Chapter I: Le Roi s'amuse--Criticism and censorship (1)

Whilst M. Thiers's police were arresting Madame la duchesse de Berry at Nantes, the censorship was stopping the drama of _Le Roi s'amuse_ at Paris. The performance had taken place on 22 November. I cannot give an account of it, for I was not present; a slight coolness had crept into my relations with Hugo; friends in common had nearly set us at variance. The day after the performance the play was cruelly forbidden, and the author had to appeal from that decision before the Tribunal de Commerce. Under any other circumstances, the Opposition newspapers would have sided with Victor Hugo; they would have cried out against this oppression and tyranny. But not here! the hatred they bore towards the romantic school was so great, that they vied with one another, not so much to put the Government in the right, as to who should put the author most in the wrong.

Listen to what criticism said of the work of one of the most eminent poets who had ever lived. We will follow it in its own words and treat it fairly. We do not know who wrote the article we have in our hands: it is unsigned; only, it is a specimen of what was done then, has been done since and will probably always be perpetrated in criticism. A shameful specimen! But let us judge for ourselves.

"THÉÂTRE-FRANÇAIS

_Le Roi s'amuse.'_

A poetical drama in five acts by M. VICTOR HUGO.

"Criticism attempted after _Hernani_ and specially after
_Marion Delorme,_ to make M. Victor Hugo listen to two
pieces of _wholesome truth_ politely expressed, as is due
to a man of great and genuine talent; the first is that the
_efforts of M. Victor Hugo revealed absolute impotence_ _and
sterility of conception;_ the second, that M. Victor Hugo
adopted a pernicious system which, instead of conducing to
originality, drove him to the _trivial_ and _absurd._ ..."

Certainly it is impossible to be more polite. The natural consequence of this advice ought to have been to make Hugo return to his odes and romances. Luckily, M. Hugo believed himself to be as strong as those who told him these _wholesome truths,_ and he has continued in spite of criticism. To this disastrous pig-headedness of the poet we owe _Lucrèce Borgia, Marie Tudor, Ruy Blas, Angelo_ and _Les Burgraves._

"M. Hugo has taken no notice of these truths: he has
persisted in writing dramas, and, far from modifying his
system, he has exceeded it in a monstrous fashion. In his
first dramas, he still preserved some principle of truth and
of beauty, some feeling of morality and decency, even amidst
his eccentricities. In _Le Roi s'amuse,_ he rids himself
of everything and tramples history, right, morality, the
dignity of art, delicacy, under his feet. There is progress
..."

Still under cover of the same virtue of politeness, let us follow the critic--

"In the first place, the subject of the drama is not
historic, although historical characters figure in it.
We will pass that over, for, as time flies, it is a
peccadillo. But at least a conscientious author in
assigning a rôle to his historical personages in a
_fictitious case_ or rather _action_ should so apply it as
not to calumniate them; the realistic school is bolder and
has few scruples. You shall see how M. Hugo treats King
François I., the court of that prince, and the poet Clément
Marot on the stage of the Comédie-Française...."

Ah! monsieur critic, it well becomes you to defend ill-treated poets! You who have treated M. Hugo so finely! It is true that, in your eyes, M. Hugo is not a poet of the same calibre as Clément Marot. Turn your glasses back, monsieur critic, and take the measure of the author of the _Odes et Ballades Orientales, Feuilles d'automne, Notre-Dame de Paris, Hernani_ and _Marion Delorme,_ even if you have to stand on tip-toe or, if necessary, climb on a chair to do so.

"In the first act, we are at the court of François i.:
sounds of distant music are heard; there is a ball. A ball
was a novelty some years ago! There is one in every play ..."

Where on earth do you find one in _Henri III.,_ monsieur critic? Or in _Christine_ or _Richard Darlington_ or in _La Tour de Nesle_?... Where can you discover a ball in _Hernani_ or in _Marion Delorme?_ There is, it is true, a kind of musical entertainment in _Hernani,_ a sort of ball in _Antony,_ but you see it has not been overdone.

"Soon they will be indispensable," continued the critic. "So
François I. is in search of amusement and seeks everything
he can to be entertained. The courtiers talk, laugh and
seek to amuse him. There are a great number of them: M. de
Cossé, M. de Simiane, M. de Montmorency, Clément Marot and
a host of high-born people, and, in their centre, the king
and Triboulet, the king's jester, in cloth of gold, a fool's
bauble in his hand. Madame de Cossé lets her glove fall; the
king picks it up. The gentlemen laugh and gossip about the
_wife of Cossé._ The king is in love with her; Triboulet
advises him to get rid of the husband: that is, to have him
hung; the king is amused and so are the courtiers. After
this, there is no more about the _wife of Cossé,_ and we do
not see her again. This is indeed a pity, for she is pretty.

"The action does not begin yet, but the conversations continue. Triboulet tells the king much evil about savants and poets, and we hear François I. say later that _it is not weather fit to turn even a poet out of doors._ The courtiers, for their part, discuss the mistress of Triboulet. One of them replies--

'Ma foi de gentilhomme,
Je m'en soucie autant qu'un poisson d'une pomme!'"

Here the critic is mistaken and I wonder at it, his error benefits him nothing. It is not a nobleman who says the lines quoted by the critic, neither are they addressed to Cossé or about his wife. The man who utters them is the king, and the people, for whom he cares so little, are the savants.

"TRIBOULET.
Les femmes, sire, ah! Dieu!... c'est le ciel, c'est la terre,
C'est tout! mais vous avez les femmes, vous avez
Les femmes! Laissez-moi tranquille, vous rêvez
De vouloir des savants.

LE ROI.
Ma foi de gentilhomme,
Je m'en soucie autant qu'un poisson d'une pomme!"

"At this juncture, the Comte de Saint-Vallier appears on the scenes; he comes on to utter deadly reproaches against the king, who has granted him his life, _for having conspired_ (it should be _because he has_ and not _for having,_ but critics do not look so closely into things as that) to seduce his daughter Diane de Poitiers. It is noticeable that M. Victor Hugo is singularly fond of old men and puts them in all his dramas. But the language he puts into the mouth of Saint-Vallier is noble and fine. So the lines were applauded unanimously but the tirade is lengthy...."

This was the opportunity, monsieur critic, since you have quoted the lines you thought ridiculous, to have quoted some at least that you thought beautiful. True, such quotation would have destroyed the harmony of the sarcastic tone of your criticism. But we will quote them instead of you. Listen attentively to the language of the man who writes these lines, he who is in all good faith advised not to write for the theatre any more because he is impotent, sterile, trivial and absurd.

"SAINT-VALLIER

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 des 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!
O 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 était 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, puisque ainsi l'on vous nomme,
Croyez-vous qu'un chrétien, un 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 point 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 vengé 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.)_
Ne vienne vous parler, cette tête à la main!"

One can conceive why the critic does not quote the lines we have just put before the reader: What would become of his prose by the side of such verse? After this splendid outburst of Saint-Vallier, the king, enraged, exclaims--

"On s'oublie à ce point d'audace et de délire!...
_(A. M. de Pienne.)_
Duc, arrêtez monsieur!

TRIBOULET.
Le bonhomme est fou, sire.

SAINT-VALLIER, _levant le bras._
Soyez maudits tous deux!
_(Au roi.)_
Sire, ce n'est pas bien:
Sur le lion mourant vous lâchez votre chien!
_(A Triboulet.)_
Qui que tu sois, valet à langue de vipère,
Que fais risée ainsi de la douleur d'un père,
Sois maudit!
_(Au roi.)_
J'avais droit d'être par vous traité
Comme une majesté par une majesté.
Vous êtes roi, moi père, et l'âge vaut le trône.
Nous avons tous les deux au front une couronne
Où nul ne doit lever de regards insolents,
Vous de fleurs de lys d'or, et moi de cheveux blancs.
Roi, quand un sacrilège ose insulter la vôtre,
C'est vous qui la vengez;--c'est Dieu qui venge l'autre!"

The critic goes on--

"The Comte de Saint-Vallier finishes his harangue and goes out cursing the king and Triboulet. The king laughs, Triboulet seems thunderstruck. _This riot of unedifying conversations, the hall and the character of Comte de Saint-Vallier_ are in no sort of way connected with the action of the play, and _the whole of the first act is taken up in informing us that Triboulet has a mistress and that the gentlemen of the court wish to take her away from him...._"

Say, monsieur critic, that you _personally see no connection between the ball and M. de Saint-Vallier and the action,_ but forbear from saying they have no connection in any way whatever. You are blind and deaf, monsieur critic; but, luckily, we shall not stop our ears and put out our eyes for the sole satisfaction of being like you. Stay, you shall see why M. de Saint-Vallier is not connected with the action. The author takes the trouble to tell you himself--

"It appears that writers of criticism pretend that their
morals are scandalised by _Le Roi s'amuse._ The play
disgusted the modesty of the gendarmes; the Léotaud Brigade
was there[1] and thought it obscene; officers of morality
hid their faces and M. Vidocq blushed; accordingly, the
word of command which the censorship gave the police was
stammered out in our midst for some days in these terse
words--

"'THE PLAY IS IMMORAL.'"

Halloa! my masters! Silence on this point. Let us explain ourselves, however; not to the police, with whom I, an honest man, decline to discuss such matters, but to the few respectable and conscientious persons who, upon hearsay, or after seeing the performance, allowed themselves to be led away into sharing that opinion, for which, perhaps, the name alone of the guilty poet should have been sufficient refutation. The drama is now printed and, if you were not at the performance, read it; if you were, still read it. Bear in mind that this representation is less a representation than a battle, a sort of battle of Montlhéry (excuse us for this rather ambitious comparison), which the Parisians and the Burgundians both claimed to have _won_ according to Mathieu. The play is immoral. Do you think so? Is it so fundamentally? The groundwork of the play is as follows:--

"Triboulet is deformed, ill, the court buffoon, a threefold
wretchedness which makes him evilly disposed. He hates the
king because he is king, the lords because they are lords,
and men because they have not all got humps on their backs;
his only solace is unceasingly to pit the lords against
the king, to break the weakest against the strongest. He
depraves, corrupts and debases the king, drives him to
tyranny, ignorance and vice. He sets him at loggerheads with
all the noble families, unceasingly pointing out some wife
to seduce, a sister to carry off, a daughter to dishonour.

"The king is like an omnipotent puppet in the hands of
Triboulet, he cuts off lives whilst the buffoon plays his
jokes: one day at a fête, just when Triboulet is urging the
king to carry off M. de Cossé's wife, M. de Saint-Vallier
finds his way to the king and openly upbraids him for
the dishonour of Diane de Poitiers. The father whose
daughter the king has taken is made game of and insulted by
Triboulet. He lifts his arm and curses Triboulet. _And from
this the whole flay springs._ The real subject of the drama
is M. DE SAINT-VALLIER'S MALEDICTION."

Why did you say then, monsieur critic, that "_the unedifying riot of conversations, the hall and the character of Saint-Vallier_ ARE IN NO WAY CONNECTED WITH THE ACTION." You do not seem to me to understand the author. But let us see what the author says; we will see what you have said afterwards. We will promise you not to compare his prose with yours. Listen to what Victor Hugo says himself. We are at the second act--

"Upon whom does this malediction fall? Upon Triboulet,
the king's fool? No, upon Triboulet as man, as a father
with a heart, who has a daughter. All lies in the fact of
Triboulet possessing a daughter: she is all he has in the
world. He conceals her from all eyes in a deserted quarter
and a lonely house. The more he circulates the contagion of
vice and of debauchery through the town, the more closely
he keeps his daughter walled up and isolated. He brings up
his child in innocence, faith and modesty. His greatest fear
is lest she come to harm; for, wicked as he is, he knows
how much suffering it brings. Well, the old man's curse
strikes Triboulet through the only thing he loves in the
world--his daughter. The very king whom Triboulet urges on
to abduction seduces his daughter. The fool is struck by
Providence exactly in the same way as M. de Saint-Vallier,
and, when his daughter is seduced and lost, he lays a snare
for the king to revenge her: but it is his daughter who
falls into it. Thus, Triboulet has two pupils, the king
and his daughter; the king whom he instructs in vice, his
daughter whom he has brought up to virtue. The one destroys
the other. He intends to abduct Madame de Cossé for the
king, but it is his daughter whom he carries away. He means
to assassinate the king to avenge his daughter, but instead
assassinates her. The chastisement does not stop half-way;
the malediction of Diane's father is fulfilled upon the
father of Blanche. Doubtless it is not for us to decide if
the conception is dramatic or not; but it is certainly a
moral one."

Well, reader, what is your opinion?

"Why! the same as Victor Hugo. But why, then, does the critic look upon it and understand it so wrongly? Is he blind and deaf?"

Oh, dear reader, that would be too great a happiness for you and us! No, you know the proverb--"None so blind as those who wont see, or so deaf as those who do not wish to hear."

What the author says of the curse of Saint-Vallier is so true that the second act opens with these words of Triboulet--

"Ce vieillard m'a maudit!"

But, as we have said, the critic does not perceive this. He continues his analysis--

"At the second act Triboulet wanders through the night near
a modest house next to the hôtel de Cossé. A man with a
hideous expression comes and offers him his services. His
trade is killing; his charges are not dear, and he works
at home and in the town. Triboulet replies that he has no
need of him at present. Saltabadil (the bandit's name)
goes off and Triboulet enters the house. He then utters a
long monologue expressing all the suffering his trade of
king's jester causes him. Here, M. Hugo again breaks into an
eloquent and brilliant tirade in beautiful lines ..."

Why not quote them, monsieur critic? Ah! yes, but the fine verses would scorch his lips.[2]

"Triboulet enters his daughter's house and expresses all his
parental affection for her," continues the critic. "Here
again," he adds, "are several beautiful verses ..."

And he passes them over; but are beautiful lines so common that you scorn them thus? Can you write them? or can your wife or your friends? Can M. Planche or M. Janin or M. Lireux compose in the same style as this?

"BLANCHE.
... Mon bone père, au moins, parlez-moi de ma mère!

TRIBOULET.
Oh! ne réveille pas une pensée amère:
Ne me rappelles pas qu'autrefois j'ai trouvé
--Et, si tu n'étais là, je dirais: 'J'ai rêvé!'--
Une femme, contraire à la plupart des femmes,
Qui, dans ce monde, où rien n'appareille les âmes,
Me voyant seul, infirme, et pauvre, et détesté,
M'aima pour ma misère et ma difformité!
Elle est morte, emportant dans la tombe avec elle
L'angélique secret de son amour fidèle,
De son amour passé sur moi comme un éclair;
Rayon du paradis tombé dans mon enfer!
Que la terre, toujours à me recevoir prête,
Soit légère à ce sein où reposa ma tête!

BLANCHE.
Mon père ...

TRIBOULET, _à sa fille._
Est-il ailleurs un cœur qui me réponde?
Oh! je t'aime pour tout ce que je hais au monde!
--Assieds-toi près de moi. Viens, parlons de cela
Dis, aimes-tu ton père? Et puisque nous voilà
Ensemble, et que ta main entre mes mains repose,
Qu'est-ce donc qui nous force à parler d'autre chose?
Ma fille, ô seul bonheur que le ciel m'ait permis!
D'autres ont des parents, des frères, des amis,
Une femme, un mari, des vassaux, un cortège
D'aïeux et d'alliés, plusieurs enfants, que sais-je?
Moi, je n'ai que toi seule! Un autre est riche;--eh bien,
Toi seule es mon trésor, et toi seule es mon bien!
Un autre croit en Dieu; je ne crois qu'en ton âme!
D'autres ont la jeunesse et l'amour d'une femme;
Ils ont l'orgueil, l'éclat, la grâce et la santé;
Ils sont beaux; moi, vois-tu, je n'ai que ta beauté!
Chère enfant!--ma cité, mon pays, ma famille,
Mon épouse, ma mère, et ma sœur, et ma fille.
Mon bonheur, ma richesse, et mon culte, et ma loi,
Mon univers, c'est toi, toujours toi, rien que toi!
De tout autre côté, ma pauvre âme est froissée.
--Oh! si je te perdais!... Non, c'est une pensée
Que je ne pourrais pas supporter un moment!
Souris-moi donc un peu.--Ton sourire est charmant!
Oui, c'est toute ta mère!--Elle était aussi belle.
Tu te passes souvent la main au front comme elle,
Comme pour l'essuyer, car il faut au cœur pur
Un front tout innocent et des yeux tout azur.
Tu rayonnes pour moi d'une angélique flamme,
A travers ton beau corps, mon âme voit ton âme.
Même les yeux fermés, c'est égal, je te vois.
Le jour me vient de toi! Je me voudrais parfois
Aveugle, et l'œil voilé d'obscurité profonde,
Afin de n'avoir pas d'autre soleil au monde!"

Well! monsieur critic, shall I tell you something? If a fairy, as in the pretty children's tales you have not read, for you were never a child, came with his golden wand in his hand and said to me: "What do you wish, desire and pine for? Ask, I serve youth, fortune and ambition; at one word, you can have twenty-five years added to your life or be a millionaire or a prince!" I should say to him, "Oh good, beauteous fairy, I would like to be able to compose such lines as the above."

But now let us follow the critic through the third act. It relates how Blanche is taken to the Louvre; how the king recognises in her whom he supposes to be Triboulet's mistress the Blanche with whom he is enamoured, and how Blanche recognises in the king the Gaucher Mahiet whom she loves; how Blanche, not knowing whither to fly, and seeing an open door, flies through it and finds herself in the king's private chamber; how the king then enters behind her and shuts the door; after which the lords troop in, laughing, followed by Triboulet in despair. But let us allow the critic to speak--

"Triboulet comes on and looks at them all. The queen wants
the king and they have just sent for him. 'He is not
yet up.--But he was here just a moment ago.--He is out
hunting.--But his huntsman are not out.'

--'On vous dit, comprenez-vous ceci?
Que le roi ne veut voir personne.

TRIBOULET.
Elle est ici!'

"Triboulet wants to push his way into the king's room, but
the courtiers fling him back; he implores them. They laugh
at him and Triboulet pours out upon them insults and curses.
'You are no nobles,' he says to them,

'Au milieu des huées,
Vos mères aux laquais se sont prostituées!'

"_And the gentlemen put up with this!_"

Yes they bear it, monsieur critic, and I will tell you why. All the lords who have lent themselves to abduction, and are quite prepared to put their hands to violation, think they have carried off Triboulet's mistress and learn suddenly they have carried away his daughter. You do not say that that has escaped your memory: it is told in beautiful lines, and Ligier's voice is not one anybody can pretend not to hear.

"M. DE PIENNE, _riant._
Triboulet a perdu sa maîtresse!--Gentille
Ou laide, qu'il la cherche ailleurs.

TRIBOULET.
Je veux ma fille ...

TOUS. Sa fille!

TRIBOULET, _croisant les bras._
C'est ma fille!--Oui, riez maintenant!
Ah! pous restez muets! Vous trouvez surprenant
Que ce bouffon soit père, et qu'il ait une fille?
Les loups et les seigneurs n'ont-ils pas leur famille?
Ne puis-je avoir aussi la mienne? Allons, assez!
Que si vous plaisantiez, c'est charmant; finissez!
. . . . . . . . . .
Elle est là!
_(Les courtisans se placent devant la porte du roi.)_

MAROT.
Sa folie en furie est tournée.

TRIBOULET, _reculant avec désespoir._
Courtisans! courtisans! démons! race damnée!
C'est donc vrai qu'ils m'out pris ma fille, ces bandits!
Une femme, à leurs yeux, ce n'est rien, je vous dis!
Quand le roi, par bonheur, est un roi de débauches,
Les femmes des seigneurs, lorsqu'ils ne sont pas gauches,
Les servent fort.--L'honneur d'une vierge, pour eux,
C'est un luxe inutile, un trésor onéreux.
Une femme est un champ qui rapporte, une ferme
Dont le royal loyer se paye à chaque terme.
N'est ce pas que c'est vrai, messeigneurs?--En effet,
Vous lui vendriez tous, si ce n'est déjà fait.
Pour un nom, pour un titre, ou toute autre chimère,
_(A M. de Brian.)_
Toi, ta femme, Brion!
_(A M. de Gardes.)_
Toi, ta sœur!
_(Au jeune page de Pardaillan.)_
Toi, ta mère?"

The critic is surprised that all the lords are silent. It does not surprise us, especially if they have children of their own.

Is not the despair of a father, at the destruction of his daughter, frightful and solemn and fateful enough to cause instant silence? The author of the work, a father, who wrote this magnificent line--

"Et les cœurs de lion sont les vrais cœurs de père,"

thought so. Is he wrong? So much to his credit. If you are right, the more is it to your discredit!

But if this be so, you say, he ought to have pointed us out a beauty instead of a defect. Oh! he warns you loudly enough. Listen again--

"UN PAGE _se verse un verre de vin au buÿet, et se met à boire
en fredonnant:_

Quand Bourdon vit Marsaille,
Il a dit à ses gens:
'Vrai-Dieu! quel capitaine ...'

TRIBOULET, _se retournant._
Je ne sais à quoi tient, vicomte d'Aubusson,
Que je te brise aux dents ton verre et ta chanson!"

You see among the whole of those courtiers, only one sneers, and he a child of fifteen, who knows nothing about paternity. Oh! you say, that is true enough; but it is too involved, we missed the point. Such things, messieurs, are not visible to the outer eye, they are felt; the heart has eyes to see them.

Then, you add, you have no children. True, eunuchs and critics usually die without posterity.

We had got to the words, monsieur critic--

"And the gentlemen put up with that, _and when Triboulet
bade them they went away._ TRIBOULET REMAINS ALONE, and soon
his daughter rushes out dishevelled, beside herself, and
flies into his arms."

Ah! you see more clearly than you say, monsieur critic, for here you lie! No, it does not happen like that at all.

"TRIBOULET.
Ah! Dieu! vous ne savez que rire ou que vous taire!
C'est donc un grand plaisir de voir un pauvre père
Se meurtrir la poitrine, et s'arracher du front
Des cheveux que deux nuits pareilles blanchiront!

_(La porte de la chambre du roi s'ouvre; Blanche en sort
éperdue, égarée, en désordre; elle vient tomber dans les
bras de son père avec un cri terrible.)_

BLANCHE.
Mon père, ah!...

TRIBOULET, _la serrant dans ses bras.
_ Mon enfant! ah! c'est elle! ah! ma fille!
Ah! messieurs!
_(Suffoqué de sanglots, et riant au travers.)_
Voyez-vous, c'est toute ma famille,
Mon ange!--Elle de moins, quel deuil dans ma maison!
--Messeigneurs, n'est-ce pas que j'avais bien raison?...
_(A Blanche.)
_ Mais pourquoi pleures, tu?

BLANCHE.
Malheureux que nous sommes!
La honte ...

TRIBOULET.
Que dis-tu?

BLANCHE.
Pas devant tous ces hommes!
Rougir devant vous seul!

TRIBOULET, _se tournant vers la porte du roi.
_ Oh! l'infâme!--Elle aussi!

BLANCHE.
Seule, seule avec vous!

TRIBOULET, _aux seigneurs.
_ Allez-vous-en d'ici!
Et, si le roi François par malheur se hasarde
A passer près d'ici ...
_(A M. de Vermandois.)_
Vous êtes de sa garde,
Dites-lui de ne pas entrer,--que je suis là!
_(Les seigneurs sortent.)_"

You can see well enough, monsieur critic, that Triboulet is not alone when his daughter comes and flings herself into his arms, _and that if the lords go out,_ it is not because the king's fool has ordered them out, but because they know how to conduct themselves before the father of Blanche. Instead of being false, as you make out, the scene, on the contrary, is so profoundly wrought that you did not dare to follow it in its deepest wounds; this was an unknown abyss to your comprehension. Oh! monsieur critic, to ply your trade, you must be almost as great as the writer you criticise. Can a Lilliputian analyse a Gulliver?

"At this moment," the critic continues, "the Comte de Saint-Vallier, who is being led to the Bastille, recommences his imprecations against François I., and says--

'Puisque, par votre roi d'outrages abreuvé,
Ma malédiction n'a pas encor trouvé,
Ici-bas ni là-haut, de voix qui me réponde.
Pas une foudre au ciel, pas un bras d'homme au monde,
Je n'espère plus rien.--Ce roi prospérera.

TRIBOULET, _relevant la tête._
Comte! vous vous trompez!--Quelqu'un vous vengerai!'"

You see, monsieur critic, you are wrong; M. de Saint-Vallier does serve an end.

"The third act is revoltingly immoral!" the critic pursues. "The same disgusting features await us in the fourth act. We see the house of the brigand Saltabadil; a sort of pothouse. The king comes there in the middle of the night; he sits down to table and calls for drink: they bring it him."

We will let the author reply to the accusation expressed in such beautiful language. If the work is moral in construction, can it be immoral in execution? The question thus put seems to us to answer itself. But let us see. Probably there is nothing immoral in the first or second act. Is it the situation in the third act which shocks you? Read the third act and tell us if the impression which, in all probability, it produces, is not of profound purity, virtue and rectitude?

"Is it the fourth act? But since when has a king been forbidden to pay court to a public-house servant on the stage? It is no novelty in history, nor in the theatre: history permits us to show you François I. drunk in the kennels of the rue du Pelican. To take a king to a low place is nothing new either: the Greek theatre--the classical one--did it; Shakespeare, who is of the romantic theatre, did it. Very well then, the author of this drama has not done so. He knows all that has been written about the house of Saltabadil; but why make out that he has said what he has not said? Why force him to exceed a limit which is entirely beside the mark, which he has not exceeded? The gipsy Maguelonne so much maligned is surely not bolder than all the Lisettes and Martons of the old-school theatre. Saltabadil's pothouse is a hostelry, a tavern, the tavern de la _Pomme de pin,_ a suspected inn and a cut-throat place may be! but not a brothel; it is a sombre, terrible, horrible, fearful place if you like, but it is not an obscene one. There remain details as to style. Read! the author accepts as judges of the strict severity of his style the same persons who are shocked by Juliet's nurse and Ophelia's father, by Beaumarchais and by Regnard, by the _École des femmes_ and _Amphitryon,_ by Dandin and Sganarelle, and by the great scene in _Tartufe._ Tartufe was also accused of immorality, in his time. Only, in this case, when it was necessary to be frank, the author had to do it at his own risk and peril, but always with gravity and restraint; he wished his art to be chaste, but not prudish."

Let us return to the criticism.[3]

"Saltabadil is to give up the body at midnight. The king, half drunk, is at his house, defenceless and laid down, and it is a quarter to twelve. Maguelonne begs her brother to spare so good looking a young fellow. The brigand refuses, for he is an honest brigand and conducts his trade conscientiously; only, he desires that some one else should appear so that he may kill him and deliver him up in place of the other. Blanche has returned and hears everything; she has been seduced by the king; she does not love him, for he consorts with the most degraded of women. But Blanche will die for him! _This is a devotion on the part of a young girl which no one but M. Victor Hugo would have conceived possible._ ..."

Why so? Do you mean to say that Victor Hugo is the only one who has a large enough heart to understand such devotion? Then it seems to me that the blame turns singularly into praise.

"Blanche knocks at the door, goes in ... and the curtain falls. Why does not M. Hugo show us the assassination? What is one horror more? In the fifth act, Triboulet comes in front of the pothouse. It is a stormy night; midnight strikes. The brigand then opens his door and drags a sack along the ground containing a dead body. He receives the remainder of the twenty crowns and shuts his door. Triboulet puts his foot on the body, saying--

'Ceci, c'est un buffon! et ceci, c'est un roi!'

Then he raves over the body and curses it, and struts about
and prates of glory, of revolutions and of crowns, and
returns to the body and addresses these extraordinary lines
to it--

'M'entends tu? m'entends-tu? m'entends-tu? m'entends-tu ...'"

It would, indeed, be very extraordinary if it were thus, but, unfortunately, there is no such line. This is the real line, or, rather these are the lines--

"Je te hais, _m'entends-tu_? c'est moi, roi gentilhomme;
Moi, ce fou, ce bouffon; moi, cette moitié d'homme,
Cet animal douteux à qui tu disais: 'Chien!'
C'est que, quand la vengeance est en nous, vois-tu bien,
Dans le cœur le plus mort, il n'est plus rien qui dorme;
Le plus chétif grandit, le plus vil se transforme,
L'esclave tirs alors sa haine du fourreau,
Et le chat devient tigre, et le bouffon bourreau!'"

Far enough, you will agree, from the line invented by the critic--

"M'entends-tu? m'entends-tu? m'entends-tu? m'entends-tu?"

"Finally," continues our Aristarchus, "after an interminable
monologue" (certainly interminable if you have understood
all the lines in the same fashion as the one you have
quoted, but which, were you a poet, monsieur critic, would
seem short to you!),[4] "Triboulet drags the body to him and
is going to fling it into the Seine, when a cavalier comes
out of the tavern and disappears along the quay. Triboulet
has recognised the king; then he tears open the sack, and,
by the light of a torch, he recognises his daughter! He
calls for help, and torches are brought! Blanche still
breathes; they fetch a doctor, but she dies immediately he
arrives, and Triboulet falls dead the same instant.

"Such is this monstrous play, in which history is set
at naught, the manners of the times misconstrued, the
characters of François I. and of Clément Marot dishonoured
and reviled, wherein _hardly_ any beautiful lines shine
to redeem the emptiness of the conception, the absence of
clever conduct, the absolute want of interest: where, in
short, the horrible and ignoble and immoral are all mixed up
together in a chaotic confusion."

Well, monsieur critic, are you satisfied? Are you being well avenged at the expense of the man of genius? Have you trodden his dramas sufficiently under foot, as Triboulet trod on the corpse of the person he thought his enemy? No! You begin your monologue again. Ah! it seems short to you, does it not? because it is one of hatred.[5] Proceed then! the hatred of the petty for the great is not groundless, and at all times, as Triboulet shows us with regard to the king, and as you exhibit with regard to the drama, such hatred ever yearns to slay.

"At the first performance," adds the critic, "a scandal was caused by the crazy and _tumultuous admirers_ who, at each hiss that was raised, shouted, 'Down with the idiots! Put the brutes out!' It was a large, well-drilled cohort of friends who were sent into the theatre before the proper hour, and they applauded to excess all that the public thought truly disgusting. Notwithstanding this, and in spite of this extraordinary _claque,_ the hissing was strong enough for the name of M. Victor Hugo to be flung out amidst the tumult. In spite of this startling failure, a second performance was announced for Thursday. Compared with this, _Hernani_ is a genuine masterpiece ..." (Ah! monsieur critic, if we had but the time how we would like to read what you said about _Hernani_!) "and Boileau's epigram against Corneille might be applied to M. Victor Hugo.

"'Après _l'Agésilas,_
Hélas!
Mais, après _l'Attila,_
Holà!'"

Do you not think these four lines of Boileau against the author of the _Cid,_ of _Cinna_ and of _Polyeucte_ were among the unworthy things he wrote? But Boileau at least confined himself to denouncing the plays of old Corneille as weak: he did not denounce them to the police as immoral. Then, with great satisfaction, the critic ends up his article in these words--

"We learn to-night that the ministre des travaux publics has
given orders to stop the performance of the play."

Now let us follow the drama of our friend Victor Hugo before the Tribunal de Commerce, as we have followed it on the stage of the Théâtre-Richelieu, only let the author himself speak. M. Victor Hugo's prose is much better than mine, consequently my readers will have no ground for complaint.

"The appearance of this drama at the theatre gave rise
to an unprecedented ministerial act. The day after the
first performance, the author received from M. Jouslin
de la Salle, stage manager of the Théâtre-Français, the
following note, the original copy of which he preserves most
preciously--

"'It is half-past ten and I have just received the _order_
to suspend the performance of _Le Roi s'amuse._ M. Taylor
has sent me the order on behalf of the Government.

"'23 _November.'_

"The first impulse of the author was to doubt it. The act
was arbitrary to the point of incredibility. In fact,
what is called the _Charte-Vérité_ says, 'The French have
the right of _publishing..._' Note that the text does not
merely say the _right of printing,_ but, large and clear,
the _right of publishing._ Now, the theatre is only another
means of publication, like the press, like sculpture or
lithography. The liberty of the theatre is, therefore,
implicitly indited in the Charter with every other form
of liberty of thought. The law adds fundamentally, 'The
censorship can never be re-established.' Now, the text does
not say the _censorship of newspapers or of books,_ it says
_censorship_ in general, all censure, that of the theatres
as well as of writings. The theatre cannot, then, henceforth
be legally censured.

"Besides, the Charter says, 'Confiscation is abolished.'
Now, the suppression of a theatrical play after
representation is not merely a monstrous act of censorship
and arbitrariness, it is confiscation out and out, it is the
violent robbery of a property belonging to the theatre and
the author.

"Finally, to make all plain and clear, to preserve the four
or five great special principles which the French Revolution
has cast in bronze intact on their granite pedestals, in
order that they cannot surreptitiously attack the common
right of the French with forty thousand ancient damaged
arms which rust and disuse have eaten away in the arsenal
of our laws, the Charter, in a final article, expressly
abolishes all that which in laws anterior to it would be
contrary to its wording and its spirit. This is explicit.
The ministerial suppression of a theatrical play attacks
its liberty through the censorship, and its copyright
through confiscation. Our whole sense of public right rises
in revolt against such a method of procedure. The author,
unable to believe in such insolence and folly, rushed to
the theatre. There, the fact was confirmed, in every
particular. The Government had, indeed, notified the _order_
in question, by its divine right of governance. It had no
reasons to offer. It had taken his play, deprived him of his
right and seized his property. There was but one thing more
to do to the poet--to put him into the Bastille.

"We repeat, at the time we are living, when such an act
comes and bars your way and lays hands on you roughly,
the first feeling is one of profound surprise. A thousand
questions occur to your mind--Where is justice, where is
right? Can such things really happen? Was there, indeed,
such a thing as the July Revolution? It is evident we are no
longer in Paris! In what pachalic do we live?

"The Comédie-Française, stupefied and struck with
consternation, wished to try some advances towards the
Government to obtain the revocation of this strange
decision, but its labour was in vain. The divan, ... I mean
the council of ministers, had met during the day. On the
23rd, it was an order from the Government--the same on the
24th. On the 23rd, the play was only suspended; on the 24th,
it was definitely forbidden. The theatre was even enjoined
to erase the four dreadful words '_Le Roi s'amuse._' The
unlucky Théâtre-Français was, moreover, instructed that it
was not to complain or to breathe a word. It may be fine,
loyal and noble to resist such Asiatic despotism; but
theatres dare not do it. The fear of the withdrawal of their
privileges makes them serfs and slaves, liable to taxation
and statute-labour at the mercy of eunuchs and the dumb.

"An author should be and remain a stranger to these
theatrical proceedings. He, a poet, does not depend upon any
Government. His duty as a free writer forbids him to make
the entreaties and solicitation he might make if he meanly
consulted his own interests. But to ask for grace from a
power is to admit that power. Liberty and ownership are not
matters for antechamber settlement. A right does not solicit
like a favour. For a favour he must beseech the Government;
but for a right he appeals to the country. He must, then, go
to the country for redress. There are two ways of obtaining
justice: public opinion and the law courts. He chose both.
The case is already judged and won in the eyes of public
opinion. Here the author must warmly thank all thoughtful
and independent persons connected with literature and
the arts, who showed him on that occasion many proofs of
sympathy and cordiality. He reckoned upon their support
in anticipation. He knows that, when it is a question of
struggling for liberty of intellect and thought, he will not
go singly to battle.

"Let us say, in passing, that the ruling power, with very
mean-spirited calculation, prided itself it would have on
that occasion, as its auxiliaries, the literary passions
that have for a long period raged round the author. Literary
hatreds the author supposed were even more tenacious than
political animosities, seeing the former have their root
in _amour propre,_ and the latter simply in principles.
The Government is mistaken. Its brutal act has disgusted
right-thinking men in all camps. There rallied round the
author to oppose arbitrariness and injustice those even who
a little time before had attacked him the most violently.
If, by chance, a few inveterate haters persisted, they
have since regretted the momentary support they gave to
the Government. Every honourable and loyal man amongst the
author's enemies stretched out hands to him, even though
ready to begin the literary battle again as soon as the
political fight is at an end. In France, whoever he is who
is persecuted, his sole enemy is the persecutor.

"So, now, having settled that the Government's act is
detestable, unjustifiable, impossible in right, we will
condescend for a moment to discuss it as a material fact,
and try to find of what elements it would seem to have been
composed. To this end, the first question which presents
itself is one which everybody will put--What can be the
motive for such a measure?

"Certainly, if we deign to condescend for one moment to
accept the ridiculous fiction that, in this instance, it
is the care of public morals which moves our rulers, and
that, shocked by the condition of licence into which certain
theatres have fallen during the last six years, they wished
at last, urged to extreme measures, to make an example, in
the teeth of all laws and rights, of one work and writer,
the choice of the work would, it must be confessed, be a
singular one, but the choice of the author would be no less
strange. In fact, who is the man that this short-sighted
power attacks so strangely? A writer so placed that, though
his talent may be contested by everybody, his character
is called in question by no one. He is a man of avowed,
proved and established character, a rare and valuable thing
in these days. A poet who was the first to be disgusted
with the licence to which the theatres were yielding; who,
eighteen months ago, upon the rumour that the inquisition
of theatres was going to be illegally re-established, went
himself personally, with several other dramatic authors to
warn the Government that it ought to guard against such
a measure; and who there openly urged for a repressive
law to regulate the excesses off the stage, whilst yet
protesting against the censorship in such severe words
that the Government is very sure not to forget them. He is
an artist devoted to art, who has never sought success by
ignoble means, who has been accustomed all his life to look
the public straight in the face; a sincere and temperate
man who has already fought more than one battle for liberty
and against despotism; who, in 1829, in the last year of
the Restoration, rejected everything which the Government
then offered him in compensation for the interdict laid on
_Marion Delorme,_ and who, more than a year later, in 1830,
after the revolution of July, refused, in spite of the
advantages to his material interests, to allow that same
_Marion Delorme_ to be played, because it might have been
made the occasion of attack and insult against the fallen
king, who had proscribed it; a very simple line of conduct,
no doubt, that every man of honour would have followed
under similar circumstances, but which, perhaps, might have
rendered him henceforth inviolate from all censure, and
about which he wrote himself in 1831 as follows: 'Successes
gained by hunting out scandals and by making political
allusions hardly pleased him.' He admits that 'such success
is worth but little and is short-lived. It is precisely when
there is no public censorship that authors should criticise
one another, honestly and conscientiously. In this way,
they will exalt the dignity of art: when people have entire
liberty it is desirable to keep within due bounds.'

"Now, that the supposed immorality of the drama is reduced
to nothing, now that all the display of evil and shameful
arguments lies beneath our feet, now is the time to point
out the true motive of the measure, the motive behind the
scenes in the Court, and the motives they do not give
because they dare not admit them among themselves, and
therefore have carefully concealed them beneath a pretext.
This motive has already transpired among the outside public
and the public has guessed it correctly. We will say no
more about it. It is probably of service to our cause that
we should set our adversaries the example of courtesy and
of moderation. It is good that the lesson of dignity and
wisdom be set the Government by a private individual, by
him who is persecuted to the body which is persecuting him.
Though we are not of the number of those who think to cure
their own wounds by poisoning the wounds of others, it is
but too true that there is, in the third act of this play,
a line where the untoward sagacity of some familiars of the
palace discovered an allusion (I ask you myself where is
this allusion?), of which neither the public nor the author
had thought until then, but which, when proclaimed in this
fashion, becomes the cruellest and most deadly of insults.
It is all too true that this line was enough to cause the
order to be given for the playbills of the Théâtre-Français
to be taken down, in order that the curiosity of the public
should not again be afforded the sight of that little
seditious phrase, _le Roi s'amuse._ We will not quote the
line which is such a red rag to a bull; furthermore, we
will not point it out unless we are pushed to the last
extremity, and people are imprudent enough to make us take
our stand upon it in self-defence. We will not revive old
historic scandals. We will spare as far as possible an
exalted personage the consequences of the thoughtlessness
of his courtiers. It is possible to be generous in warfare
even to a king. We mean to be so. Only, let those in power
consider the inconvenience of having as friend a bear, as
it were, who crushes with the pavingstone of censorship the
imperceptible allusions which happen to cross their minds.
We are not even sure that we do not feel some sympathy for
the ministry itself. To tell the truth, the whole thing
inspires us with great pity. The Government of July is
new-born, it is only thirty months old and still in its
infancy, with the puerile passions of childhood. Is it,
indeed, worthwhile to spend much virile anger against it?
When it is full-grown, then we will see.

"Meantime, to look at the question for a moment from the
individual point of view, the censorial confiscation under
consideration perhaps causes more injury to the author of
this drama than of any other. In fact, for the fourteen
years he has been writing, not one of his works but has had
the unfortunate distinction of being chosen as a battlefield
upon its appearance, and disappeared after a more or less
lengthy period in the dust and smoke and turmoil of a
battle. Therefore, when he produces a play for the theatre,
the most important thing to him of all, as he cannot expect
a quiet audience after the first night, is a series of
performances. If it happens on the first day that his voice
is drowned in uproar, that his idea is not understood, the
following days may correct the first one. _Hernani_ had
fifty-three performances, _Marion Delorme_ had sixty-one;
_Le Roi s'amuse,_ thanks to ministerial violence, only had
one. The injustice done the author is assuredly great. Who
can give him back intact at the point he left off, the third
experiment, so important to him? Who can tell him what might
have occurred after the first performance? Who can give him
back the public of the morrow, a public ordinarily impartial
and without friends or enemies, the public which teaches the
poet and which the poet instructs?

"We are at a curious period of political transition. One
of those moments of general lassitude when all kinds of
despotic acts are possible in society, even the most
advanced ideas of emancipation and of liberty. France
advanced rapidly in July 1830; she did three good days'
work then; she made three great oases in the field of
civilisation and of progress. Now, many are harassed, many
are out of breath, many demand a halt. They want to keep
back the energetic spirits who are not tired, but still
press on; they wish to wait for the laggards who have
stopped behind and give them time to catch up. Hence, a
strange fear of everything that moves and talks and thinks.
It is an odd situation, easily defined. They are all the
elements which are afraid of ideas; the league of interests
clashing with the movement of theories begins, and takes
fright at systems: the merchant who wants to sell; the
street which is frightened of the counting-house; the armed
shop on the defensive.