ALLEN G. WOOD 
ALLEN G. WOOD
Racine’s tragedy Phèdre (1677) is one of the most famous, most produced, and most analyzed texts of seventeenth-century French classicism. Generations of French school-children have memorized and recited passages from the play, especially the extremely important and emotionally-charged account of the death of the young hero Hippolyte, as told by his mentor and guardian Théramène. Occurring in the fifth act, the narrative récit is a long (almost one hundred lines), static, and nearly monologic interlude in the otherwise dialogic, interactive drama. It has often been characterized as a morceau de bravoure, a virtuoso speech, similar in cultural stature and popularity to Hamlet’s soliloquy or Cyrano’s description of his nose. Théramène’s récit relates the events of the young prince Hippolyte, who, falsely accused of an incestuous love for his stepmother Phèdre, is banished by his father Thésée. Upon leaving the city of Trézène, Hippolyte and his followers are attacked by a sea monster, sent by Neptune in response to Thésée’s hasty prayer. Hippolyte fights the creature, which, wounded, startles his horses. The prince is thrown from his chariot, becomes entangled in the reins, and is dragged to his death.
The passage is crucial in the performance of the play, and it has received much attention from a wide range of literary critics. Leo Spitzer analyzed the philological stylistics of the text as primarily ornamental rhetoric, and Philip Butler considered it a baroque element in a classical play. Psychological critics such as Charles Mauron have examined the passage for signs of repressed desire, the return of the repressed, and signs of the maternal. Other critics have looked to thematic elements to emphasize historical, mythological, theological, and intertextual aspects. Yet one approach that should also be utilized is that of cognitive poetics, which is rich in possibilities for explaining the ways in which both the characters themselves, as well as spectators of the play, process the information in the passage, make sense of an event that is to some extent “senseless,” and react emotionally to it.
It is indeed a passage that moves characters and audiences. Aristotle proposes a cathartic purpose for tragedy in his On Poetics, that it should cause emotions of terror and pity for the audience, and this is echoed by Racine in the “Préface” to Phèdre when he states that Hippolyte possesses all the characteristics of a hero “qui sont propres à exciter la compassion et la terreur” (745) [which are appropriate to arouse pity and terror]. Appearing in the penultimate scene of the play, the récit is the focal point for these emotions.
Théramène’s long speech is different from the surrounding text because it is a monologic narrative; the action of the play is suspended as the just recently transpired death is recounted. Yet this unique situation is not without irony, since most of the action in the play consists of talk, whereas this concentrated talk contains the most (physical) action in the play, as Hippolyte fights for his life, and loses. His death is a physical, real consequence to a series of previous situations and speech acts that make his death, and the récit de Théramène, a summary of the preceding play. In the midst of the theatrical spectacle, in which the audience sees and hears the characters interact (in movement and words), the récit de Théramène appeals to the spectators’ imagination, to a mental playing out of the events related. The mental images are stronger and more effective than any staging of the events, which could not credibly handle the dimensions or extraordinary nature of the action. What could devolve into the laughable on stage is instead horrific in verbal imagery.
In the beginning of the fifth act, Thésée has already begun to doubt his hasty judgment of his son’s guilt based on the false accusation from Phèdre’s nurse. Aricie confirms Hippolyte’s claim that he was really in love with her, not Phèdre, and the nurse, Oenone, is reported to have committed suicide. The condemnation of his son, which Thésée claimed was based on “témoins certains, irréprochables” (1441) [reliable, irreproachable witnesses], quickly loses credibility, as the witnesses become “peu fidèles” (1485) [hardly trustworthy]. Thésée realizes he was perhaps wrong about his son, wants to recall him from exile, and hopes Neptune did not carry out his request for vengeance. It is at this moment that Théramène enters to give his account.
Théramène cannot know that the king has begun to doubt his erroneous belief that his son is guilty of an incestuous desire for Phèdre. His account of Hippolyte’s death must stress both the heroism and the innocence of the prince, in order to change Thésée’s mind. The récit needs to function as an UpDater in modern mind-reading theory:
Though we have no idea how the process of belief updating works, it is obvious that it does work and that it generally happens swiftly, reasonably, accurately, and largely unconsciously. So there must be a cognitive mechanism (or a cluster of them) that subserves this process. We will call this mechanism the UpDater. (Nichols and Stich 30)
Although Théramène has just gone through the catharsis of the experience, is still shocked, and drained of all emotions except for a few tears, he must frame his account to be effective. He can accomplish this task since he is a master rhetorician, and a teller of tales of the king’s former exploits against mythic creatures (74).
The king sees that his son’s guardian, who has been entrusted with the care of the prince since his early childhood: “Je te l’ai confié dès l’âge le plus tendre” (1489) [I have entrusted him to you since his tenderest youth]. He has returned to the palace unexpectedly, and is crying. Théramène immediately responds that the prince has died: “Hippolyte n’est plus” (1492) [Hippolyte is no more]. This removes any narrative suspense from the récit, since we are aware of the final outcome from the beginning. As spectators we process the information, not to construct a meaningful conclusion that will occur sequentially and inductively, but for the details that support an already-given conclusion. The narrative is thus ultimately circular, in that when it arrives at the recounting of Hippolyte’s death, it fulfills the news that was initially announced. And Théramène knows the mind of the king, and constructs his account accordingly, thereby illustrating the following phenomenon:
Indeed, to initiate conversation at all, speakers make judgments about the other person’s willingness and ability to participate in the desired interaction. These mental models about the hearer’s presumed belief and intention states must shift constantly as conversation proceeds, as new information is exchanged. (Barker and Givón 224-25)
The récit is informative, but it is also performative rhetoric, in that it persuades the characters and audience. The passage is exculpatory, in that it answers Thésée’s accusation “Qu’as-tu fait de mon fils?” (1488) [What did you do to my son?], as Théramène makes clear that it was a monster, sent from the sea, that led to both Hippolyte’s heroic act, and ultimately his death. On the surface, the language is objective and dispassionate, although a strong unstated or understated affective purpose is clear. One way of examining the highly organized details in the récit comes from Gestalt theory, and strategies for distinguishing prominence and pertinence of various elements. Théramène does not allow his account to appear frantic or disjointed, despite his need to discuss multiple subjects engaged in various actions simultaneously. Théramène’s task is to tell a credible tale about an incredible event.
Recently many literary texts have been the object of insightful studies using principles of cognitive theory. Peter Stockwell notes that “[p]erceiving a figure and ground in a . . . field involves selection for attention” (15). Visually this may involve greater size, unity, or detail of an item that attracts our attention more than others.
A literary text uses stylistic patterns to focus attention on a particular feature, within the textual space. . . . attention will only be maintained by a constant renewal of the stylistic interest, by a constant process of renewing the figure and ground relationship. . . . literature is literally a distraction that pulls attention away from one element onto the newly presented element. I will call these objects or devices attractors in this context. (Stockwell 18)
An examination of the attractors in the récit de Théramène reveals a dynamically shifting pattern of figures and grounds, found in a sequence of changing nouns (usually subjects) and pronouns that refer to those entities with a main role in the event. As Russell Tomlin notes, an item occurring in the foreground “is characterized as information which is more central or salient or important to the development of the discourse theme” (89).
Théramène’s narrative begins with the well-known “A peine nous sortions des portes de Trézène” (1498) [Scarcely had we left the gates of Troezen], where the vaguely undetermined “nous” [we] refers to Théramène himself (as he initially places himself into the account), to Hippolyte, and his followers. But the focus does not remain on this “nous,” as it becomes the ground against which the prince, unmistakably referred to by the pronoun “il” [he], is described in the next eight lines. Hippolyte is given vertical and social prominence, since he is “sur son char” [on his chariot], and both his guards and horses imitate the somber mood of the unjustly exiled prince making his way along the shore. In fact, his horses are so much under his control that Hippolyte lets their reins fly freely. This detail is pushed to the background at this point, but later both horses and reins will figure prominently in the action.
While visual images formed the initial, cognitive figure of Hippolyte, presented in the “silence” (1500) maintained by the prince and his guards, a loud, unexpected auditory interruption prepares for the next attractor. We hear it before we see it (or rather they heard it before they saw it), and it is not clear where to look or what will be seen. A frightening roar (“un effroyable cri” 1507) comes from the water, and a formidable voice responds from deep within the earth. The backgrounded characters are briefly recalled; the men, the previous “us,” were afraid—“notre sang s’est glacé” (1511) [our blood was frozen]—and the horses’ hair stood on end. All look to the sea, which rises vertically as a “montagne humide” (1514) [wet mountain], but the object itself is obscured by the water in which it is still submerged. The huge mass comes to shore as a wave and finally it is revealed to be a “monstre furieux” (1516) [furious monster]. Its horns and body are described in the following five lines (1517-21), with possessive pronouns referring back clearly to the newest figure, the water born half-bull, half-dragon. The next five lines (1522-26) indicate the effect the beast has on various natural elements (earth, air, and water) and how “chacun” (1525) [each one] sought refuge.
But the “chacun” was inaccurate, since one person alone dared to confront the dangerous beast. Our attention is focused again on Hippolyte, who stopped his horses, grabbed his javelins, and threw one at the monster. What follows is a confusing and fast succession of these three prominent figures (prince, monster, and horses) at the heart of the récit. The monster is hit and comes to land at the feet of the horses (1530-33), where it covers them with flame causing them to take off in a panic (1534-41). The chariot breaks apart, and Hippolyte is caught up in the reins (1542-44). It is at this point that the narrator interrupts himself, for although he had presented a rather rhetorically-composed, dispassionate account, the image of his pupil and prince caught in the reins makes him pause and excuse himself before his king:
Excusez ma douleur. Cette image cruelle
Sera pour moi de pleurs une source éternelle.
J’ai vu, Seigneur, j’ai vu votre malheureux fils
Traîné par les chevaux que sa main a nourris. (1545-48)
[Forgive my grief. This cruel image
Will be for me an eternal source of tears.
I’ve seen, my lord, I’ve seen your unfortunate son
Dragged by the very horses his hand has fed.]
And while the horses continued to flee, the young prince suffered such injuries that his body was soon little more than a mass of wounds. References to the plural pronouns of the horses rapidly alternate with singular, third-person references to the dying prince.
When the horses finally stop, Théramène interjects for the first time in the récit his own first-person narrative of his actions. Up to this point his account had been objective, told primarily in the third person, as he had formed part of the background, the group that had accompanied the main figure, Hippolyte. Théramène had been part of the initial “nous” (we) that set out from the gates of the city, then one of the “chacun” (each one) who had fled for safety from the monster. But as his prince lay dying, Théramène is foregrounded when he states that “I run there, sobbing” (1555) with the guards and others following him (a detail reminiscent of their following Hippolyte in the opening line). The guardian then relates how “I reach him, call him” (1559), using a historical present that, when combined with the first-person narrative, creates a strong sense of immediacy and nearness.
The prince has just enough life left in him to rally one final moment to attract our attention. He extends his hand, opens a dying eye, and speaks. His final action is to speak. In the six and one-half lines that are reported verbatim, Hippolyte’s dying request is that his father, once he learns of his son’s innocence, treat Aricie with kindness. The focus of attention, the speaking prince, utters his final words and immediately becomes no more than a thing, “triste objet” (1569) [lamentable object], in Théramène’s arms.
The effect upon the king is conveyed at this point by his interrupting the narrative, and it is clear that his previous anger against his son, and accusation of fault by Théramène, have changed to grief and awareness of his own culpability. The récit was performatively effective, as the king laments that his son was a “cher espoir que je me suis ravi” (1571) [a dear hope that I have taken from myself] and this will be a source of considerable “regrets” (1573).
Théramène concludes his récit with an account of the final figure, that of Aricie. Her gestures are at first similar to those of the guardian—she arrived at the spot, approaches her beloved, and has difficulty recognizing him in his current state—although Hippolyte is now dead. But unlike him, she accuses the gods, faints at Hippolyte’s feet, and is brought back to life by her servant. At this point Théramène leaves the scene to return to the palace with his horrible news.
The récit de Théramène is a narrative recounting the death of Hippolyte, and indeed the prince is the primary figure, the one who grammatically and semantically attracts the most attention throughout the passage. He is kept in the foreground to increase the grief felt by his father and the audience. The two other main figures are the sea monster, and collectively his horses, and the central portion of the narrative contains a dynamic interchange, as our attention switches rapidly among the three. It is significant to note, however, that once the monster and the horses have fulfilled their primary function (of scaring the horses, of dragging Hippolyte), they do not just fall into the background, but they disappear, from the narration and our consideration. It is not clear if the monster died of the wound that the prince inflicted, making Hippolyte triumphant in his final hour, or if, being after all a supernatural phenomenon sent by Neptune, he simply vanished once the horses were frightened. And the horses, once they finally stop of their own accord—“At last their mad, wild galloping abates” (1553)—are simply not mentioned again. As it were, in their absence, the new figures of Théramène himself, and then Aricie, become secondary figures, called upon to interact with the dying, and react to the dead, young hero.
In the beginning of the récit Hippolyte presents a strong, positive figure, magnificent even in exile, who is young, noble, and handsome. Because of his many admirable qualities, he attracts much attention. The prince is serene, almost immobile in his composure, as his horses first carry him away from the city. When he is called to action, his courage and skill are singular when he wounds the monster. But from the moment he falls, entangled in his horses’ reins, he is broken, losing figural integrity as he is both literally and symbolically disfigured. He disintegrates from the pronominal whole of “Il” in “Il veut les rappeler” (1549) [He wants to recall them] to the next line with “son corps” (1550) [his body] that so soon becomes “un corps défiguré” (1568) [a disfigured body], in other words a “Triste objet” (1569) [lamentable object]. The dictates of French classicism required Racine to describe Hippolyte’s death in a decorous, unshocking manner, and so the extent of his injuries are only vaguely evoked, as when Aricie finds his body unrecognizable: “Elle voit Hippolyte, et le demande encore” (1582) [She sees Hippolyte, and still calls for him]. Previous versions of the play, however, especially those of Seneca and the French baroque poet Garnier (1573), were not bound by such niceties, and in fact often reveled in gory details. As Hippolyte was dragged along, details abound concerning his dismemberment, an eye dangling here, a leg thrown there. There is certainly not enough of him left to say anything when he is finally found by his men, who start picking up the scattered pieces to bring back to king Thésée. Hippolyte is no longer physically, literally attractive, nor is he a narrative attractor except in the memory of his wholeness.
Another structuring device in the récit de Théramène that can be analyzed using cognitive theory involves figures that are foregrounded as trajectors. Whereas a figure can be presented in stasis, a trajector attracts attention by its motion. Leonard Talmy indicates that “[t]he Figure is a moving or conceptually movable entity whose site, path or orientation is conceived as a variable, the particular value of which is the relevant issue” (19). Stockwell comments on specific terms involved in such movement: “the moving figure can be seen to follow a path. . . . Within the image schema, though, the element that is the figure is called the trajector and the element it has a grounded relationship with is called the landmark” (16).The opening line of the récit, “A peine nous sortions des portes de Trézène” (1498) [Scarcely had we left the gates of Troezen], reveals these very elements, with the landmark being the gates of the city Troezen, from which the “we” (Hippolyte, Théramène, and his followers) issued forth, the point of origin or terminus a quo. The path they were following, “le chemin de Mycènes” (1501) [the road to Mycenes], is also clearly specified, forming a second landmark, the terminus ad quem, at which they never arrive.
From out in the middle of the sea, “du fond des flots” (1513) [from the depths of the waves], first arises a terrible cry, then “sur le dos de la plaine liquide” [on the back of the wet plain] arises an enormous wave. The watery landmark is perhaps not precise, but clearly denotes Neptune’s realm. The mass is not static, however, as it moves for the shore: “L’onde approche, se brise, et vomit à nos yeux, / Parmi des flots d’écume, un monstre furieux” (1515-16) [The wave approached, broke and vomited before our eyes / From among the frothy waves a raging monster]. The initial trajectory of Hippolyte’s travel along the shore to Mycenes is intersected by the perpendicular path of the monster, forming a deadly crossroads.
Michel Serres observes that in Greek mythology and literature, the topos of the crossroads serves as a place of crisis and decision. At the chiasmus occurs a clash of disparate intents and fates, and it is often a place of death and revenge. Oedipus encounters unknowingly his father at a crossroads, and “it is a place so catastrophic and so confined that he must kill his father” (47). Ubersfeld speaks of the crossroads as an “impossible place where the horses of the forest have their deadly encounter with the monsters of the wave” (204).
At the approach of the monster, all of Hippolyte’s men leave the road, but their flight is scattered, lacking figural unity, and limited in narrative scope—“tout fuit” (1525) [all fled]—as they seek safety in a nearby temple. Even nature abhors the monster, since the wave that brought it in rolls back, frightened. Only Hippolyte moves toward the monster, as he throws a spear, in a line that foregrounds for the first time in the récit his name, his lineage, and his bravery: “Hippolyte lui seul, digne fils d’un héros” [Alone, Hippolyte himself, worthy son of a hero] (1527).
After the injured monster falls dying at the feet of the horses and frightens them, they take off. Whereas the previous trajectories indicated a clear teleological landmark for completion (Hippolyte headed to Mycènes, the monster bearing down on the shore and Hippolyte, all the attendants fleeing to the temple, the wounded monster approaching the horses), the frightened horses are directionless, without any guidance from their master Hippolyte. And as they run, they drag him along, in a trajectory that causes his death. The horses’ flight is a deviation from his path; he is thrown off course and into the wilderness that will kill him. Théramène and the other men are able to find Hippolyte by following the bloody trail that he leaves:
De son généreux sang la trace nous conduit:
Les rochers en sont teints; les ronces dégouttantes
Portent de ses cheveux les dépouilles sanglantes. (1556-58)
[The trail of his generous blood led us:
The rocks were colored by it, the dripping brambles
Wear the bloody remains of his hair.]
The less decorous, earlier versions of the tragedy portray an even more gruesome path, littered with the prince’s body parts. Racine’s récit de Théramène ends with Aricie also following the path to her beloved fiancé, and the guardian making his return to the palace. This is done in order to fulfill the promise of the dying prince who begs him to have the king protect Aricie, as well as inform, convince, and move Thésée. A circular motion occurs that takes the narration, and our imaginations, out to the scene of death and back again to the palace.
The main figures in Théramène’s account are brought into focus for our cognitive processing by their nominal positions grammatically and semantically as attractors; they move along a trajectory, and they are agents of action. Craig Hamilton explains the distinction between agents and patients:
To profile objects conceptually first as figures and then as trajectors linguistically entails marking some objects as agents and others as patients; things that are more active in relation to less active things, or things that act versus things that are acted upon. (58)
At a grammatical level, the concept is often tied with subject or object positions of transitive action verbs.
The first section of the récit de Théramène is more concerned with motion than with other actions. Hippolyte and his group leave the city (he does not even have to guide his horses); the sea monster appears, comes on shore, and seems threatening. The prince figures most prominently as an agent when he seizes his javelins and throws one at the beast. Wounded, the monster is weak (it rolls over) and not capable of much more action than exhaling some flames at the horses. But this is enough to frighten the horses, or perhaps there was another agent in this. Théramène admits at this single juncture a different voice into his narration, the vague “on” [somebody] of other witnesses to the event: “On dit qu’on a vu même, en ce désordre affreux, / Un Dieu qui d’aiguillons pressait leur flanc poudreux” (1539-40) [Some even say they saw, in this frightful disorder / A god who pricked with spurs their dusty flanks]. Whatever the cause, the horses ran, and Hippolyte could not control them. This is the first instance of powerlessness, and the transition from the prince as agent to that of patient. He falls, is entangled in the reins, and the still fleeing horses drag him to his death. It is an accident, the horses did not intend to kill him, and so they are unwittingly, perhaps even unknowingly, agents of his death. The rest of the récit involves the reactions and consequences of this chain of agents (or rather of instruments used by an agent)— the horses drag Hippolyte to his death, but they were acted upon by the monster, sent by Neptune, at the request of Thésée. It was the king, Hippolyte’s father, who was the originating agent and cause of the prince’s death, although chance, the accidental fall, complicates a strict causal chain.
An analysis of the récit de Théramène using principles of gestalt perception and cognitive poetics, namely attractors, trajectories, and agents reveals multiple ways in which Hippolyte is foregrounded (which play out in the pattern of nouns, pronouns, and verbs), and the dynamic interplay of and mind reading between the other main figures (the monster, the horses, even Théramène himself, who is both narrator and actor). And it reveals a particularly pertinent line of inquiry, as we see the intersecting trajectories of Hippolyte and the sea monster. It was a fateful and fatal encounter, one that changed Hippolyte’s initial and intended path, as he effortlessly guided his horses to exile in Mycènes and beyond, to a path of destruction, as he was dragged by his horses, resulting in death by dismemberment, and a lack of figural unity. It is a tale that arouses terror for both the king and the audience, and not just terror at the horrendous aspects of the monster, but at the injustice of both human and divine persecution of an innocent prince. The cold clarity of Théramène’s focused account brings about a complete change in Thésée, who has not only recognized his own role in his son’s death, but reconciles himself with his former enemy Aricie as the play closes.
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