imagination of the spectators: "We are about to
become ...we have now become solid wooden dummies."
A kind of dim, vague instinct may enable even an uncultured mind to
get an inkling here of the subtler results of psychological science.
We know that it is possible to call up hallucinatory visions in a
hypnotised subject by simple suggestion. If he be told that a bird
is perched on his hand, he will see the bird and watch it fly away.
The idea suggested, however, is far from being always accepted with
like docility. Not infrequently, the mesmeriser only succeeds in
getting an idea into his subject's head by slow degrees through a
carefully graduated series of hints. He will then start with objects
really perceived by the subject, and will endeavour to make the
perception of these objects more and more indefinite; then, step by
step, he will bring out of this state of mental chaos the precise
form of the object of which he wishes to create an hallucination.
Something of the kind happens to many people when dropping off to
sleep; they see those coloured, fluid, shapeless masses, which
occupy the field of vision, insensibly solidifying into distinct
objects.
Consequently, the gradual passing from the dim and vague to the
clear and distinct is the method of suggestion par excellence. I
fancy it might be found to be at the root of a good many comic
suggestions, especially in the coarser forms of the comic, in which
the transformation of a person into a thing seems to be taking place
before our eyes. But there are other and more subtle methods in use,
among poets, for instance, which perhaps unconsciously lead to the
same end. By a certain arrangement of rhythm, rhyme and assonance,
it is possible to lull the imagination, to