But Racine’s extraordinary powers as a writer become still more obvious when we consider that besides being a great poet he is also a great psychologist.  The combination is extremely rare in literature, and in Racine’s case it is especially remarkable owing to the smallness of the linguistic resources at his disposal and the rigid nature of the conventions in which he worked.  That he should have succeeded in infusing into his tiny commonplace vocabulary, arranged in rhymed couplets according to the strictest and most artificial rules, not only the beauty of true poetry, but the varied subtleties of character and passion, is one of those miracles of art which defy analysis.  Through the flowing regularity of his Alexandrines his personages stand out distinct and palpable, in all the vigour of life.  The presentment, it is true, is not a detailed one; the accidents of character are not shown us—­only its essentials; the human spirit comes before us shorn of its particulars, naked and intense.  Nor is it—­as might, perhaps, have been expected—­in the portrayal of intellectual characters that Racine particularly excels; it is in the portrayal of passionate ones.  His supreme mastery is over the human heart—­the subtleties, the profundities, the agonies, the triumphs, of love.  His gallery of lovers is a long one, and the greatest portraits in it are of women.  There is the jealous, terrific Hermione; the delicate, melancholy Junie; the noble, exquisite, and fascinating Berenice; there is Roxane with her voluptuous ruthlessness, and Monime with her purity and her courage; and there is the dark, incomparable splendour of Phedre.

Perhaps the play in which Racine’s wonderful discrimination in the drawing of passionate character may be seen in its most striking light is Andromaque.  Here there are four characters—­two men and two women—­all under the dominion of intense feeling, and each absolutely distinct.  Andromaque, the still youthful widow of Hector, cares for only two things in the world with passionate devotion—­her young son Astyanax, and the memory of her husband.  Both are the captives of Pyrrhus, the conqueror of Troy, a straightforward, chivalrous, but somewhat barbarous prince, who, though he is affianced to Hermione, is desperately in love with Andromaque.  Hermione is a splendid tigress consumed by her desire for Pyrrhus; and Oreste is a melancholy, almost morbid man, whose passion for Hermione is the dominating principle of his life.  These are the ingredients of the tragedy, ready to explode like gunpowder with the slightest spark.  The spark is lighted when Pyrrhus declares to Andromaque that if she will not marry him he will execute her son.  Andromaque consents, but decides secretly to kill herself immediately after the marriage, and thus ensure both the safety of Astyanax and the honour of Hector’s wife.  Hermione, in a fury of jealousy, declares that she will fly with Oreste, on one condition—­that he kills Pyrrhus.  Oreste, putting aside all considerations