Deft speeches and eloquent letters fill the stage in Cyrano, imbuing the play with words, words, words. Yes, the show has its rousing swordfights and physical capers; but from Cyrano’s fantastic double-edged duel of speech and steel—in which he parries each thrust with a well-turned verbal jest—to the amorous letters that win Roxane’s heart, language is presented as a force even more vital than action, a medium of infinite and immeasurably deep expression.
Indeed, while Cyrano is justly renowned for valiant deeds, it is his words that ring resounding in our heads. An expert rhetorician who knows how best to suit speech to situation, Cyrano issues challenges as a boastful soldier, then with equal ardor becomes the poet of l’amour. He truly is what Roxane deems “a master of language,” just as adept giving voice to witty discourse as with pen in hand. Nor is Cyrano alone in placing great stock in words. Other characters hang their hopes on the fond remarks of others or struggle desperately to form phrases of their own. Roxane requires “finely wrought sentences [and] well-chosen metaphors,” as well as “verbal jewels;” Christian bemoans his ignorance of “the language of love;” and even de Guiche confesses that Roxane’s “words are music to [his] ears.”
That language should play such a central role in the play is hardly a surprise, for who can doubt the power of speech? It is through words and their infinite possibilities that we mold thoughts and intentions into clear communication. And it is through words that we may conquer: consider the ways in which gifted orators sway unruly crowds through vocal strength and well-chosen expressions, while wooers win lovers using the gentle tones of poetry. Whether in business or romance, articulate discourse and lucid writing seem signs of a well-ordered mind, while misspeaking and faulty vocabulary betray ineptitude. Who hasn’t feared the inevitable verbal stumble? What hopeful lover hasn’t dreaded that moment when, “D’you want to go see a movie?” somehow becomes “Uh… so, uh… In fourth grade, I vomited on my shoes”? Having a skillful hold of language helps to avoid such hiccups, and leaves an impression more laudable than laughable.
During the timeframe of Cyrano, educated French men and women held language at a particular premium. The previous century had seen French increasingly legitimized as a learned language, to the extent that it became the official language for administrative documents and began to creep into highbrow literature, slowly ousting Latin from its long-standing dominance. Nobility and bourgeoisie alike embraced the increasingly common tongue and experimented with phrases, rhythms, even words to shape an idiom that they thought best-suited to the French character. By the 1600s, however, the time for experimentation had drawn to a close. Well on their way to establishing a national language from an array of regional dialects, the French now wished to prune excess material and restrict extravagant additions, seeking to hone and clarify their language. A common language needed to be consistent in order to facilitate communication and deft conversation; its beauty would be found in precision.
Perhaps nowhere was conversation more adeptly or famously bandied about than in the Parisian salons. In these stimulating gatherings, men and women mingled in parlors to form and debate novel notions, speaking particularly of literature and language itself. The salons facilitated fresh discussion by welcoming new voices into the day’s dialogue, including a significant percentage of women (most notably the précieuses, refined ladies of learning), and mixing members of the bourgeoisie among the nobility. Their free-for-all discussions kept these men and women keenly attuned to the developing language, and it is in no small part through their parlance that discourse became a vibrant, polished art.
Outside of the salons, verbal and written skill proved vital in matters of wooing and romance. Strict rules of decorum and elaborate courtship rituals kept men and women of the upper classes in separate spheres, forbidding physical contact and even prohibiting private conversations. Young ladies and their precious virtue were closely guarded, encountering men only in the presence of others. Even couples actively courting rarely received a moment’s peace; someone was always watching.
Given such restraints, how could romance truly blossom but through words? Words offered any suitor a chance to prove at once his love, his intelligence, and his respect for protocol, revealing good breeding and a passion-struck heart. Even when unable to speak privately, hopeful lovers could pour their souls out to one another in confidential letters, weaving images of ideal love through seemingly sterling vows. In the absence of face-to-face interaction and physical touch, each letter, each word became doubly dear, carrying the full weight of ardent communication. It was the language of love that truly sustained these lovers, so that—as many claimed—those under passion’s spell lived only by the beloved’s words.
Whether in love or society at large, then, language was woven into the fabric of life in 17th-century France, and so courses through the scenes of Cyrano. Experiencing the play, we find a world in which polished discourse is keenly valued, conversation is a fashionable art, and hopeful lovers can best come to know one another through words. Here, action and love are thoroughly swathed in language. And here, it becomes possible for words to triumph over appearance and action, for “verbal jewels” to shine above all else.