The Penguin Book of French Poetry Page 7

  (1802–85)

  An extravagant figure, a literary giant, Hugo worked in many genres in a career that spanned much of the nineteenth century. Novelist, dramatist and poet, he was the acknowledged leader of the Romantic movement. It is impossible to classify his poetry concisely, for his output ranges in tone and subject from understated and evocatively lyrical love poetry through powerfully dramatic religious experience to violent political invective, and from homely family scenes through grandiose epics to extended metaphysical meditations on the nature and works of mankind, God and the Devil.

  From a modern point of view, it is tempting to look at Hugo with some scepticism and even amusement. His rhetoric is at times undeniably pompous, inflated and humourless. His conception of the poet’s role as intermediary and interpreter between man and God, man and Nature, man and History, can seem to us the outrageous pretentiousness of an overdeveloped ego. But it is an acceptable hubris when viewed in its literary and historical context, and when set against the achievements of an innovative and authoritative artist of great vision, sensitivity and technical skill, justly admired for the scope and force of his visual imagination and for the strength of his ideas. He felt himself to be the authentic voice of the French people, and their response seemed to confirm it. Rarely can any poet have received such widespread popular acclaim, and at his funeral millions lined the streets of Paris.

  His family suffered financial insecurity when his father, a general, was forced to retire in 1814; but in spite of considerable strife between his parents, a warm image of family life predominates in his lyrical poetry. After law studies, Hugo began to develop literary contacts, published his first volume in 1822, and, avoiding parental prohibition, married Adèle Foucher. The eventual failure of the marriage was perhaps inevitable from the wedding breakfast itself, when his brother Eugène broke down under the strain of his own love for Adèle. Hugo was to find other fulfilment in his love for Juliette Drouet, the subject of many of his tenderest verses.

  His early work remained formally orthodox on the whole, but introduced new and typically Romantic subjects: medieval legend, for example, and a rather synthetic Oriental exoticism (inspired respectively by Walter Scott and the Arabian Nights, both enjoying a vogue in France at the time), and flirtations with the occult. The verse of this period is colourfully descriptive and dramatic; already his prime faculty, an accumulative visual imagination in love with antithesis, is very much in evidence. By 1830 Hugo was the focus of a dynamic group of young writers, artists and composers (the ‘Cénacle’, including Delacroix, David, Berlioz, Vigny and Musset), with an aggressive belief in their own talent and revolutionary importance.

  In the 1830s his poetry became more personal and reflective, yet imbued with emotional universality. He developed too a strong vein of humanitarianism which would grow later into a sustained assertion of the human spirit against the repressive regime of Napoléon III, and against the betrayal of the people by their leaders in 1870–71.

  A tendency to didacticism, rooted in his conception of the poet as seer and spokesman, was increased by political developments in the 1840s and 1850s, and the government of Napoléon III was so distasteful to him that he lived in voluntary exile in the Channel Islands from 1852 to 1870. Yet in addition to political satire and an energetic defence of human rights, he also wrote in those years a series of volumes of personal, religious and philosophical verse, including much of the immense historical project La Légende des Siècles, charting patterns of moral elevation and decline, achievement and suffering in human development. He also had to come to terms with personal tragedy: ‘Demain, dès l’aube’ and ‘A Villequier’ are contrasting responses to the accidental drowning of his newly married daughter.

  Hugo is arguably at his best when moving with fluency and imaginative vigour from image to image rather than idea to idea. His concrete, impassioned pictorial vision can compete even with that of Rimbaud, and at times a vibrant, atmospheric musicality matches that of the Symbolists who tended to underrate him. Hugo released the Alexandrine line to a considerable extent from its traditional inflexibility, but perhaps his greatest contribution to poetic development was his liberation of subject-matter and vocabulary from the old restraints and artificialities. After Hugo, anything and everything could be the stimulus, substance and style of poetry, in an expressive revolution that Baudelaire, Verlaine, Rimbaud, Corbière and Laforgue would push close to its limits even before the twentieth century: ‘The modern Muse will sense that all creation is not humanly lovely, that the ugly exists alongside the beautiful, the deformed beside the graceful, the grotesque on the reverse of the sublime, evil with good, shadow with light’ (from Hugo’s preface to his play Cromwell).

  Major volumes: Odes et Poésies diverses 1822, Nouvelles Odes 1824, Odes et Ballades 1826, Les Orientales 1829, Les Feuilles d’automne 1831, Les Chants du crépuscule 1835, Les Voix intérieures 1837, Les Rayons et les ombres 1840, Les Châtiments 1853, Les Contemplations 1856, La Légende des siècles 1859–1877–1883, Les Chansons des rues et des bois 1865, L’Année terrible 1872, L’Art d’être grand-père 1877, La Pitié suprême 1879, Les Quatre Vents de l’esprit 1881. Posthumous: La Fin de Satan, Toute la Lyre, Dieu, L’Océan, La Gerbe.

  Extase

  Et j’entendis une grande voix.

  Apocalypse

  J’étais seul près des flots, par une nuit d’étoiles.

  Pas un nuage aux cieux, sur les mers pas de voiles.

  Mes yeux plongeaient plus loin que le monde réel.

  Et les bois, et les monts, et toute la nature,

  Semblaient interroger dans un confus murmure

  Les flots des mers, les feux du ciel.

  Et les étoiles d’or, légions infinies,

  A voix haute, à voix basse, avec mille harmonies,

  Disaient, en inclinant leurs couronnes de feu;

  Et les flots bleus, que rien ne gouverne et n’arrête,

  Disaient, en recourbant l’écume de leur crête:

  – C’est le Seigneur, le Seigneur Dieu!

  Ecstasy

  ‘And I heard a great voice’

  Apocalypse

  I was alone by the waters, on a starlit night. Not a cloud in the heavens, on the seas not a sail. My vision plunged deeper than the real world. And the woods, and the mountains, and all nature seemed to question in an indistinct murmur the waves of the oceans, the fires in the sky.

  And the golden stars, infinite legions, with loud or hushed voices, with a thousand harmonies, said as they bowed their fiery crowns; and the blue waters, which nothing steers and nothing brings to rest, said as they bent low their foaming crests: – It is the Lord, the Lord God!

  Puisque mai tout en fleur…

  Puisque mai tout en fleur dans les prés nous réclame,

  Viens! ne te lasse pas de mêler à ton âme

  La campagne, les bois, les ombrages charmants,

  Les larges clairs de lune au bord des flots dormants,

  Le sentier qui finit où le chemin commence,

  Et l’air et le printemps et l’horizon immense,

  L’horizon que ce monde attache humble et joyeux

  Comme une lèvre au bas de la robe des cieux!

  Viens! et que le regard des pudiques étoiles,

  Qui tombe sur la terre à travers tant de voiles,

  Que l’arbre pénétré de parfums et de chants,

  Que le souffle embrasé de midi dans les champs,

  Et l’ombre et le soleil, et l’onde et la verdure,

  Et le rayonnement de toute la nature

  Fasse épanouir, comme une double fleur,

  La beauté sur ton front et l’amour dans ton coeur!

  Since flowering May…

  Since flowering May calls us from the meadows, come! do not tire of mingling with your soul the countryside, the woods, the enchanting shade, the broad beams of moonlight beside the sleeping waters, the path which ends where the road begins, and the air and the spring and the vast horizon
, the horizon, a lip with which this humble, joyous world kisses the hem of heaven’s robe! Come, and let the gaze of the chaste stars which falls on the earth through so many veils, let the tree imbued with scents and songs, let the burning breath of midday in the fields, and the shade and the sunlight, the water and the greenery, and let the radiance of all nature bring out, like a double blossoming flower, the beauty on your brow and the love in your heart!

  Souvenir de la nuit du 4

  L’enfant avait reçu deux balles dans la tête.

  Le logis était propre, humble, paisible, honnête;

  On voyait un rameau bénit sur un portrait.

  Une vieille grand-mère était là qui pleurait.

  Nous le déshabillions en silence. Sa bouche,

  Pâle, s’ouvrait; la mort noyait son oeil farouche;

  Ses bras pendants semblaient demander des appuis.

  Il avait dans sa poche une toupie en buis.

  On pouvait mettre un doigt dans les trous de ses plaies.

  Avez-vous vu saigner la mÛre dans les haies?

  Son crâne était ouvert comme un bois qui se fend.

  L’aïeule regarda déshabiller l’enfant,

  Disant: – Comme il est blanc! approchez donc la lampe.

  Dieu! ses pauvres cheveux sont collés sur sa tempe!–

  Et quand ce fut fini, le prit sur ses genoux.

  La nuit était lugubre; on entendait des coups

  De fusil dans la rue où l’on en tuait d’autres.

  – Il faut ensevelir l’enfant, dirent les nôtres.

  Memory of the Night of the Fourth

  The child had received two bullets in the head. The dwelling was clean, humble, peaceful, decent; we could see a holy palm above a portrait. An old grandmother was there, weeping. We undressed him in silence. His pale mouth hung open; death was drowning his eyes full of fear; his dangling arms seemed to seek support. He had in his pocket a boxwood top. You could put a finger in the holes of his wounds. Have you seen the blackberry bleeding in the hedgerows? His skull was open like a splitting log. The grandmother watched as the child was undressed, saying: – How white he is! Come, bring the lamp closer. God! his poor hair is stuck to his temples! And when it was over, she took him on her knees. The night was dark and dismal; you could hear gunshots in the streets where they were killing others. – We must wrap the child, our people said. And a white sheet was taken from the walnut cupboard. And yet the grandmother brought him close to the hearth as if to warm his already stiffened limbs. Alas! what is touched by the cold hands of death can no more be warmed at firesides here below! She bent her head and pulled off his stockings, and in her aged hands she took the corpse’s feet. – Isn’t it a heartbreaking thing! she cried! Sir, he wasn’t even eight years old! His masters – he went to school – were pleased with him. Sir, when I had to send a letter, it was he who wrote it. Are they going to start killing children now? Ah! my God! They are just brigands now! I ask you, he was playing this morning, there, just by the window! To think they’ve killed him, this poor little creature of mine! He was walking in the street, they shot at him. Sir, he was as good and gentle as a Jesus. I’m old, it’s natural I should go; it would have made no difference to Monsieur Bonaparte to kill me instead of killing my child! – She broke off, choked by her sobs, and then she said, with all in tears beside the grandmother: – What will become of me now, all alone? Tell me that, you people, here today. Alas! he was all I had left of his mother. Why did they kill him! I want someone to tell me. The child didn’t shout Long Live the Republic. – We are silent, standing gravely, hats held low, trembling before this grief that cannot be consoled.

  Et l’on prit un drap blanc dans l’armoire en noyer.

  L’aïeule cependant l’approchait du foyer

  Comme pour réchauffer ses membres déjà roides.

  Hélas! ce que la mort touche de ses mains froides

  Ne se réchauffe plus aux foyers d’ici-bas!

  Elle pencha la tête et lui tira ses bas,

  Et dans ses vieilles mains prit les pieds du cadavre.

  – Est-ce que ce n’est pas une chose qui navre!

  Cria-t-elle! monsieur, il n’avait pas huit ans!

  Ses maitres, il allait en classe, étaient contents.

  Monsieur, quand il fallait que je fisse une lettre,

  C’est lui qui l’écrivait. Est-ce qu’on va se mettre

  A tuer les enfants maintenant? Ah! mon Dieu!

  On est donc des brigands! Je vous demande un peu,

  Il jouait ce matin, là, devant la fenêtre!

  Dire qu’ils m’ont tué ce pauvre petit être!

  Il passait dans la rue, ils ont tiré dessus.

  Monsieur, il était bon et doux comme un Jésus.

  Moi je suis vieille, il est tout simple que je parte;

  Cela n’aurait rien fait à monsieur Bonaparte

  De me tuer au lieu de tuer mon enfant!–

  Elle s’interrompit, les sanglots l’étouffant,

  Puis elle dit, et tous pleuraient près de l’aïeule:

  – Que vais-je devenir à présent toute seule?

  Expliquez-moi cela, vous autres, aujourd’hui.

  Hélas! je n’avais plus de sa mère que lui.

  Pourquoi l’a-t-on tué? je veux qu’on me l’explique.

  L’enfant n’a pas crié vive la République.–

  Nous nous taisons, debout et graves, chapeau bas,

  Tremblant devant ce deuil qu’on ne console pas.

  Vous ne compreniez point, mère, la politique.

  Monsieur Napoléon, c’est son nom authentique,

  Est pauvre et même prince; il aime les palais;

  Il lui convient d’avoir des chevaux, des valets,

  De l’argent pour son jeu, sa table, son alcôve,

  Ses chasses: par la même occasion, il sauve

  La famille, l’église et la société;

  Il veut avoir Saint-Cloud, plein de roses l’été,

  Où viendront l’adorer les préfets et les maires;

  C’est pour cela qu’il faut que les vieilles grand-mères,

  De leurs pauvres doigts gris que fait trembler le temps,

  Cousent dans le linceul des enfants de sept ans.

  Mother, you didn’t understand politics. Monsieur Napoléon, for that’s his real name, is poor and yet a prince; he loves palaces; it suits him to have horses, valets, money for his gambling, his table, his secluded bedroom, his hunting; into the bargain, he is the saviour of family, church and society; he covets Saint-Cloud, filled with roses in summer, where prefects and mayors will come and worship him; that’s why old grandmothers, with their poor grey fingers that tremble with age, must sew into winding-sheets seven-year-old children.

  Stella

  Je m’étais endormi la nuit près de la grève.

  Un vent frais m’éveilla, je sortis de mon rêve,

  J’ouvris les yeux, je vis l’étoile du matin.

  Elle resplendissait au fond du ciel lointain

  Dans une blancheur molle, infinie et charmante.

  Aquilon s’enfuyait emportant la tourmente.

  L’astre éclatant changeait la nuée en duvet.

  C’était une clarté qui pensait, qui vivait;

  Elle apaisait l’écueil où la vague déferle;

  On croyait voir une âme à travers une perle.

  Il faisait nuit encor, l’ombre régnait en vain,

  Le ciel s’illuminait d’un sourire divin.

  La lueur argentait le haut du mât qui penche;

  Le navire était noir, mais la voile était blanche;

  Des goélands debout sur un escarpement

  Attentifs, contemplaient l’étoile gravement

  Comme un oiseau céleste et fait d’une étincelle.

  L’océan, qui ressemble au peuple, allait vers elle.

  Stella

  I had fallen asleep in the darkness near the shore. A cool wind woke me, I emerged from my dream, I opened my eyes, I saw the morning
star. It was shining brightly in the depths of a distant sky in a soft whiteness, infinite, bewitching. The north wind fled away, carrying the tempest with it. The brilliant star changed the stormclouds into down. It was a light that thought, that lived; it calmed the reef where the waves break; it was as if one saw a soul through a pearl. Though it was still night, the darkness reigned in vain, the sky was illumined by a divine smile. The gleam flashed silver on the tilting mast; the ship was dark, but the sail was white; seagulls perched upright on a cliff beheld the star with solemn, rapt attention as if it were a heavenly bird made from a spark. The ocean, which is like the people, moved towards it and, with its muted roar, watched it shine, and seemed afraid of putting it to flight. An ineffable love filled the vast expanse. The green grass at my feet was quivering in wild rapture. The birds spoke together in their nests; a waking flower told me: it is my sister star. And as the darkness lifted the long folds of its veil, I heard a voice that came from the star, saying: – I am the star that comes before. I am the one believed to be in the tomb and who emerges. I shone on Sinai, I shone on Taygeta; I am the fiery golden pebble hurled by God, as from a catapult, into the black brow of night. I am what is reborn when a world is destroyed. O nations! I am the burning fire of Poetry. I shone upon Moses and I shone upon Dante. The lion ocean is in love with me. I come. Rise up, virtue, courage, faith! Thinkers, minds, climb upon the tower, sentinels! Eyelids, open! eyes, kindle your spark! Earth, stir your furrow; life, arouse your sound; rise up, you sleepers! – for he who follows me, for he who sends me ahead as herald, is the angel called Liberty, the giant called Light!

  Et, rugissant tout bas, la regardait briller,

  Et semblait avoir peur de la faire envoler.

  Un ineffable amour emplissait l’étendue.

  L’herbe verte à mes pieds frissonnait éperdue.

  Les oiseaux se parlaient dans les nids; une fleur