Compassion's Edge. Katherine Ibbett

and recounts Quintilian’s observation that he was sometimes overcome by emotions he sought only to arouse in others (838, 772). He offers the example of local mountain women who both praise and dismiss their husbands in mourning them, “comme pour entrer d’elles mesmes en quelque compensation et se diverter de la pitié au desdain” (838) [“as if to bring themselves to some sort of balance and to turn themselves aside from pity to disdain”] (772). Montaigne praises this “bien meilleure grace” (838) [“much better grace”] (772) which breaks the usual habit of speaking only well of the dead. The women’s emotion-diversion—from pity to disdain and back again—is a mark not of the fickleness of women (as one can imagine it might be elsewhere in this period) but stands in the text as an example of flexibility, and Montaigne gives a name to their activity: they are doing “le prestre martin” (838) [“play the part of Prester Martin”] (772), that is, following a proverbial priest who gave both call and responses as he said the Mass.

      The mourning women could be almost comic, but Montaigne is serious about their grace. In their diversions they do better than a pairing of philosophers he had set against each other in another essay also centrally concerned with judgment, “De Democritus et Heraclitus” (I, 50). Contemplating the human condition, Democritus is always laughing; Heraclitus always hangs his head with “pitié et compassion” (303) [“pity and compassion”] (268). In this instance Montaigne plumps for Democritus’s disdain rather than the “estimation” compassion traces for its object. But in the essay on diversion, the mourning women move more flexibly, making an agile flip-flop between each affect or attitude.

      The graceful switch of the mountain women returns us to Montaigne’s attempt in “Par divers moyens” to try out the positions of both vanquisher and vanquished. Though judgment is a question central to Montaigne’s Essais, it is a judgment that partakes of both curiosity and compassion; it is capable of inhabiting a range of positions. Where in partisan accounts the pitiful spectacle draws a community together and defines that community from a tightly drawn perspective, Montaigne’s revision of the topos tries out differing kinds of response, imagining and inhabiting different perspectives. Most importantly, Montaigne makes room for a particular model of bystander, emoter, and reader, who can observe with shared sympathy and whose lack of partisan action is a form of “bien meilleure grace.”

      In what follows I ask how the seventeenth century, seemingly past the worst of the wars, will frame and respond to the legacy of the sixteenth century’s pitiful spectacle in different ways. Montaigne’s readerly vulnerability with regards to compassion—and especially the regrets of Dido—will recur at sometimes surprising points in this material; but, more often, seventeenth-century writers will draw their circle of compassion narrowly and carve out instead a sovereign scorn for those who ask for mercy. France’s political communities continued to look out for pity long after the end of the wars, but more often took their cue from the partisans than the politiques.

       Chapter 2

      The Compassion Machine

      Theories of Fellow-Feeling, 1570–1692

      How do we imagine the relation between political life and poetic representation? In Jean de La Taille’s “Art de la tragédie,” written between 1570 and 1572, the Huguenot playwright notes that the French court is surrounded by horror “si pitoiable” [“so pitiful”] that tragedy risks being too much after “les piteux desastres advenus nagueres en la France par nos guerres civiles” [“the pitiful disasters which came about of late in France because of our civil wars”].¹ La Taille’s essay, reprinted three times before the end of the wars, insisted that tragedy’s goal is to move its audience through emotion for the “piteuses ruines des grands seigneurs” (226) [“pitiful ruins of great lords”] but that what we see on stage must be distanced from us, depicting someone else’s suffering instead. La Taille’s observations make brief reference to Aristotle and Horace, but he assures his dedicatee Henriette de Clèves that he is suiting his discourse to her ears and not those of the erudite alone. This is a domesticated discourse; it proposes a new commonsense language for writing about tragedy, and it is also bound up in France’s domestic piteousness even as it seeks to distance it. This careful affective distancing will be central to the French stage in the century to follow.

      Yet La Taille did not succeed in distancing the memory of the wars, and he did not succeed in distancing Aristotle either.² In this chapter I trace a seventeenth-century story about tragedy, ethics, and pity, showing how a particular Aristotelian formulation about pity comes to structure a century’s reflection on both tragedy and moral life. In the Rhetoric Aristotle maintains that pity is “a certain pain occasioned by an apparently destructive evil or pain’s occurring to one who does not deserve it, which the pitier might expect to suffer himself or that one of his own would.”³ These terms suggesting that pity is a form of fear for ourselves, along with the insistence that the sufferer must not deserve their suffering, are repeated in the Poetics, whose passages on the question provoked vigorous debate in France (even before the text itself was translated into French later in the century). Some early moderns insisted that theatrical pity and terror purged all passions, others that they addressed only the smaller and more precise emotional machinery pertaining to pity and terror themselves.⁴ Yet the Aristotelian formulation was to be found on both sides of that argument and throughout a very broad range of reflections on tragedy or ethics. The standard seventeenth-century reading of pity sees it as never entirely disinterested since the pity one feels for another stems from a fear for one’s own interests, and in describing this position early moderns pulled on one or the other of the Aristotelian source texts, as their interests or professional obligations dictated. The seventeenth century’s reflections on Aristotle sought to theorize suffering in the context of a particular classical tradition and perhaps to hold its horror at bay in so doing.

      In this chapter I draw together moral and dramatic theory, two different sorts of accounts that draw on Aristotle’s conception of pity. (I take up more explicitly theological discussions of compassion in Chapter 3; these categories overlap to some extent, but the texts of this chapter draw on a classical as well as a Christian vocabulary and direct themselves more to civility than theology, even if they sometimes imagine the two hand in hand.) In the first section of the chapter I read a series of essayists and moralists in dialog with Aristotle, with slantingly different relations to him; in the second, I ask how dramatic theorists elucidated the Aristotelian formula differently and consider what sort of moral theory they propose. Many of these writers are reading each other. To try and bring out that reading and reflection, I have staged the series chronologically, although they do not form a progression as much as a continual oscillation around two affective positions.

      Both moral and dramatic theory often revolved around the affective draw of literary forms. In dramatic theory, of course, the imagined emotional relation between stage and spectator is central to any argument. Moral theory frequently references a staged scene but also calls on a different sort of scene of reading, in which a relation to a literary text brings about a different relation to compassion. In both cases, these reflections on the emotions of aesthetic response gesture to new imaginings of civility and sociality. How does this ideal literary response, either reading or spectating, shape the structures of compassion?

      Compassion and the Self: Michel de Montaigne, Pierre Charron

      For some commentators of the period, the observation that pity indicates a concern with the self suggested that pity could be only a narrow and almost mean response to suffering, prompted by the self-love so key to the thinking of seventeenth-century moralists. For others, the ritual observation of this same pairing leads to a broader reflection on pity that understands the connection to mark a human vulnerability that cannot be dismissed as mere weakness. Some writers move across this affective spectrum and even mock it. Montaigne clearly draws on the familiar pairing of pity and fear when he notes lightly of his kidney stones that his mind tells him, “La crainte et pitié que le peuple a de ce mal te sert de matiere de gloire.” [“The fear and pity that people