French poetry 101 – Victor Hugo

[foudebassan]

The 19th century would not be complete without Victor Hugo (1802-1885). In fact, he was so prolific, and wrote in so many different registers, that one could almost say he lived several different lives - as a romantic poet, as a playright, as a prolific novelist, as a politician, as an engaged artist, as an opponent to the Second Empire, as an exile, as the new Republic's official poet, as a mourning father, as a passionate lover, as a campaigner against the death penalty, and as a devoted grandfather.

"Ce siècle avait deux ans..." (the century was two years old) when Hugo was born to a royalist mother and a bonapartist father. The couple doesn't hold very long, and his mother makes sure he and his brothers have a traditional, catholic upbringing in various convents, where he and his brother Eugène excel at improvising Latin verses. But the image of the father

"mon père, ce héros au sourire si doux..."

(“my father, this mild-smiled hero”) is strong, and Hugo shows some sympathy for bonapartism. His first literary achievements are impressive – he founds a magazine with his brothers, wins the Tolosan “Clémence-Isaure” competition, publishes his first book of romantically-inspired verse, and revolutions theatrical convention with Cromwell, a romantic drama, and especially Hernani, that shocks and revolts the literary establishment to the extend that the lead actress refuses to say verses like

“Vous êtes mon li-on, superbe et généreux”

on stage (the diérèse – pronouncing the two syllables separately – is positively outlandish); she substitues other words to make it more conventional ("vous êtes mon héros..."). It is around then that he writes

“J’ai disloqué ce grand niais d’alexandrin.”

(“I dislocated that big idiot of an alexandrine”; the verse is 3x4 syllables, instead of 2x6 and it sounds wrong).

Hugo marries his childhood sweetheart, Adèle Foucher, and they have 5 children, 4 of which survive infancy. But his eye soon begins to wander; he meets Juliette Drouet, an actress, and their lifelong liaison begins. They both have other affairs on the side, but they stay together; a typical day in their lives would begin by a good fuck on the sofa in Hugo’s study, right under his wife’s nose, followed by a long session of joint writing, and their parting to take care of their respective careers / other obligations / other lover.

1843 marks a turn in Hugo’s writing. His latest play, Les Burgraves, is met with indifference; and his eldest and favourite child, Leopoldine, drows in a stupid boat accident, on her honeymoon.

He gives up the stage and enters politics instead – he is by then a convinced democrat. In 1848, he is elected to the Constituant Assembly, and becomes an MP right after that. But the new president, a Napoléon Bonaparte, stages a coup. Hugo would have been arrested had it not been for the quick thinking of the ever-present Juliette. They flee to Bruxelles, and, when it becomes apparent that the Empire is here to stay, to remote Jersey, where Adèle and their daughter join them. Their two sons stay in France, where they actively oppose the regime, which lands them in prison. The exile years are very hard for everyone, but Hugo refuses to give in; when Bonaparte gives a general amnesty to his political opponents in 1859, Hugo moves to Guernesey, but no further. Instead, he writes

“J'accepte l'âpre exil, n'eût-il ni fin ni terme,
Sans chercher à savoir et sans considérer
Si quelqu'un a plié qu'on aurait cru plus ferme,
Et si plusieurs s'en vont qui devraient demeurer.

Si l'on n'est plus que mille, eh bien, j'en suis ! Si même
Ils ne sont plus que cent, je brave encor Sylla ;
S'il en demeure dix, je serai le dixième ;
Et s'il n'en reste qu'un, je serais celui-là !

in the pamphlet/book of verse Les Châtiments (I accept bitter exile, even if it never ends, without considering whether those who should have stayed have gone. If we are no more than a thousand, no more than a hundred, I shall be with them; if they are but ten, I shall be the tenth, and if there is only one left, I shall be him!)

With Bonaparte’s fall comes the end of his exile and wide national recognition. His is elected to the Senate, the street he lives in gets re-named after him, and he rules over all the literary circles he deigns to attend. His last days are, however, not happy ones – his survives his two sons, his wife, and even Juliette as they all pass away in quick succession. His last daughter, Adèle, succumbs to madness and has to be interned. He suffers a heart attack himself and eventually dies, in 1885. More than two million people follow the coffin that goes straight to the Panthéon.

Today’s poem is not one of my favourites, but you can listen to it here!

Venez, vous dont l'œil étincelle Pour entendre une histoire encor Approchez: je vous dirai celle De doña Padilla del Flor Elle était d'Alanje, où s'entassent Les collines et les halliers Enfants, voici des bœufs qui passent Cachez vos rouges tabliers Il est des filles à Grenade Il en est à Séville aussi Qui, pour la moindre sérénade A l'amour demandent merci Il en est que parfois embrassent Le soir, de hardis cavaliers Enfants, voici des bœufs qui passent Cachez vos rouges tabliers Ce n'est pas sur ce ton frivole Qu'il faut parler de Padilla Car jamais prunelle espagnole D'un feu plus chaste ne brilla Elle fuyait ceux qui pourchassent Les filles sous les peupliers Enfants, voici des bœufs qui passent Cachez vos rouges tabliers Elle prit le voile à Tolède Au grand soupir des gens du lieu Comme si, quand on n'est pas laide On avait droit d'épouser Dieu Peu s'en fallut que ne pleurassent Les soudards et les écoliers Enfants, voici des bœufs qui passent Cachez vos rouges tabliers Or, la belle à peine cloîtrée Amour en son cœur s'installa Un fier brigand de la contrée Vint alors et dit : "Me voilà!" Quelquefois les brigands surpassent En audace les chevaliers Enfants, voici des bœufs qui passent Cachez vos rouges tabliers Il était laid : les traits austères La main plus rude que le gant Mais l'amour a bien des mystères Et la nonne aima le brigand On voit des biches qui remplacent Leurs beaux cerfs par des sangliers Enfants, voici des bœufs qui passent Cachez vos rouges tabliers La nonne osa, dit la chronique Au brigand par l'enfer conduit Aux pieds de Sainte Véronique Donner un rendez-vous la nuit A l'heure où les corbeaux croassent Volant dans l'ombre par milliers Enfants, voici des bœufs qui passent Cachez vos rouges tabliers Or quand, dans la nef descendue La nonne appela le bandit Au lieu de la voix attendue C'est la foudre qui répondit Dieu voulu que ses coups frappassent Les amants par Satan liés Enfants, voici des bœufs qui passent Cachez vos rouges tabliers Cette histoire de la novice Saint Ildefonse, abbé, voulut Qu'afin de préserver du vice Les vierges qui font leur salut Les prieurs la racontassent Dans tous les couvents réguliers Enfants, voici des bœufs qui passent Cachez vos rouges tabliers

Come hither, you sparkly-eyed To hear another story Come closer: I shall tell you that Of dona Padilla del Flor She was from Alanje, where Hills and shrubberies pile up Children, here are the oxes, Hide your red aprons There are girls in Granada There are some in Seville too Who for the least of serenades Ask love for mercy There are some who sometimes kiss Hardy knights at night Children, here are the oxes, Hide your red aprons This frivole tone Does not befit talk of Padilla For never did a Spanish eye Gleam of chaster a fire She fled those who chase Girls under the poplars Children, here are the oxes, Hide your red aprons She took the orders in Toledo To the sighs of Toledans As if it were forbidden to marry God When one isn’t ugly Drunkards and schoolboys Almost wept Children, here are the oxes, Hide your red aprons The lady was scarcely cloistered When love entered her heart A proud bandit from the region Came and said: “Here I am!” Sometimes bandits outdo knights Where audacity is concerned Children, here are the oxes, Hide your red aprons He was ugly: austere features The hand rougher than the glove But love holds many a mystery And the nun fell in love with the bandit Deers have been seen replacing Their proud stags with boars Children, here are the oxes, Hide your red aprons The nun dared – or so the chronicle says – Give a nightly rendez-vous To the hell-led bandit At the feet of Saint Véronique When the ravens crow As they fly in the shadows by the thousand Children, here are the oxes, Hide your red aprons But when the nun called the bandit As she descended in the nave Instead of the voice she expected Thunder answered her God wanted his blows to hit The lovers bound by Satan Children, here are the oxes, Hide your red aprons This story of the novice Saint Ildefonse, the abbot, wanted The priors to tell The virgins praying for their salvation In every regular convent To preserve them from sin Children, here are the oxes, Hide your red aprons

Those tables are indeed very convenient.

You see it’s more of a ballad in the German sense (= a long versified story, inspired by folk songs, with easy rimes and scansion so it can be recited/sung at leisure) than a poem. The romantic influences are there (perennial virginity, the thunder, God’s will), but there is no little humour in there too – this is no pamphlet for romanticism.



Next time, almost certainly not tomorrow, probably Wednesday: er, I’m not sure. Have you had your fill of romantics with Musset or do you want some Lamartine? If not, we’re moving to Baudelaire (unless you want a detour by the Parnasse?)