Imágenes de páginas
PDF
EPUB

gan to appreciate his powers, Germany reviled him, and strove to lower him. This had a prejudicial effect upon him.

Heine's only exertion was to be carried from his bed to his fauteuil, where he sat writing the Memoirs which have still to be published. He wrote widely, in large letters, and hence an immense quantity of MS. was found on his death. When tired of work, or not in the humour, Mathilde was accustomed to read to him. She had gone through the whole of Dumas's romances, for Heine excessively admired his fertile, lively, and inventive talent. But the hours devoted to reading were also frequently given up to serious pursuits. He had studied during the last years of his life every book relating to the physiology and pathology of his illness, but even on this subject he was wont to be satirical, and that his studies would avail him little in this world; perhaps he could give lectures in another world, and prove to his hearers the inefficiency of doctors on earth.

say

Heine's last residence in Paris was in the Avenue Matignon, in the Champs Elysées, where he enjoyed what he had so long sought-seclusion, fresh air, and prospect of verdure. His isolation increased here, however, and he felt that his agony lasted too long. When Berlioz was one day announced, he said, bitterly, "What, some one visit me? Berlioz is always original!" But he was compensated by the presence of a young lady, an intense admirer of his from her earliest youth, and who soon became his inseparable ally. More than a hundred notes, written in pencil, still exist, which Heine sent to urge her to come, as he felt so miserable without her presence. A few of these letters are quoted by M. Meissner, and they betray the wonderful temperament of the writer. A poem, too, written but three weeks before Heine's death, is full of the most weird-like phantasy and horrible imagery. When he wrote these lines, however, he was far from believing that death was so near, but a sudden access of illness utterly prostrated his strength. Even in his last moments he remained true to himself. A friend asked him whether he had reconciled himself with his Creator, and Heine replied, smilingly, "Do not be alarmed. Dieu me pardonnera, c'est son métier." On the morning of the 17th of February he died with perfect calmness, and retaining his consciousness to the last. The daily press only devoted a few lines to the death of the greatest poet of modern times, and not a word was uttered over his tomb. As he had himself sung long previously:

Keine Messe wird man singen,
Keinen Kadosch wird man sagen,
Nichts gesagt und nichts gesungen,
Wird an meinen Sterbetagen.

Heine lies in the cemetery of Montmartre, and we believe, with our author, that "his death will be the commencement of his apotheosis."

A CENTURY OF LEGENDS.*

WERE quantity the sole criterion by which poetry should be judged, we would have no hesitation in saying that Victor Hugo is the first poet of his age-perhaps of any age. In addition to the many miles of verse he has already spun out, he has now produced two octavo volumes, containing eight hundred pages of poetry, and, worse still, promises two further instalments of the same length. Now that politics are shelved, we would recommend those ingenious gentlemen who periodically solve problems with reference to the circumference of the globe and various trade productions, to try how far the verses contained in these two volumes would extend.

Unfortunately, such a copia verborum must be imperfect it is the necessity of humanity to be fallible, and Homer, we are told on good authority, sometimes nods. Victor Hugo is not free from this prevailing epidemic, and, while we find much in his volumes to admire, there is much again which we could see omitted without regret. Few poets, indeed, excel this author in his manner of blending pathos and bathos: you come across lines which stir the heart like the sound of the trumpet, and then your enthusiasm is damped by some common-place expression, which jars on the senses like the sound of Big Ben after he was cracked. No poet could so well bear being cut up into "specimens" as the gentleman we have now under notice, and we could cull from his voluminous verse a small volume of extracts which would obtain him his true position as a poet. As it is, we must take him with all his faults, and, regarded in that way, he does not fulfil all that the English reader more especially demands from the Vates, who, by the magic power of his verse, is expected to exercise a beneficent influence on humanity.

It is, however, hardly fair for an Englishman to criticise French poetry, for the conditions demanded in the two countries essentially differ. Where our poets appeal to the heart the French appeal to the senses, and such authors as Victor Hugo are satisfied with producing a flaunting bed of poppies, gratifying to the eye, where we desire the fragrance and sweetness of the violet. Then, again, there is an awful monotony in French versification: it seems to walk on stilts, and you fear every moment lest the performer should fall from his altitude-as indeed he too often does. The ampullas et sesquipedalia verba are not confined to the versifiers whom Horace objurgates. In England, too, great-perhaps undue stress is laid on the correctness of the rhyme, and if a slipshod stanza be allowed to creep in, none are so ready as the English to raise the cry of "Cockney." In France this is disregarded; so long as the poet can produce a rhyming jingle he is satisfied. Thus, one of the most successful pieces in the two volumes we have now under notice is "The Song of the Sea Adventurers," with its ever-recurring chorus:

En partant du golfe d'Otrante,

Nous étions trente;

Mais, en arrivant à Cadiz,

Nous étions dix.

* La Légende des Siècles. Par Victor Hugo. Two Vols. Paris: 1859.

Here we have the fault to which we allude twice repeated: Otrante is not rhyme to trente, nor is Cadiz to dix. We should not lay such stress on this vice, were it not continually occurring throughout the two volumes.

And now for the work itself, and its motive. In a purposely obscure preface the author tells us it is a beginning and an end, something perfect in itself, and yet forming part of a whole, which he exemplifies by comparing it to the peristyle of an edifice or to a tree in a forest. His object in composing it is, he tells us, "to reproduce the types of the human profile, date by date, from Eve, mother of mankind, to the Revolution, mother of peoples." These types are selected haphazard from barbarism as from civilisation, and are moulded on the mask of centuries. His choice of the legendary form he justifies by stating that the collector of legends occupies a certain distinct place in the history of ages: "while Herodotus writes history, Homer composes legends." In a word, his work is a "tentative towards the ideal," which he explains by saying that when his two other poems, now on the point of completion, "La Fin de Satan" and "Dieu," are published, the reader will perceive the link connecting "La Légende des Siècles" to them. And here he becomes almost too grand: he proposes "to regard Being under its triple face-Humanity, Evil, and the Infinite-the progressive, the relative, and the absolute. . . . The intention of the book is good: the expansion of the human race from age to age; man ascending from darkness to the ideal; the paradisaic transfiguration of the terrestrial hill; the slow and supreme germination of liberty; right in this life and responsibility in the other; a species of religious hymn with a thousand strophes, bearing in its entrails a profound faith and on its summit a lofty prayer; the drama of creation illumined by the countenance of the Creator-such this poem will be in its entirety when terminated." We really must stop a moment, after noting down those tall words, to try and find out their meaning. But no, the task is beyond us, and would even puzzle a Grotofried, though he could read cuneiform inscriptions as easily as his alphabet.

The first volume opens with the "Sacre de la Femme," which is strongly suggestive of the Book of Genesis and Milton strangely jumbled together. Still it contains some charming lines, as witness the following:

Eve offrait au ciel bleu la sainte nudité;

Eve blonde admirait l'aube, sa sœur vermeille.
Chair de la femme! argile idéale! ô merveille!
O pénétration sublime de l'esprit

Dans le limon que l'Etre ineffable pétrit!
Matière où l'âme brille à travers son suaire!
Boue où l'on voit les doigts du divin statuaire !
Fange auguste appelant le baiser et le cœur,
Si sainte, qu'on ne sait, tant l'amour est vainqueur,
Tant l'âme est vers ce lit mystérieux poussée,
Si cette volupté n'est pas une pensée,

Et qu'on ne peut, à l'heure où les sens sont en feu,
Etreindre la beauté sans croire embrasser Dieu!
Eve laissait errer ses yeux sur la nature.

Et, sous les verts palmiers à la haute stature,

Autour d'Eve, au-dessus de sa tête, l'œillet
Semblait songer, le bleu lotus se recueillait,
Le frais myosotis se souvenait; les roses
Cherchaient ses pieds avec leurs lèvres demi-closes;
Un souffle fraternel sortait du lis vermeil ;
Comme si ce doux être eût été leur pareil,
Comme si de ces fleurs, ayant toutes une âme,

La plus belle s'était épanouie en femme.

One of the few French critics who have ventured to notice Victor Hugo's book, says of these lines that they are utterly free from the taint of sensualism, or, at any rate, that the sensualism is "spiritual." The same apology might be offered for Mormonism. The next poem, "La Conscience," is also grand in its idea, but irredeemably spoiled by those platitudes to which we have already referred. A contemporary has justly pointed out the fault that, in describing Cain concealing himself in a cave to escape the All-seeing Eye-" il se fut assis sur sa chaise." But here is another image equally ludicrous. Tubal Cain, to conceal his father, builds him a city of bronze, and writes over the door, "Défense à Dieu d'entrer." This irresistibly reminds us of the universal notice on French railways-"Défense de circuler sur le chemin de fer." But the next poem, "Les Lions," amply makes up for such deficiencies of taste as these. The following lines are grand:

Les loups qui font la guerre aux morts et les déterrent,

Les ours au crâne plat, les chacals convulsifs

Qui, pendant le naufrage, errent sur les récifs,
Sont féroces; l'hyène infâme est implacable;

Le tigre attend sa proie et d'un seul bond l'accable;
Mais le puissant lion, qui fait de larges pas,
Parfois lève sa griffe et ne la baisse pas,

Etant le grand rêveur solitaire de l'ombre.

Equally beautiful, though in a minor key, is the poem called "Booz Endormi," which makes us angry that the author does not always write in the same chastened style. Here are a few stanzas proving the justice of our remarks:

Pendant qu'il sommeillait, Ruth, une moabite,
S'était couchée aux pieds de Booz, le sein nu,
Espérant on ne sait quel rayon inconnu,
Quand viendrait du réveil la lumbière subite.

Booz ne savait point qu'une femme était là,
Et Ruth ne savait point ce que Dieu voulait d'elle.
Un frais parfum sortait des touffes d'asphodèle ;
Les souffles de la nuit flottaient sur Galgala.
L'ombre était nuptiale, auguste et solennelle;
Les anges y volaient sans doute obscurément,
Car on voyait passer dans la nuit, par moment,
Quelque chose de bleu qui paraissait une aile.

La respiration ne Booz, qui dormait,

Se mêlait au bruit sourd des ruisseaux sur la mousse.
On était dans le mois où la nature est douce,

Les collines ayant des lis sur leur sommet.

Ruth songeait et Booz dormait; l'herbe était noire;
Les grelots des troupeaux palpitaient vaguement;
Une immense bonté tombait du firmament;

C'était l'heure tranquille où les lions vont boire.

A large portion of the first volume is devoted to the romances of Roland and his good sword Durandal. In " Aymerillot " the author describes the efforts made by Charlemagne to induce his recreant knights, de guerre lasse, to take the city of Narbonne for him; but they all decline till the little page steps forward. The knights, though unwilling to fight, have no objection to talk, and make some terribly long-winded speeches, the most characteristic passage being the following, to which we fancy many a soldier returned from the Italian campaign will heartily respond "Amen!"

Je suis moulu. Car, sire, on s'échine à la guerre;

On arrive à haïr ce qu'on aimait naguère,

Le danger qu'on voyait tout rose, on le voit noir;

On s'use, on se disloque, on finit par avoir

La

goutte aux reins, l'entorse aux pieds, aux mains l'ampoule,

Si bien, qu'étant parti vautour, on revient poule.

Je désire un bonnet de nuit. Foin du cimier!

J'ai tant de gloire, ô roi, que j'aspire au fumier.

In "Eviradnus" there is an exquisite song of two lovers riding side by side. Here, for instance, is a perfect idea:

Mon cheval sera la joie,

Ton cheval sera l'amour.

Nous ferons toucher leurs têtes;

Les voyages sont aisés;
Nous donnerons à ces bêtes

Une avoine de baisers.

The legend of "Ratbert" we recommend for perusal to those who like to sup their fill of horrors, but to no others. In it the poet indulges to its full bent that awful cynicism and ferocious disdain of poor humanity, which was first openly preached by Lord Byron. Here and there, however, his better nature peeps out, and there is something ineffably touching in the description of the toilette of Isora, when the simple old man dresses his grandchild with his own hands for the reception of the felon emperor, who is thirsting for her life-blood. From the same poem we select a philosophical passage, which appears but an amplification of the lines in Schiller's "Song of the Bell," where he describes the fury of man when roused. How run the words?

Schrecklich ist des Tiger's Zahn

-Doch der schrecklichste der Schrecken,
Das ist der Mensch in seiner Wahn.

Compare the following lines:

Ah! le vautour est triste à voir, en vérité,
Déchiquetant sa proie et planant; on s'effraie
Du cri de la fauvette aux griffes de l'orfraie;
L'épervier est affreux rongeant des os brises;
Pourtant, par l'ombre immense on les sent excusés,
L'impénétrable faim est la loi de la terre,
Et le ciel, qui connaît la gande énigme austère,

(

« AnteriorContinuar »