Part 2

In one point it seems to me that this immortal masterpiece may perhaps be reasonably placed, with _Le Roi s'amuse_ and _Ruy Blas_, in triune supremacy at the head of Victor Hugo's plays. The wide range of poetic abilities, the harmonious variety of congregated powers, displayed in these three great tragedies through almost infinite variations of terror and pity and humor and sublime surprise, will seem to some readers, whose reverence is no less grateful for other gifts of the same great hand, unequalled at least till the advent in his eighty-first year of _Torquemada._

Victor Hugo was not yet thirty when all these triumphs lay behind him. In the twenty-ninth year of a life which would seem fabulous and incredible in the record of its achievements if divided by lapse of time from all possible proof of its possibility by the attestation of dates and facts, he published in February _Notre-Dame de Paris_, in November _Les Feuilles d'Automne_: that the two dreariest months of the year might not only "smell April and May," but outshine July and August. The greatest of all tragic romances has a Grecian perfection of structure, with a Gothic intensity of pathos. To attempt the praise of such a work would be only less idle than to refuse it. Terror and pity, with eternal fate for key-note to the strain of story, never struck deeper to men's hearts through more faultless evolution of combining circumstance on the tragic stage of Athens. Louis the Eleventh has been painted by many famous hands, but Hugo's presentation of him, as compared for example with Scott's, is as a portrait by Velasquez to a portrait by Vandyke. The style was a new revelation of the supreme capacities of human speech: the touch of it on any subject of description or of passion is as the touch of the sun for penetrating irradiation and vivid evocation of life.

From the _Autumn Leaves_ to the _Songs of the Twilight_, and again from the _Inner Voices_ to the _Sunbeams and Shadows_, the continuous jet of lyric song through a space of ten fertile years was so rich in serene and various beauty that the one thing notable in a flying review of its radiant course is the general equality of loveliness inform and color, which is relieved and heightened at intervals by some especial example of a beauty more profound or more sublime. The first volume of the four, if I mistake not, won a more immediate and universal homage than the rest: its unsurpassed melody was so often the raiment of emotion which struck home to all hearts a sense of domestic tenderness too pure and sweet and simple for perfect expression by any less absolute and omnipotent lord of style, that it is no wonder if in many minds--many mothers' minds especially--there should at once have sprung up an all but ineradicable conviction that no subsequent verse must be allowed to equal or excel the volume which contained such flower-like jewels of song as the nineteenth and twentieth of these unwithering and imperishable _Leaves._ But no error possible to a rational creature could be more serious or more complete than the assumption of any inferiority in the volume containing the two glorious poems addressed to Admiral Canaris, the friend (may I be forgiven the filial vanity or egotism which impels me to record it?) of the present writer's father in his youth; the two first in date of Hugo's finest satires, the lines that scourge a backbiter and the lines that brand a traitor (the resonant and radiant indignation of the latter stands unsurpassed in the very _Châtiments_ themselves); the two most enchanting aubades or songs of sunrise that ever had out-sung the birds and out-sweetened the flowers of the dawn; and--for here I can cite no more—the closing tribute of lines more bright than the lilies whose name they bear, offered by a husband's love at the sweet still shrine of motherhood and wifehood. The first two stanzas of the second aubade are all that can here be quoted.

L'aurore s'allume, L'ombre épaisse fuit; Le rêve et la brume Vont où va la nuit; Paupières et roses S'ouvrent demi-closes; Du réveil des choses On entend le bruit.

Tout chante et murmure, Tout parle à la fois, Fumée et verdure, Les nids et les toits; Le vent parle aux chênes, L'eau parie aux fontaines; Toutes les haleines Deviennent des voix.

And in each of the two succeeding volumes there is, among all their other things of price, a lyric which may even yet be ranked with the highest subsequent work of its author for purity of perfection, for height and fulness of note, for music and movement and informing spirit of life. We ought to have in English, but I fear--or rather I am only too sure--we have not, a song in which the sound of the sea is rendered as in that translation of the trumpet-blast of the night-wind, with all its wails and pauses and fluctuations and returns, done for once into human speech and interpreted into spiritual sense forever. For instinctive mastery of its means and absolute attainment of its end, for majesty of living music and fidelity of sensitive imagination, there is no lyric poem in any language more wonderful or more delightful.

UNE NUIT QU'ON ENTENDAIT LA MER SANS LA VOIR

Quels sont ces bruits sourds? Écoutez vers l'onde Cette voix profonde Qui pleure toujours Et qui toujours gronde, Quoiqu'un son plus clair Parfois l'interrompe...-- Le vent de la mer Souffle dans sa trompe.

Comme il pleut ce soir! N'est-ce pas, mon hôte? Là-bas, à la côte, Le ciel est bien noir, La mer est bien haute On dirait l'hiver; Parfois on s'y trompe...-- Le vent de la mer Souffle dans sa trompe.

Oh! marins perdus! Au loin, dans cette ombre. Sur la nef qui sombre, Que de bras tendus Vers la terre sombre! Pas d'ancre de fer Que le flot ne rompe.-- Le vent de la mer Souffle dans sa trompe.

Nochers imprudents! Le vent dans la voile Déchire la toile Comme avec les dents! Là-haut pas d'étoile! L'un lutte avec l'air, L'autre est à la pompe.-- Le vent de la mer Souffle dans sa trompe.

C'est toi, c'est ton feu Que le nocher rêve, Quand le flot s'élève, Chandelier que Dieu Pose sur la grève, Phare au rouge éclair Que la brume estompe!-- Le vent de la mer Souffle dans sa trompe.

A yet sweeter and sadder and more magical sea-song there was yet to come years after--but only from the lips of an exile. Of the ballad--so to call it, if any term of definition may suffice--which stands out as a crowning splendor among _Les Rayons et les Ombres_, not even Hugo's own eloquence, had it been the work (which is impossible) of any other great poet in all time, could have said anything adequate at all. Not even Coleridge and Shelley, the sole twin sovereigns of English lyric poetry, could have produced this little piece of lyric work by combination and by fusion of their gifts. The pathetic truthfulness and the simple manfulness of the mountain shepherd's distraction and devotion might have been given in ruder phrase and tentative rendering by the nameless ballad-makers of the border: but here is a poem which unites something-of the charm of _Clerk Saunders_ and _The Wife of Usher's Well_ with something of the magic of _Christabel_ and the _Ode to the West Wind_; a thing, no doubt, impossible; but none the less obviously accomplished.[1]

The lyric work of these years would have been enough for the energy of another man, for the glory of another poet; it was but a part, it was (I had well nigh said) the lesser part, of its author's labors--if labor be not an improper term for the successive or simultaneous expressions or effusions of his indefatigable spirit. The year after _Notre-Dame de Paris_ and _Les Feuilles d'Automne_ appeared one of the great crowning tragedies of all time, _Le Roi s'amuse._ As the key-note of _Marion de Lorme_ had been redemption by expiation, so the key-note of this play is expiation by retribution. The simplicity, originality, and straightforwardness of the terrible means through which this austere conception is worked out would give moral and dramatic value to a work less rich in the tenderest and sublimest poetry, less imbued with the purest fire of pathetic passion. After the magnificent pleading of the Marquis de Nangis in the preceding play, it must have seemed impossible that the poet should, without a touch of repetition or reiterance, be able again to confront a young king with an old servant, pour forth again the denunciation and appeal of a breaking heart, clothe again the haughtiness of honor, the loyalty of grief, the sanctity of indignation, in words that shine like lightning and verses that thunder like the sea. But the veteran interceding for a nephew's life is a less tragic figure than he who comes to ask account for a daughter's honor. Hugo never merely repeats himself; his miraculous fertility and force of utterance were not more indefatigable and inexhaustible than the fountains of thought and emotion which fed that eloquence with fire.

In the seventh scene of the fourth act of _Marion de Lorme_, an old warrior of the days of Henri Quatre comes to plead with the son of his old comrade in arms for the life of his heir, condemned to death as a duelist by the edict of Richelieu.

LE MARQUIS DE NANGIS (_se relevant_).

Je dis qu'il est bien temps que vous y songiez, sire; Que le cardinal-duc a de sombres projets, Et qu'il boit le meilleur du sang de vos sujets. Votre père Henri, de mémoire royale, N'eût pas ainsi livré sa noblesse loyale; Il ne la frappait point sans y fort regarder; Et, bien gardé par elle, il la savait garder. Il savait qu'on peut faire avec des gens d'épées Quelque chose de mieux que des têtes coupées; Qu'ils sont bons à la guerre. Il ne l'ignorait point, Lui dont plus d'une balle a troué le pourpoint. Ce temps était le bon. J'en fus, et je l'honore, Un peu de seigneurie y palpitait encore. Jamais à des seigneurs un prêtre n'eût touché. On n'avait point alors de tête à bon marché. Sire! en des jours mauvais comme ceux où nous sommes, Croyez un vieux, gardez un peu de gentilshommes. Vous en aurez besoin peut-être à votre tour. Hélas! vous gémirez peut-être quelque jour Que la place de Grève ait été si fêtée, Et que tant de seigneurs de bravoure indomptée, Vers qui se tourneront vos regrets envieux, Soient morts depuis longtemps qui ne seraient pas vieux! Car nous sommes tout chauds de la guerre civile, Et le tocsin d'hier gronde encor dans la ville. Soyez plus ménager des peines du bourreau. C'est lui qui doit garder son estoc au fourreau, Non pas vous. D'échafauds montrez-vous économe. Craignez d'avoir un jour à pleurer tel brave homme, Tel vaillant de grand cœur, dont, à l'heure qu'il est, Le squelette blanchit aux chaînes d'un gibet! Sire! le sang n'est pas une bonne rosée; Nulle moisson ne vient sur la Grève arrosée, Et le peuple des rois évite le balcon, Quand aux dépens du Louvre on peuple Montfaucon. Meurent les courtisans, s'il faut que leur voix aille Vous amuser, pendant que le bourreau travaille! Cette voix des flatteurs qui dit que tout est bon, Qu'après tout on est fils d'Henri Quatre, et Bourbon, Si haute qu'elle soit, ne couvre pas sans peine Le bruit sourd qu'en tombant fait une tête humaine. Je vous en donne avis, ne jouez pas ce jeu, Roi, qui serez un jour face à face avec Dieu. Donc, je vous dis, avant que rien ne s'accomplisse, Qu'à tout prendre il vaut mieux un combat qu'un supplice, Que ce n'est pas la joie et l'honneur des états De voir plus de besogne aux bourreaux qu'aux soldats, Que c'est un pasteur dur pour la France où vous êtes Qu'un prêtre qui se paye une dîme de têtes, Et que cet homme illustre entre les inhumains Qui touche à votre sceptre--a du sang à ses mains!

In the fifth scene of the first act of _Le Roi s'amuse_, an old nobleman whose life, forfeit on a charge of friendship or relationship with rebels, has been repurchased by his daughter from the king at the price of her honor, is insulted by the king's jester when he comes to speak with the king, and speaks thus, without a glance at the jester.

Une insulte de plus!--Vous, sire, écoutez-moi, Comme vous le devez, puisque vous êtes roi! Vous m'avez fait un jour mener pieds nus en Grève; Là, vous m'avez fait grâce, ainsi que dans un rêve, Et je vous ai béni, ne sachant en effet Ce qu'un roi cache au fond d'une grâce qu'il fait. Or, vous aviez caché ma honte dans la mienne.-- Oui, sire, sans respect pour une race ancienne, Pour le sang de Poitiers, noble depuis mille ans, Tandis que, revenant de la Grève à pas lents, Je priais dans mon cœur le dieu de la victoire Qu'il vous donnât mes jours de vie en jours de gloire, Vous, François de Valois, le soir du même jour, Sans crainte, sans pitié, sans pudeur, sans amour, Dans votre lit, tombeau de la vertu des femmes, Vous avez froidement, sous vos baisers infâmes, Terni, flétri, souillé, déshonoré, brisé Diane de Poitiers, comtesse de Brézé! Quoi! lorsque j'attendais l'arrêt qui me condamne, Tu courais donc au Louvre, ô ma chaste Diane! Et lui, ce roi sacré chevalier par Bayard, Jeune homme auquel il faut des plaisirs de vieillard, Pour quelques jours de plus dont Dieu seul sait le compte, Ton père sous ses pieds, te marchandait ta honte, Et cet affreux tréteau, chose horrible à penser! Qu'un matin le bourreau vint en Grève dresser, Avant la fin du jour devait être, ô misère! Ou le lit de la fille, ou l'échafaud du père! Ô Dieu! qui nous jugez! qu'avez-vous dit là-haut, Quand vos regards ont vu, sur ce même échafaud, Se vautrer, triste et louche, et sanglante, et souillée, La luxure royale en clémence habillée? Sire! en faisant cela, vous avez mal agi. Que du sang d'un vieillard le pavé fût rougi, C'était bien. Ce vieillard, peut-être respectable, Le méritait, étant de ceux du connétable. Mais que pour le vieillard vous ayez pris l'enfant, Que vous ayez broyé sous un pied triomphant La pauvre femme en pleurs, à s'effrayer trop prompte C'est une chose impie, et dont vous rendrez compte! Vous avez dépassé votre droit d'un grand pas. Le père é ait à vous, mais la fille non pas. Ah! vous m'avez fait grâce!--Ah! vous nommez la chose Une grâce! et je suis un ingrat, je suppose! --Sire, au lieu d'abuser ma fille, bien plutôt Que n'êtes-vous venu vous-même en mon cachot, Je vous aurais crié:--Faites-moi mourir, grâce! Oh! grâce pour ma fille, et grâce pour ma race! Oh! faites-moi mourir! la tombe, et non l'affront! Pas de tête plutôt qu'une souillure au front! Oh! monseigneur le roi, puisqu'ainsi l'on vous nomme, Croyez-vous qu'un chrétien, um comte, un gentilhomme, Soit moins décapité, répondez, monseigneur, Quand au lieu de la tête il lui manque l'honneur? --J'aurais dit cela, sire, et le soir, dans l'église, Dans mon cercueil sanglant baisant ma barbe grise, Ma Diane au cœur pur, ma fille au front sacré, Honorée, eût prié pour son père honoré! --Sire, je ne viens pas redemander ma fille. Quand on n'a plus d'honneur, on n'a plus de famille. Qu'elle vous aime ou non d'un amour insensé, Je n'ai rien à reprendre où la honte a passé. Gardez-la.--Seulement je me suis mis en tête De venir vous troubler ainsi dans chaque fête, Et jusqu'à ce qu'un père, un frère, ou quelque époux, --La chose arrivera,--nous ait vengés de vous, Pâle, à tous vos banquets, je reviendrai vous dire: --Vous avez mal agi, vous avez mal fait, sire!-- Et vous m'écouterez, et votre front terni Ne se relèvera que quand j'aurai fini. Vous voudrez, pour forcer ma vengeance à se taire, Me rendre au bourreau. Non. Vous ne l'oserez faire, De peur que ce ne soit mon spectre qui demain

(_Montrant sa tête_)

Revienne vous parler,--cette tête à la main!

_Marion de Lorme_ had been prohibited by Charles the Tenth for an imaginary reflection on Charles the Tenth; _Le Roi s'amuse_ was prohibited by Louis-Philippe the First--and Last--for an imaginary reflection on Citizen Philippe Egalité. Victor Hugo vindicated his meaning and reclaimed his rights in a most eloquent, most manly, and most unanswerable speech before a tribunal which durst not and could not but refuse him justice. Early in the following year he brought out the first of his three tragedies in prose--in a prose which even the most loyal lovers of poetry, Théophile Gautier at their head, acknowledged on trial to be as good as verse. And assuredly it would be, if any prose ever could: which yet I must confess that I for one can never really feel to be possible. _Lucrèce Borgia_, the first-born of these three, is also the most perfect in structure as well as the most sublime in subject. The plots of all three are equally pure inventions of tragic fancy: Gennaro and Fabiano, the heroic son of the Borgia and the caitiff lover of the Tudor, are of course as utterly unknown to history as is the self-devotion of the actress Tisbe. It is more important to remark and more useful to remember that the master of terror and pity, the command of all passions and all powers that may subserve the purpose of tragedy, is equally triumphant and infallible in them all. _Lucrèce Borgia_ and _Marie Tudor_ appeared respectively in February and in November of the year 1833; _Angelo_, two years later; and the year after this the exquisite and melodious libretto of _La Esmeralda_, which should be carefully and lovingly studied by all who would appreciate the all but superhuman versatility and dexterity of metrical accomplishment which would have sufficed to make a lesser poet famous among his peers forever, but may almost escape notice in the splendor of Victor Hugo's other and sublimer qualities. In his thirty-seventh year all these blazed out once more together in the tragedy sometimes apparently rated as his master-work by judges whose verdict would on any such question be worthy at least of all considerate respect. No one that I know of has ever been absurd enough to make identity in tone of thought or feeling, in quality of spirit or of style, the ground for a comparison of Hugo with Shakespeare: they are of course as widely different as are their respective countries and their respective times: but never since the death of Shakespeare had there been so perfect and harmonious a fusion of the highest comedy with the deepest tragedy as in the five many-voiced and many-colored acts of _Ruy Blas._

At the age of forty Victor Hugo gave to the stage which for thirteen years had been glorified by his genius the last work he was ever to write for it. There may perhaps be other readers besides myself who take even more delight in _Les Burgraves_ than in some of the preceding plays which had been more regular in action, more plausible in story, less open to the magnificent reproach of being too good for the stage--as the _Hamlet_ which came finally from the recasting hand of Shakespeare was found to be, in the judgment even of Shakespeare's fellows; too rich in lyric beauty, too superb in epic state. The previous year had seen the publication of the marvelously eloquent, copious, and vivid letters which gave to the world the impressions received by its greatest poet in a tour on the Rhine made five years earlier--that is, in the year of _Ruy Blas._ In this book, as Gautier at once observed, the inspiration of _Les Burgraves_ is evidently and easily traceable. Among numberless masterpieces of description, from which I have barely time to select for mention the view of Bishop Hatto's tower by the appropriately Dantesque light of a furnace at midnight--not as better than others, but as an example of the magic by which the writer imbues and impregnates observation and recollection with feeling and with fancy--the most enchanting legend of enchantment ever written for children of all ages, sweet and strange enough to have grown up among the fairy tales of the past whose only known authors are the winds and suns of their various climates, lurks like a flower in a crevice of a crumbling fortress. The entrancing and haunting beauty of Régina's words as she watches the departing swallows--words which it may seem that any one might have said, but to which none other could have given the accent and the effect that Hugo has thrown into the simple sound of them--was as surely derived, we cannot but think, from some such milder and brighter vision of the remembered Rhineland solitudes, as were the sublime and all but Æschylean imprecations of Guanhumara from the impression of their darker and more savage memories or landscapes.

OTBERT (_lui montrant la fenêtre_).

Voyez ce beau soleil!

RÉGINA

Oui, le couchant s'enflamme. Nous sommes en automne et nous sommes au soir. Partout la feuille tombe et le bois devient noir.

OTBERT

Les feuilles renaîtront.

RÉGINA

Oui.

(_Rêvant et regardant le ciel._)

Vite! à tire-d'ailes!-- --Oh! c'est triste de voir s'enfuir les hirondelles!-- Elles s'en vont là-bas, vers le midi doré.

OTBERT

Elles reviendront.

RÉGINA

Oui.--Mais moi je ne verrai Ni l'oiseau revenir ni la feuille renaître!