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8/13/2019 Victor Hugo Seen by His Contemporaries
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8/13/2019 Victor Hugo Seen by His Contemporaries
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AMERICAN ART JOURNAL. ; 57
The moonlight fainteth
Sick andwhite;The east grows red
With a lurid light;
Only one Star
In the changing sky,
Fades slowly back
As the dawn creeps nigh.
The casement slowly
Grows light and square,And the dyino eyes
That arewatcliig there
Coupqteach small pane
That theday loolksthrough,
And the one star fading
Against theblue.
Then shewearily, wearIly4
Litts her head-.
t4When the tide goes out,
They will findme dlead:
They will smooth-niiyhair,
And braid the strands,
And clasp together
*Themeek white hands;
They will foldl he -shroudOn my &ozen brea&t,
And dream they have leftme
To sleep and rest.
But deep inmy bosom
A secret lies,
That I read forever,
With sleepless eyes.
"Alive or dead,
It is burning there
If for revel or shroud.
They. braid mly hab[r I "
The grave is dark,
And its-bed isdee
But can Love forget,
And canmadness sleep ?
Though the grave-worm lie
ODmy dead heart's chill,
'The urse and its sign
Shall awake there etillI"
The sun rose up
Like a sphere o1 lire,
Up through the fair skyMounting higher;4Uattled the tide
Down the pebbly shore,
But the dioad lay silent
2orcver more.
The wild tide rushed
To the distanit sea,
And a souiwent NVitht,
Silently-1
Back from her forehead
So cold-and whitd,
They braided her tteses
Likce clou(dynight.
Ddep Inher bosom
So pure and cold,
They found a chain,:
And a ring 'o gold.
Tlhey let it lie,
And thieyf'olded here
H:er hands across it
as if in nrayer. -MINETEE3
VICTOR HUGO.
Victor Hugo is in tlle full strength of that sec
ond youth hwlichlM. Flotirens is so anxious toinvent. Sea air, and lolngpedestrian excuirsions,absence from our tlheatres and the Frencl
Academy, keep him in a vigor of body and mind
of whicll the " Songs of the Streets and Woods"
were the expansion, and " The Toilers of the
Sea," the grateful expression. He will yet
write many anotlher work. It seemsas if the
period of its fecundity wvereat its very beginning.Years acgo lhewrote "Autumn Leaves," by an
.anticipated,nielancholy which preceded hiis summer. H-lere are lharvest and fruits long, beforewinter-time.
An intrepidwallker, an excellent hlost orguest,an indefatigable talker, fond of good, hearty;sonorous laugvhter and the stories whicli b6egretit. Victor Hugo las in h)isgesture, mien, in theexpression of his whole person, that strengthwlichl is far above solemin- attitudes, wlhichavouclhes ablundant life. He is a man loving,
lhating, working, in aill the serene ardor ofvirility.
We mnust tell tlhe lazgy who await iinspirati'o,
-Our masters rouse it, and do not wait for it to
rouse tlhem. Lamnartine is up .and at work at
five o'cloclk,A.84. Victor Hugo rises at tlhesamie lhour.
Vi;ctor Hugos clhamber is almost a garret. Itis in the top of lis hlouse. The bed-which is
a sort of sofai covered with velvet and old tapes
try-serves for seat as well. This small cham
ber is a portion of the beivedere of tlle Lookoutwhence vessels are signalled, and hliere the flag
is lhoisted, accorditig to the island's custom.
Victor Hu.go is tllere as if it were his post.
The moment he rises he goes into his study,
which looks more like a plhotgraplher's studiothlani anything else. The fitst objects in it
whiclh strik-e attention Are a small stove of old
earthenware, a tew seats, scattered books, the
infinite ho6ion of ocean, and the-chimneys of
the vllage.' In the passage leading to the stair
case there nre a small sofa and at table; here he
takes refuge wlhen the sun beats too ardently on
his 2lazed study.
The parting or returning laborers discoverfrom the sea, if their going or coming be before
dawvn, a lamiip in this study, higlh above the vil
lage houses,-the lamip of another laborer. Did
they suspect sonii montlhs since that the niaster
of Hauteville House was observing, studyingthemi, and followvingthoeniwith his imagination?ashe told their joys aiid depicted their sorrows?
Vlctor Hugo works standing. As he his found
no old-faslhioned piece of furniture wlicihlpan beturned into a donvenient writing-0esk, and lhasa vise lhorror of moderil desks, he writes -on
stools placed on stools on wlhioh old- folios are
piled anid coverpd witl a clotli. It is on tlhe
Bible and on the Nureniburg Chronicle that the
poet leans his olbow-s and;spreads his paper.
His paper is blue, tlhin, folio size. Blotting a
great deal, correcting his plhrases time and
again, to satisfy an artist's scruples, whicll are
lnever quiite contented, Victor Hugo uses none
but gaosc-quill pens. It allmost seems lhe takes
pleasure in makingthose broad scores wlhicll
cover words and lines, and which are often like
-hills,-like landscape-vistas in thed text.
It wvould-not lbe hard to find sometihnes form
less outlines, attempts at drawing in the midst
of the writing. The vision of the idea is often
doublie for the poet-painter.
The dripping slheetse *wounded by that Gtallic
writing which is so ch'aracteristic, dry spread out
at length. Wlhen the day's labor is ended,
Victor Hugo collects the shleets, locks them up,
and commonly keeps the secret of his inspira
tion. He never.. reads to his most intimate
friends, nor to ,his family, until the .work.nolonger fears criticism. He is an essen;tiallydramatic poet, and whlen he reads, it is to raise
emotion. These very rare readings are always&
festivaLl o the listener. Victor Hugo reads verywell; he reads r-ather solemnly, but with acharming, expressive voice.
His autograp)hmanuscripts never leaveHaiuteville Houise. They are copied by affectionatepens, and collected with respect. Everything is
matter of importance to a writer Who is a painter, and who dreads tlhedisappearance of aword,the mutilation of a phrase, the ch'ange of a dasl,
a comma, a colon, or a period, as the removal
of a portion of the liglht indispensalble to the
lharmonyof the pictu-re. Wlhen the work hlastlhtus een copied, reread, and collated, it is sentto Lacroix & Co., who place it in the printer'slhands.
Messrs. VacqGlezie and Meurice correct theproof-sheets, and superintend tlle printing atParis. We may say Victor Hugo's works arethe most irreproaclhablein appearance and arrangement of all works whlicih now appear,tlhanks to tlle care which Claiye, the printer, thepublislher, anid thle author's friends take inbringing out tlhework,-thanks to the importance they attaclh to every particular which canincrease. the effect of works which really are
dramas.
The question hlasoften been asked, does VictorHugo work easily? It is evident he does notpossess that extraordinary faculty of extemporization 'which enables Lamartine to write soimuclhwitlhout even blotting, a word. Lamar
tine's steel pen runs rapidly, scarcely grazingthe glazed paper 'which t covers wvitlh delicate
marks. It looks as it; flies like a sylph waltzing
on the snow. Victor Hugo makes pen and papercrealk under him. 'He reflects on each word.He weighs every expression. He leans on periods as travellers sit onmilestones, to considerthe ended plhrase and the blank spacewlhere thefollowing plhrase is going to begin. . ome mem
oranda of words, some names jotted on themargin, like notes, would make one suppose
that lhe records hlis impressions as if lhe were
afraid lhe would not easily find them in his
memory.
The absolute isoiation which is necessary tohis labor, hiis rigorous solitude while working,would lead one to believe he required all his fac
ulties. It is true theymay likewise indicate a
prodigious reverence for intellectual things in a
writer wlho refuses to allow anytlhingto
profanetheMuse's visits.
The reader may now inagineoow " The
Toilers of the Sea" wvas written. The east was
still pale; tlle poet copied the liorizon, andover his manuscript looked at the ocean wlich1,
so to speak, came to his feet; lis paper was its
.beach.
I believe I shall have completed the essentialtraits of Victor Hugo while writing, after I have
said that lhe is the most 'honest and tlle inost
skillful merchlant of his works. Tlleie is hever
any lawsuit, dispute, or even disappointment, on
his or on his publisliers' part.
Tlhorouglhlyacquainted with everytlhing toucling the cost of books, he kniows, too, the result
of the sales. He reckons the probable profits of
hiis publisher, and lie equitably proportions Iiis
profits to those of the publisher. All personswho have entered into contracts witlh Victor
Hugo say they lhave never been called upoin to'
refuse exaggerated demands, nor to liope for
profitwhiclh their modesty as tradesmen mightbluslh to reap.
When once pecuniary questions nre settled on
a reasonable footing, Victor Hugo does not
yield to any temptation. As he refused the
otlher day-not $100,000 as was stated, but
$20,000 offered by several newspapers to publish"The Toilers of the Sea " in feuilletons, so lie
knows how to resist every temptation whichwould make the sentiment of art yield to the love
of speculation. -Thlis reserve,whlen thlevoice of money is at
the same time thleseduct.ivevoice of flattery andof praeisedeserves to be mentioned. It was rare
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8/13/2019 Victor Hugo Seen by His Contemporaries
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AMERICANART JOURNAL.
at;every epoch. It may be deemed impossiblenow-a days.*Is it niot consoling to think that the mostskillful and the blist paid writer of our generaation is likewise the proudest of them all ?
NOT FORGOTTEN.
I left her:-Ioth was I to go
She was my promisodwifeThe pledge, long.sought, had made itsmark
In joy uponmy litb.JTwas like theBow ofPromiA placed
By God's band, high above,To me a sign of storms all pased
A covenant of love I
A weigbt of sadness crueshiedWhen the hour of parting, came;
A clrk and drear forebo(lingfellA dreadl wvithout a naime.
It seemed a livingPresenceThreat'ning stoodlbetween us two,
And we felt itsblighting sha(dowv,As we said our last adieu.
What was it trembledat ourheartsThat caused our cheeks to pale?
A shudlder,such as thrill those soulsWho hear the Banshee's wail
Still, lirn in'tatth of our great love,
We saw thoShadow hide.r lkissedthe roses back again
Ere tbe lastwords were said.
I know we counted hour by hour,And kept the tally true;
Had- but knowii-I would have held
Themoments as they flew,And spun them into long, long years,
Each year anAge, itrthen
I butmight clasp my living love,Close to my heart again.
I lingered inmy distant homeThreeweearyyears ormore;
The lnggardpost, wvithleaden feet,Sweet we come gr2etings bore.
But then there came a ltapse-no word,No tokenfom her hand
And then, betweenmy love andme,I felt the shadow stand
Itwas a gaunit and formless shape,I viewed ttwith hushed breath,
I felt its cold hand onmy heart,
Aud each pulse-throb said-Death.Therewas no pause, no stop, no rest,No
waitfor time nor tide
I felt my loved one could not die
Without me by her.side.
I darednot stay thatgentle soulOn its blest, heavenly way;
I cared not for the blasted lifeThatmust be mine alwavy.
I knew thathaltlng 'tween the two,God's grace and human love,
The soul of my soul fluttered,Ere it took Itsflight above.
So I pressed on, ever onward,Never dust clun- tomy feet,
Till Iwalked with lying calmnessUp thewell-remembered street.
I passed the dtoor,unconscious,I stood beside lher ed
I knelt adown and took her handAlas I iny lovewas dead I
I bent to kiss her pallid browWhich gave no sign-not one\
With sorrowbeating atmy heart,Which. grief had turned to stone.
Then broke thopent-up a?gonyAs some fierce dammed-up streami
And burst the fetters fromn y mindWhich had beeii all a-dream.
The bitter sobs broke frommy lips,The hot tears coured adown
OGodI there culminated allOf woe theearth has known.
Itmattered iat that I had feltThe woe tihatwas to come,
That moment flashed the truth tome,And
brouglht the sorrow home.
Home tomy breakino heart, while IRained tears upon her cheek
And uttered wild and franticprayersIf she woul(donly speak
1f from this death trance slhewould giveA token or a sian;
One look, one sigb, one pressure faintOf her cold hand in mine I
And then there passed across her faceA transient flush of life,
InawhichSoul combatting with Death,Rose victor in the strife.
The closed eyelids slowly oped,But with a gaze distraught,
As though the soul sublimed fom clay,Its heaven with longing sought.
And then a change-O fading cheek ILife's flush for ever gone
One glance of love she beamed onme,One glunce-one-only onea
But in that glance the single loveOf all her stainless lite
Was centered-then the calm of deathUsurped Earth's passion strife.
Sublimely beautiful, my love,Thy face comes back to me,
With God's own holy halo roundIts frailmortality.
With God's grand impresson thybrowThat lookcomes back again,
And thanks frommy longwidowed heartRise up in fervent strain.
Rise upward, ina pmangladThat in that last fobid ook
Thy love revealed itself tomeAs in awritten book.
Whose words, ingolden letters stamped,This blessed solacegave
That love unsullied in its truth,Can triumplb 'er thegrave.
HIENRY.WATSON.
BELLINI.
BY ARTHUR POUGIN.
Translated fom the French by MA1IGAxiT OEor&
CLEL,
I.
"It isprejudice to believe that genius ought todie early. I believe that the space betweex j,hirty
and thirty-flveyears has been assigned as the agemost fatal to genius. How many times I havejoked and teased-poor Bellini on this subject, in,predicting that Inhis quality of geuius, he oughtto die soon, as he had attained the critical age IStringe I niotwithstanding our tone ofgaiety, thisprophecy caused him an Involuntarydisquiet: hecailed me his jettatore, and never failed to makethe sign of the cross. He had sBch a strong- desire to live I The word death excited in him adelirium of aversion; he did not wish to hear.death -spoken of; he was as afraid of it as a childwho fears to sleep 'in the dark. He was a goodand amiable child, a little selfi-sufficientat times,but one only had to threaten bim with his approaching death to.make his voice modest andsupplicating, and see him make with raised fia
gers the sign ot disenchantment fl'om the jettatore. Poor Bellini I
"IYou were then personaIly acquainted withhim? Was he handsome?
"He was not ugly. We men can do littlemorethan to answer afflirmativelysucha question uponone of our seg. A flgure lithe and swaying,movements gracefhl and almost coquettish; always dressed faultlessly; regular features, floridcomplexion, blonde hair, almost golden, worn inlight curls, a noble rorehead, high, very high,straight nose, pale blue eyes, a well proportioned
mouth, and round chinl. His features showedsomething vague andwithout character, althoughthey sometimes changed into an expression ofbitter-sweet sadness. This sadness replacedespat in Bellini's tace; but it was a sadness with
out depth, the light of which vaccilated withoutpoetry in the eyes, and trembled upon the lipswithout passion. The young maestro seemed to
wish to display in all his person this soft and
effeiinate grief. His hair was curledwith a sentimentality so dreamuy, is garments fittedwith a,langour so supple around his slender figure; hecarriedl his Spanish cane with an nir so idlyltiethat he always reminded me of those shepher(dsthat we have seen mincing in Pastorals, with ribboned crook and breeclhesof rose colored taffeta.His gait was so feminine, so elegiac, so etherial IHis entire person had an air of sentimental foppishness. He hadmuch successwith tle women,but I doubt if he ever inspired any great passion.For me, his appearance had something pleasantlyannoying, the reason of which I could accountfor in his bad French. Although Bellini hadlived in France several years, he spoke theFrench language as badly as they speak itmEngland. I ought not to qualifythis language bybad: bad Is'here too good. It is necessary toshy: ffightful I enough tomake one's hair standon end . When in the same salon with Bellini,lis proximity always Inspireda certain anxiety,intermingledwith a feeling of awewhich repulsedand attracted at the same time. His inwluntarypuns were often of an amusing nature, andbrought tomind the chateau of his compatriot,the Prince of Pallagonie, which Goethe in his"Travels in Italy," represents as a museum orwstrange extravagances nud monstrosities. And
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