Victor Hugo.--Racine.
I have again been listening to some curious details respecting the
present state of literature in France. I think I have before stated to
you, that I have uniformly heard the whole of the _décousu_ school of
authors spoken of with unmitigated contempt,--and that not only by the
venerable advocates for the _bon vieux temps_, but also, and equally,
by the distinguished men of the present day--distinguished both by
position and ability.
Respecting Victor Hugo, the only one of the tribe to which I allude
who has been sufficiently read in England to justify his being classed
by us as a person of general celebrity, the feeling is more remarkable
still. I have never mentioned him or his works to any person of good
moral feeling and cultivated mind, who did not appear to shrink from
according him even the degree of reputation that those who are
received as authority among our own critics have been disposed to
allow him. I might say, that of him France seems to be ashamed.
Again and again it has happened to me, when I have asked the opinions
of individuals as to the merit of his different plays, that I have
been answered thus:--
"I assure you I know nothing about it: I never saw it played."
"Have you read it?"
"No; I have not. I cannot read the works of Victor Hugo."
One gentleman, who has heard me more than once persist in my inquiries
respecting the reputation enjoyed by Victor Hugo at Paris as a man of
genius and a successful dramatic writer, told me, that he saw that, in
common with the generality of foreigners, particularly the English, I
looked upon Victor Hugo and his productions as a sort of type or
specimen of the literature of France at the present hour. "But permit
me to assure you," he added gravely and earnestly, "that no idea was
ever more entirely and altogether erroneous. He is the head of a
sect--the high-priest of a congregation who have abolished every law,
moral and intellectual, by which the efforts of the human mind have
hitherto been regulated. He has attained this pre-eminence, and I
trust that no other will arise to dispute it with him. But Victor Hugo
is NOT a popular French writer."
Such a judgment as this, or the like of it, I have heard passed upon
him and his works nine times out of ten that I have mentioned him;
and I consider this as a proof of right feeling and sound taste, which
is extremely honourable, and certainly more than we have lately given
our neighbours credit for. It pleased me the more perhaps because I
did not expect it. There is so much meretricious glitter in the works
of Victor Hugo,--nay, so much real brightness now and then,--that I
expected to find at least the younger and less reflective part of the
population warm in their admiration of him.
His clinging fondness for scenes of vice and horror, and his utter
contempt for all that time has stamped as good in taste or feeling,
might, I thought, arise from the unsettled spirit of the times; and if
so, he could not fail of receiving the meed of sympathy and praise
from those who had themselves set that spirit at work.
But it is not so. The wild vigour of some of his descriptions is
acknowledged; but that is all of praise that I ever heard bestowed
upon Victor Hugo's theatrical productions in his native land.
The startling, bold, and stirring incidents of his disgusting dramas
must and will excite a certain degree of attention when seen for the
first time, and it is evidently the interest of managers to bring
forward whatever is most likely to produce this effect; but the doing
so cannot be quoted as a proof of the systematic degradation of the
theatre. It is moreover a fact, which the play-bills themselves are
alone sufficient to attest, that after Victor Hugo's plays have had
their first run, they are never brought forward again: not one of them
has yet become what we call a stock-play.
This fact, which was first stated to me by a person perfectly _au
fait_ of the subject, has been subsequently confirmed by many others;
and it speaks more plainly than any recorded criticism could do, what
the public judgment of these pieces really is.
The romance of "Notre Dame de Paris" is ever cited as Victor Hugo's
best work, excepting some early lyrical pieces of which we know
nothing. But even this, though there are passages of extraordinary
descriptive power in it, is always alluded to with much more of
contempt than admiration; and I have heard it ridiculed in circles,
whose praise was fame, with a light pleasantry more likely to prove an
antidote to its mischief than all the reprobation that sober criticism
could pour out upon it.
But may not this champion of vice--this chronicler of sin, shame, and
misery--quote Scripture and say, "A prophet is not without honour,
save in his own country"? For I have seen a criticism in an English
paper (The Examiner) which says, "_The_ Notre Dame _of Victor Hugo
must take rank with the best romances by the author of_ Waverley....
_It transcends them in vigour, animation, and familiarity with the
age._"
In reply to the last point here mentioned, in which our countryman has
given the superiority to Victor Hugo over Sir Walter Scott, a very
strong testimony against its correctness has reached me since I have
been in Paris. An able lawyer, and most accomplished gentleman and
scholar, who holds a distinguished station in the Cour Royale, took us
to see the Palais de Justice. Having shown us the chamber where
criminal trials are carried on, he observed, that this was the room
described by Victor Hugo in his romance; adding,--"He was, however,
mistaken here, as in most places _where he affects a knowledge of the
times of which he writes_. In the reign of Louis the Eleventh, no
criminal trials ever took place within the walls of this building; and
all the ceremonies as described by him resemble much more a trial of
yesterday than of the age at which he dates his tale."
The vulgar old adage, that "there is no accounting for taste," must, I
suppose, teach us to submit patiently to the hearing of any judgments
and opinions which it is the will and pleasure of man to pronounce;
but it does seem strange that any can be found who, after bringing Sir
Walter Scott and Victor Hugo into comparison, should give the palm of
superiority to the author of "Notre Dame de Paris."
Were the faults of this school of authors only of a literary kind, few
persons, I believe, would take the trouble to criticise them, and
their nonsense would die a natural death as soon as it was made to
encounter the light of day: but such productions as Victor Hugo's are
calculated to do great injury to human nature. They would teach us to
believe that all our gentlest and best affections can only lead to
crime and infamy. There is not, I truly believe, a single pure,
innocent, and holy thought to be found throughout his writings: Sin is
the muse he invokes--he would
"Take off the rose
From the fair forehead of an innocent love,
And set a blister there;"
Horror is his handmaid; and "thousands of liveried _monsters_ lackey
him," to furnish the portraits with which it is the occupation of his
life to disgust the world.
Can there, think you, be a stronger proof of a diseased intellect
among the _décousu_ part of the world, than that they not only admire
this man's hideous extravagances, but that they actually believe him
to be ... at least they say so ... a second Shakspeare!... A
Shakspeare!
To chastise as he deserves an author who may be said to defy mankind
by the libels he has put forth on the whole race, requires a stouter
and a keener weapon than any a woman can wield; but when they prate of
Shakspeare, I feel that it is our turn to speak. How much of
gratitude and love does every woman owe to him! He, who has entered
deeper into her heart than ever mortal did before or since his day,
how has he painted her?--As Portia, Juliet, Constance, Hermione;--as
Cordelia, Volumnia, Isabella, Desdemona, Imogene!
Then turn and see for what we have to thank our modern painter. Who
are his heroines?--Lucrèce Borgia, Marion de Lorme, Blanche,
Maguelonne, with I know not how many more of the same stamp; besides
his novel heroine, whom Mr. Henry Lytton Bulwer calls "the most
delicate female ever drawn by the pen of romance"--The Esmeralda! ...
whose sole accomplishments are dancing and singing in the streets, and
who ... delicate creature! ... being caught up by a horseman in a
midnight brawl, throws her arms round his neck, swears he is very
handsome, and thenceforward shows the delicate tenderness of her
nature, by pertinaciously doting upon him, without any other return or
encouragement whatever than an insulting caress bestowed upon her one
night when he was drunk ... "delicate female!"
But this is all too bad to dwell upon. It is, however, in my
estimation a positive duty, when mentioning the works of Victor Hugo,
to record a protest against their tone and tendency; and it is also a
duty to correct, as far as one can, the erroneous impression existing
in England respecting his reputation in France.
Whenever his name is mentioned in England, his success is cited as a
proof of the depraved state, moral and intellectual, of the French
people. And such it would be, were his success and reputation such as
his partisans represent them to be. But, in point of fact, the manner
in which he is judged by his own countrymen is the strongest possible
evidence that neither a powerful fancy, a commanding diction, nor an
imagination teeming with images of intense passion, can suffice to
ensure an author any exalted reputation in France at the present day
if he outrages good feeling and good taste.
Should any doubt the correctness of this statement, I can only refer
them to the source from whence I derived the information on which it
is founded,--I can only refer them to France herself. There is one
fact, however, which may be ascertained without crossing the
Channel;--namely, that when one of their reviews found occasion to
introduce an article upon the modern drama, the editors acquitted
themselves of the task by translating the whole of the able article
upon that subject which appeared about a year and a half ago in the
Quarterly, acknowledging to what source they were indebted for it.
Were the name and the labours of Victor Hugo confined to his own
country, it would now be high time that I should release you from him;
but it is an English critic who has said, that he has heaved the
ground from under the feet of Racine; and you must indulge me for a
few minutes, while I endeavour to bring the two parties together
before you. In doing this, I will be generous; for I will introduce M.
Hugo in "Le Roi s'amuse," which, from the circumstance (the happiest,
I was assured, that ever befel the author) of its being withdrawn by
authority from the Théâtre Français, has become infinitely more
celebrated than any other he has written.
It may be remarked by the way, that a few more such acts of decent
watchfulness over the morals and manners of the people may redeem the
country from the stigma it now bears of being the most licentious in
its theatre and its press in the world.
The first glorious moment of being forbidden at the Français appears
almost to have turned the lucky author's brain. His preface to "Le Roi
s'amuse," among many other symptoms of insanity has the following:--
"Le premier mouvement de l'auteur fut de douter.... L'acte était
arbitraire au point d'être incroyable.... L'auteur ne pouvait croire à
tant d'insolence et de folie.... Le ministre avait en effet, de son
droit divin de ministre, intimé l'ordre.... Le ministre lui avait pris
sa pièce, lui avait pris son droit, lui avait pris sa chose. Il ne
restait plus qu'à le mettre, lui poëte, à la Bastille.... Est-ce qu'il
y a eu en effet quelque chose qu'on a appelé la révolution de
Juillet?... Que peut être le motif d'une pareille mesure?... Il parait
que nos faiseurs de censure se prétendent scandalisés dans leur morale
par 'Le Roi s'amuse;' le nom seul du poëte inculpé aurait dû être une
suffisante réfutation (!!!)... Cette pièce a révolté la pudeur des
gendarmes; la brigade Léotaud y était, et l'a trouvé obscène; le
bureau des moeurs s'est voilé la face; M. Vidocq a rougi.... Holà,
mes maîtres! Silence sur ce point!... Depuis quand n'est-il plus
permis à un roi de courtiser sur la scène une servante d'auberge?...
Mener un roi dans un mauvais lieu, cela ne serait pas même nouveau non
plus.... L'auteur veut l'art chaste, et non l'art prude.... Il est
profondement triste de voir comment se termine la révolution de
Juillet...."
Then follows a _précis_ of the extravagant and hateful plot, in which
the heroine is, as usual, "une fille séduite et perdue;" and he sums
it up thus pompously:--"Au fond d'un des ouvrages de l'auteur il y a
la fatalité--au fond de celui-ci il y a la providence."
I wish much that some one would collect and publish in a separate
volume all M. Victor Hugo's prefaces; I would purchase it instantly,
and it would be a fund of almost inexhaustible amusement. He assumes a
tone in them which, all things considered, is perhaps unequalled in
the history of literature. In another part of the one from which I
have given the above extracts, he says--
"Vraiment, le pouvoir qui s'attaque à nous n'aura pas gagné grand'
chose à ce que nous, hommes d'art, nous quittions notre tâche
consciencieuse, tranquille, sincère, profonde; notre tâche sainte...."
What on earth, if it be not insanity, could have put it into Mr.
Hugo's head that the manufacturing of his obscene dramas was "une
tâche sainte"?
The principal characters in "Le Roi s'amuse" are François Premier;
Triboulet, his pander and buffoon; Blanche, the daughter of Triboulet,
"la fille séduite," and heroine of the piece; and Maguelonne, another
Esmeralda.
The interest lies in the contrast between Triboulet pander and
Triboulet père. He is himself the most corrupt and infamous of men;
and because he is humpbacked, makes it both his pastime and his
business to lead the king his master into every species of debauchery:
but he shuts up his daughter to preserve her purity; and the poet has
put forth all his strength in describing the worship which Triboulet
père pays to the virtue which he passes his life as Triboulet pander
in destroying.
Of course, the king falls in love with Blanche, and she with him; and
Triboulet pander is made to assist in carrying her off in the dark,
under the belief that she was the wife of a nobleman to whom also his
majesty the king was making love.
When Triboulet père and pander finds out what he has done, he falls
into a terrible agony: and here again is a _tour de force_, to show
how pathetically such a father can address such a daughter.
He resolves to murder the king, and informs his daughter, who is
passionately attached to her royal seducer, of his intention. She
objects, but is at length brought to consent by being made to peep
through a hole in the wall, and seeing his majesty King Francis
engaged in making love to Maguelonne.
This part of the plot is brought out shortly and pithily.
BLANCHE (_peeping through the hole in the wall_).
Et cette femme! ... est-elle affrontée! ... oh!...
TRIBOULET.
Tais-toi;
Pas de pleurs. Laisse-moi te venger!
BLANCHE.
Hélas!--Faites--
Tout ce que vous voudrez.
TRIBOULET.
Merci!
This _merci_, observe, is not said ironically, but gravely and
gratefully. Having arranged this part of the business, he gives his
daughter instructions as to what she is to do with herself, in the
following sublime verses:--
TRIBOULET.
Écoute. Va chez moi, prends-y des habits d'homme,
Un cheval, de l'argent, n'importe quelle somme;
Et pars, sans t'arrêter un instant en chemin,
Pour Evreux, où j'irai te joindre après-demain.
--Tu sais ce coffre auprès du portrait de ta mère;
L'habit est là,--je l'ai d'avance exprès fait faire.
Having dismissed his daughter, he settles with a gipsy-man named
Saltabadil, who is the brother of Maguelonne, all the details of the
murder, which is to be performed in their house, a small cabaret at
which the foul weather and the fair Maguelonne induce the royal rake
to pass the night. Triboulet leaves them an old sack in which they are
to pack up the body, and promises to return at midnight, that he may
himself see it thrown into the Seine.
Blanche meanwhile departs; but feeling some compunctious visitings
about the proposed murder of her lover, returns, and again applying
her ear to the hole in the wall, finds that his majesty is gone to bed
in the garret, and that the brother and sister are consulting about
his death. Maguelonne, a very "delicate female," objects too; she
admires his beauty, and proposes that his life shall be spared if any
stranger happens to arrive whose body may serve to fill the sack.
Blanche, in a fit of heroic tenderness, determines to be that
stranger; exclaiming,
"Eh bien! ... mourons pour lui!"
But before she knocks at the door, she kneels down to say her prayers,
particularly for forgiveness to all her enemies. Here are the verses,
making part of those which have overthrown Racine:--
BLANCHE.
Oh! Dieu, vers qui je vais,
Je pardonne à tous ceux qui m'ont été mauvais:
Mon père et vous, mon Dieu! pardonnez-leurs de même
Au roi François Premier, que je plains et que j'aime.
She knocks, the door opens, she is stabbed and consigned to the sack.
Her father arrives immediately after as by appointment, receives the
sack, and prepares to drag it towards the river, handling it with
revengeful ecstasy, and exclaiming--
Maintenant, monde, regarde-moi:
Ceci, c'est un bouffon; et ceci, c'est un roi.
At this triumphant moment he hears the voice of the king, singing as
he walks away from the dwelling of Maguelonne.
TRIBOULET.
Mais qui donc m'a-t-il mis à sa place, le traître!
He cuts open the sack; and a flash of lightning very melodramatically
enables him to recognise his daughter, who revives, to die in his
arms.
This is beyond doubt what may be called "a tragic situation;" and I
confess it does seem very hard-hearted to laugh at it: but the _pas_
that divides the sublime from the ridiculous is not distinctly seen,
and there is something vulgar and ludicrous, both in the position and
language of the parties, which quite destroys the pathetic effect.
It must be remembered that she is dressed in the "habit d'homme" of
which her father says so poetically--
Je l'ai d'avance exprès fait faire.
Observe, too, that she is still in the sack; the stage directions
being, "Le bas du corps, qui est resté vêtu, est caché dans le sac."
BLANCHE.
Où suis-je?
TRIBOULET.
Blanche! que t'a-t-on fait? Quel mystère infernal!
Je crains en te touchant de te faire du mal....
Ah! la cloche du bac est là sur la muraille:
Ma pauvre enfant, peux-tu m'attendre un peu, que j'aille
Chercher de l'eau....
A surgeon arrives, and having examined her wound, says,
Elle est morte.
Elle a dans le flanc gauche une plaie assez forte:
Le sang a dû causer la mort en l'étouffant.
TRIBOULET.
J'ai tué mon enfant! J'ai tué mon enfant!
(_Il tombe sur le pavé._)