  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 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 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 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 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 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 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 "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, 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, 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: 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! A surgeon arrives, and having examined her wound, says, Elle est morte. TRIBOULET. J'ai tuÉ mon enfant! J'ai tuÉ mon enfant! (Il tombe sur le pavÉ.) FIN. All this is very shocking; but it is not tragedy,—and it is not poetry. Yet it is what we are told has heaved the earth from under Racine! After such a sentence as this, it must be, I know, rococo to name him; but yet I would say, in his own words, D'adorateurs zÉlÉs À peine un petit nombre Ose des premiers temps nous retracer quelque ombre; Le reste.... Se fait initier À ces honteux mystÈres, Et blasphÈme le nom qu'ont invoquÉ leurs pÈres. As I profess myself of the petit nombre, you must let me recall to your memory some of the fragments of that noble edifice which Racine raised over him, and which, as they say, has now perished under the mighty power of Victor Hugo. It will not be lost time to do this; for look where you will among the splendid material of this uprooted temple, and you will find no morsel that is not precious; nothing that is not designed, chiseled, and finished by the hand of a master. Racine has not produced dramas from ordinary life; it was not his object to do so, nor is it the end he has attained. It is the tragedy of heroes and demi-gods that he has given us, and not of cut-purses, buffoons, and street-walkers. If the language of Racine be poetry, that of M. Hugo is not; and wherever the one is admired, the other must of necessity be valueless. It would be endless to attempt giving citations to prove the grace, the dignity, the majestic flow of Racine's verse; but let your eye run over "IphigÉnie," for instance,—there also the loss of a daughter forms the tragic interest,—and compare such verses as those I have quoted above with any that you can find in Racine. Hear the royal mother, for example, describe the scene that awaits her: Un prÊtre environnÉ d'une foule cruelle Portera sur ma fille une main criminelle, DÉchirera son sein, et d'un oeil curieux Dans son coeur palpitant consultera les dieux; —Et moi—qui l'amenai triomphante, adorÉe, Je m'en retournerai, seule, et dÉsespÉrÉe. Surely this is of a better fabric than— Tu sais ce coffre auprÈs du portrait de ta mÈre; L'habit est lÀ,—je l'ai d'avance exprÈs fait faire. I have little doubt but that the inspired author, when this noble phrase, "exprÈs fait faire," suggested itself, felt ready to exclaim, in the words of Philaminte and BÉlise— Ah! que cet "exprÈs fait" est d'un goÛt admirable! C'est À mon sentiment un endroit impayable; J'entends lÀ-dessous un million de mots.— —Il est vrai qu'il dit plus de choses qu'il n'est gros. But to take the matter seriously, let us examine a little the ground upon which this school of dramatic writers found their claim to superiority over their classic predecessors. Is it not that they declare themselves to be more true to nature? And how do they support this claim? Were you to read through every play that M. Hugo has written—(and may you long be preserved from so great annoyance!)—I doubt if you would find a single personage with whom you could sympathise, or a single sentiment or opinion It would be much less difficult, I conceive, so strongly to excite the imagination by the majestic eloquence of Racine's verses as to make you conscious of fellow-feeling with his sublime personages, than to debase your very heart and soul so thoroughly as to enable you to fancy that you have anything in common with the corrupt creations of Victor Hugo. But even were it otherwise—were the scenes imagined by this new Shakspeare more like the real villany of human nature than those of the noble writer he is said to have set aside, I should still deny that this furnished any good reason for bringing such scenes upon the stage. Why should we make a pastime of looking upon vulgar vice? Why should the lowest passions of our nature be for ever brought out in parade before us? "It is not and it cannot be for good." The same reasoning might lead us to turn from the cultured garden, its marble terraces, its velvet lawns, its flowers and fruits of every clime, that we might take our pleasure in a bog—and for all consolation be told, when we slip and flounder about in its loathsome slime, that it is more natural. I have written you a most unmerciful letter, "Rentre dans le nÉant, dont je t'ai fait sortir." |
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