CHAPTER IV

Béranger, as Republican

This vulnerable spot was the Republican feeling, ever alert in France, whether it be disguised under the names of Liberalism, Progress or Democracy. Béranger discovered it, for, just when he was going to bid farewell to poetry, he once more took up his song; like the warrior who, in despair, had flung down his arms, he resumed them; but he has changed his aim and will slay with principles rather than bullets, he will no longer try to pierce the velvet of an ancient throne, but he will set up a new statue of marble upon a brazen altar! That statue shall be the figure of the Republic. He who was of the advanced school under the Elder Branch, hangs back under the Younger. But what matters it! He will accomplish his task and, though it stand alone, it will be none the less powerful. Listen to him: behold him at his moulding: like Benvenuto Cellini, he flings the lead of his old cartridges into the smelting-pot: he will throw in his bronze and even the two silver dinner-services which he brings out of an old walnut chest on grand occasions when he dines with Lisette, and which he has once or twice lent to Frétillon to put in pawn. While he works, he discovers that those whom he fought in 1830 were in the right, and that it was he himself who was wrong; he had looked upon them as _madmen_, now he makes his frank apologies to them in this song--

"Vieux soldats de plomb que nous sommes, Au cordeau nous alignant tous, Si des rangs sortant quelques hommes, Tous, nous crions: 'À bas les fous!'

On les persécute, on les tue, Sauf, après un lent examen, À leur dresser une statue Pour la gloire du genre humain!

Combien de tempo une pensée. Vierge obscure, attend son époux! Les sots la traitent d'insensée, Le sage lui dit: 'Cachez-vous!' Mais, la rencontrant loin du monde, Un fou qui croit au lendemain L'épouse; elle devient féconde, Pour le bonheur du genre humain!

J'ai vu Saint-Simon, le prophète, Riche d'abord, puis endetté, Qui, des fondements jusqu'au faite, Refaisait la société. Plein de son œuvre commencée, Vieux, pour elle il tendais la main, Sur qu'il embrassait la pensée Qui doit sauver le genre humain!

Fourier nous dit: 'Sors de la fange, Peuple en proie aux déceptions! Travaille, groupé par phalange, Dans un cercle d'attractions. La terre, après tant de désastres, Forme avec le ciel un hymen, Et la loi qui régit les astres Donne la paix au genre humain!'

Enfantin affranchit la femme, L'appelle à partager nos droits. 'Fi! dites-vous, sous l'épigramme Ces fous rêveurs tombent tous trois!' Messieurs, lorsqu'en vain notre sphère Du bonheur cherche le chemin, Honneur au fou qui ferait faire Un rêve heureux au genre humain!

Qui découvrit un nouveau monde? Un fou qu'on raillait en tout lieu! Sur la croix, que son sang inonde, Un fou qui meurt nous lègue un Dieu!

Si, demain, oubliant d'élcore, Le jour manquait, eh bien! demain, Quelque fou trouverait encore Un flambeau pour le genre humain!"

You have read this song. What wonderful sense and rhythm of thought and poetry these lines contain! You say you didn't know it? Really? and yet you knew all those which, under Charles X., attacked the throne or the altar. _Le Sacre de Charles le Simple,_ and _L'Ange Gardien._ How is it that you never knew this one? Because Béranger, instead of being a tin soldier drawn up to defend public order, as stock-jobbers and the bourgeois and grocers understand things, was looked upon as one of those fanatics who leave the ranks in pursuit of mad ideas, which they take unto themselves in marriage and perforce therefrom bring forth offspring! Only, Béranger was no longer in sympathy with public thought; the people do not pick up the arrows he shoots, in order to hurl them back at the throne; his poems, which were published in 1825, and again in 1829, and then sold to the extent of thirty thousand copies, are, in 1833, only sold to some fifteen hundred. But what matters it to him, the bird of the desert, who sings for the love of singing, because the good God, who loves to hear him, who prefers his poetry to that of _missionaries, Jesuits and of those jet-black-dwarfs_ whom he nourishes, and who hates the smoke of their censers, has said to him, "Sing, poor little bird, sing!" So he goes on singing at every opportunity.

When Escousse and Lebras died, he sang a melancholy song steeped in doubt and disillusionment; he could not see his way in the chaos of society. He only felt that the earth was moving like an ocean; that the outlook was stormy; that the world was in darkness, and that the vessel called _France_ was drifting further and further towards destruction. Listen. Was there ever a more melancholy song than this? It is like the wild seas that break upon coasts bristling with rocks and covered with heather, like the bays of Morlaix and the cliffs of Douarnenez.

"Quoi! morts tous deux dans cette chambre close Où du charbon pèse encor la vapeur! Leur vie, hélas! était à peine éclose; Suicide affreux! triste objet de stupeur! Ils auront dit: 'Le monde fait naufrage; Voyez pâlir pilote et matelots! Vieux bâtiment usé par tous les flots, Il s'engloutit, sauvons-nous à la nage!' Et, vers le ciel se frayant un chemin, Ils sont partis en se donnant la main! . . . . . . . . . Pauvres enfants! quelle douleur amère N'apaisent pas de saints devoirs remplis? Dans la patrie on retrouve une mère, Et son drapeau vous couvre de ses plis! Ils répondaient: 'Ce drapeau, qu'on escorte, Au toit du chef le protège endormi; Mais le soldat, teint du sang ennemi, Veille, et de faim meurt en gardant la porte!' Et, vers le ciel se frayant un chemin, Ils sont partis en se donnant la main! . . . . . . . . . Dieu créateur, pardonne à leur démence! Ils s'étaient fait les échos de leurs sous, Ne sachant pas qu'en une chaîne immense, Non pour nous seuls, mais pour tous nous naissons. L'humanité manque de saints apôtres Qui leur aient dit: 'Enfants, suivez ma loi! Aimer, aimer, c'est être utile à soi! Se faire aimer, c'est être utile aux autres!' Et, vers le ciel se frayant un chemin, Ils sont partis en se donnant la main!"

At what a moment,--consider it!--did Béranger prophesy that the world would suffer shipwreck to the terror of pilots and sailors? When, in February 1832, the Tuileries was feasting its courtiers; when the newspapers, which supported the Government, were glutted with praise; when the citizen-soldiers of the rues Saint-Denis and Saint-Martin were enthusiastic in taking their turn on guard; when officers were clamouring for crosses for themselves and invitations to court for their wives; when, out of the thirty-six millions of the French people, thirty millions were bellowing at the top of their voices, "Vive Louis-Philippe, the upholder of order and saviour of society!" when the _Journal des Débats_ was shouting its HOSANNAHS! and the _Constitutionnel_ its AMENS!

By the powers! One would have been out of one's mind to die at such a time; and only a poet would talk of the world going to wrack and ruin!

But wait! When Béranger perceived that no one listened to his words, that, like Horace, he sang to deaf ears, he still went on singing, and now still louder than before--

"Société, vieux et sombre édifice, Ta chute, hélas! Menace nos abris: Tu vas crouler! point de flambeau qui puisse Guider la foule à travers tes débris: Où courons-nous! Quel sage en proie au doute N'a sur son front vingt fois passé la main? C'est aux soleils d'être sûrs de leur route; Dieu leur a dit: 'Voilà votre chemin!'"

Then comes the moment when this chaos is unravelled, and the night is lifted, and the dawn of a new day rises; the poet bursts into a song of joy as he sees it! What did he see? Oh! be not afraid, he will be only too ready to tell you--

"Toujours prophète, en mon saint ministère, Sur l'avenir j'ose interroger Dieu. Pour châtier les princes de la terre, Dans l'ancien monde un déluge aura lieu. Déjà près d'eux, l'Océan, sur les grèves, Mugit, se gonfle, il vient.... 'Maîtres, voyez, Voyez!' leur dis-je. Ils répondent: 'Tu rêves!' Ces pauvres rois, ils seront tous noyés! . . . . . . . . . Que vous ont fait, mon Dieu, ces bons monarques? Il en est tant dont on bénit les lois! De jougs trop lourds si nous portons les marques, C'est qu'en oubli le peuple a mis ses droits. Pourtant, les flots précipitent leur marche Contre ces chefs jadis si bien choyés. Faute d'esprit pour se construire une arche, Ces pauvres rois, ils seront tous noyés! 'Un océan! quel est-il, ô prophète?'

_Peuples, c'est nous, affranchis de la faim_, _Nous, plus instruits, consommant la défaite_ _De tant de rois, inutiles, enfin!..._ Dieu fait passer sur ces fils indociles Nos flots mouvants, si longtemps fourvoyés; Puis le ciel brille, et les flots sont tranquilles. Ces pauvres rois, ils seront tous noyés!"

It will be observed that it was not as in _les Deux Cousins_, a simple change of fortune or of dynasty, but the overturning of every dynasty that the poet is predicting; not as in _Les Dieu des bonnes gens_, the changing of destinies and tides, but the revolution of both towards ultimate tranquillity. The ocean becomes a vast lake, without swell or storms, reflecting the azure heavens and of such transparent clearness that at the bottom can be seen the corpses of dead monarchies and the débris of wrecked thrones.

Then, what happens on the banks of this lake, in the capital of the civilised world, in the city _par excellence_, as the Romans called Rome? The poet is going to tell you, and you will not have long to wait to know if he speaks the truth: a hundred and sixty-six years, dating from 1833, the date at which the song appeared. What is a hundred and sixty-six years in the life of a people? For, note carefully, the prophecy is for the year 2000, and the date may yet be disputed!

"Nostradamus, qui vit naître Henri-Quatre, Grand astrologue, a prédit, dans ses vers, Qu_'en l'an deux mil, date qu'on peut débattre_, De la médaille on verrait le revers: Alors, dit-il, Paris, dans l'allégresse, Au pied du Louvre ouïra cette voix: 'Heureux Français, soulagez ma détresse; Faites l'aumône au dernier de vos rois!'

Or, cette voix sera celle d'un homme Pauvre, à scrofule, en haillons, sans souliers, Qui, _né proscrit_, vieux, arrivant de Rome, Fera spectacle aux petits écoliers. Un sénateur crira: 'L'homme à besace, Les mendiants sont bannis par nos lois! --Hélas! monsieur, je suis seul de ma race; Faites l'aumône au dernier de vos rois!'

'Es-tu vraiment de la race royale?' --Oui, répondra cet homme, fier encor; J'ai vu dans Rome, alors ville papale, À mon aïeul couronne et sceptre d'or; Il les vendit pour nourrir le courage De faux agents, d'écrivains maladroits! Moi, j'ai pour sceptre un bâton de voyage.... Faites l'aumône au dernier de vos rois!

'Mon père, âgé, _mort en prison pour dettes_, D'un bon métier n'osa point me pouvoir; Je tends la main ... Riches, partout vous êtes Bien durs au pauvre, et Dieu me l'a fait voir! Je foule enfin cette plage féconde Qui repoussa mes aïeux tant de fois! Ah! par pitié pour les grandeurs du monde, Faites l'aumône au dernier de vos rois!'

Le sénateur dira: 'Viens! je t'emmène Dans mon palais; vis heureux parmi nous. Contre les rois nous n'avons plus de haine; Ce qu'il en reste embrasse nos genoux! En attendant que le sénat décide À ses bienfaits si ton sort a des droits, Moi, qui suis né d'un vieux sang régicide, Je fais l'aumône au dernier de nos rois!'

Nostradamus ajoute en son vieux style: 'La _République_ au prince accordera Cent louis de rente, et, citoyen utile, Pour maire, un jour, Saint-Cloud le choisira. Sur l'an deux mil, on dira dans l'histoire, Qu'assise au trône et des arts et des lois, La France, en paix, reposant sous sa gloire, A fait l'aumône au dernier de ses rois!'"

It is quite clear this time, and the word _Republic_ is pronounced; the _Republic_ in the year 2000 will give alms to the last of its kings! There is no ambiguity in the prophecy. Now, how long will this Republic, strong enough to give alms to the last of its kings, have been established? It is a simple algebraic calculation which the most insignificant mathematician can arrive at, by proceeding according to rule, from the known to the unknown.

It is in the year 2000 that Paris will hear, at the foot of the Louvre, the voice of a man in tatters shouting, "Give alms to the last of your kings!"

This voice will belong to a man _born an outlaw, old, arriving from Rome,_ which leads one to suppose he would be about sixty or seventy years of age. Let us take a mean course and say sixty-five @ 65

This man, a born outlaw, _saw in Rome, then a papal city, the crown and golden sceptre of his grandfather._ How long ago can that have been? Let us say fifty years @ 50

For how long had this grandfather been exiled? It cannot have been long, because he had his sceptre and gold crown still, and sold them to _feed the courage of false agents and luckless writers._ Let us reckon it at fifteen years and say no more about it @ 15

Let us add to that the twenty years that have rolled by since 1833 @ 20

And we shall have to take away a total from 166 of 150

Now he who from 166 pays back 150 keeps 16 as remainder,--and yet, and yet the poet said the year 2000 is _open to doubt._ Do not let us dispute the question, but let us even allow more time.

We return thee thanks, Béranger, thou poet and prophet!

What happened upon the appearance of these prophecies which were calculated to wound many very different interests? That the people who knew the old poems of Béranger by heart, because their ambition, their hopes and desires, had made weapons of them wherewith to destroy the old throne, did not even read his new songs, whilst those who did read them said to each other, "Have you read Béranger's new songs? No. Well, don't read them. Poor fellow, he is going off!" So they did not read them, or, if they had read them, the word was passed round to say, that the song-writer was going off. No, on the contrary, the poet was growing greater, not deteriorating! But just as from song-writer he had become poet, so, from poet, he was becoming a prophet. I mean that, to the masses, he was becoming more and more unintelligible. Antiquity has preserved us the songs of Anacreon, but has forgotten the prophecies of Cassandra.

And why? Homer tells us: the Greeks refused to put faith in the prophetic utterances of the daughter of Priam and Hecuba.

Alas! Béranger followed her in this and held his peace; and a whole world of masterpieces on the eve of bursting forth was arrested on his silent lips. He smiled with that arch smile of his, and said--

"Ah! I am declining, am I? Well, then, ask for songs of those who are rising!"

Rossini had said the same thing after _Guillaume Tell_, and what was the result? We had no more operas by him, and no more songs from Béranger.

Now it may be asked how it happens that Béranger, a Republican, resides peacefully in the avenue de Chateaubriand (No. 5), at Paris, whilst Victor Hugo is living in Marine Terrace, in the island of Jersey. It is simply a question of age and of temperament. Hugo is a fighter, and scarcely fifty: while Béranger, take him all in all, is an Epicurean and, moreover, seventy years of age;[1] an age at which a man begins to prepare his bed for his eternal sleep, and Béranger (God grant he may live many years yet, would he but accept some years of our lives!) wishes to die peacefully upon the bed of flowers and bay leaves that he has made for himself. He has earned the right to do so--he has struggled hard enough in the past, and, rest assured, his work will continue in the future!

Let us just say, in conclusion, that those who were then spoken of as the _young school_ (they are now men of forty to fifty) were not fair to Béranger. After Benjamin Constant had exalted him to the rank of a great epic poet, they tried to reduce him to the level of a writer of doggerel verses. By this action, criticism innocently made itself the accomplice of the ruling powers; it only intended to be severe, but was, really, both unjust and ungrateful! It needs to be an exile and a poet living in a strange land, far from that communion of thought which is the food of intellectual life, to know how essentially French, philosophical and consolatory, the muse of the poet of Passy really was. In the case of Béranger, there was no question of exile, and each exile can, while he sings his songs, look for the realisation of that prophecy which Nostradamus has fixed for the year 2000.

But we are a very long way from the artillery, which we were discussing, and we must return to it again and to the riot in which it was called upon to play its part.

Let us, then, return to the riot and to the artillery. But, dear Béranger, dear poet, dear father, we do not bid you _adieu_, only _au revoir._ After the storm, the halcyon!--the halcyon, white as snow, which has passed through all the storms, its swan-like plumage as spotless as before.

[1] See Note A, at end of the volume.