is safe to say that lie is at least the greatest French lyric poet.
His poetry is so intimately the product of his life, that to appreciate it we must know something more of that life, especially the emotions and incidents connected with his home and family. His marriage relation was one of perfect harmony, if one may judge of such matters; and he was happy in his home. His wife was evidently the companion of his thought. His children were two sons and a daughter. In this daughter the poet's deepest love was centred, and her graces are the theme of many of his loveliest songs, while her premature death by drowning, with her young husband, in 1843, was the occasion for that one of his lyrics which contains the fullest portion of moral grandeur, «A Villequier». It is the heartbroken cry of a strong man whom the hand of God has at last led back to faith and submission along paths of darkest sorrow. For it must be remarked that Victor Hugo, intoxicated with success and the atmosphere of protest which he himself had done so much to create, had for many years apparently lost sight of his young manhood's conviction of the immanence of a God in the lives of men. After his daughter's death it was upon his granddaughter Jeanne that his affection took root – the same Jeanne whom he afterwards celebrated, throughout his old age, in the poems which are found in the volume entitled «L'Art d'être Grand-père», and who was the idol of the French nation. She was married a few years ago to a son of Alphonse Daudet.
In the volumes of lyrics from 1822 to 1853, including «Odes et Ballades», «Les Orientales», «Les Feuilles d'Automne», «Les Chants du Crépuscule», and «Les Voix intérieures», there is a marked change in the views of the author as to religion and politics, from conservatism to radicalism, from conviction to uncertainty and almost indifference; and there seems to be a loss of energy when we compare the first with the last productions, though there is a gain, of course, in technical skill. But in all that time there was only an evolution, not a deep moral change imposed from without, for the life of his heart was, all those years, serene. But his exile broke this succession of tranquil years and growing thoughts, and from 1852 to 1870, from «Les Châtiments» to «L'Année terrible», there runs through his volumes a deep undertone of solicitude for the welfare of France, and more especially of sad personal yearning to be back upon her soil. «L'Année terrible», the year of the invasion of France, the siege of Paris, and the Commune, brought him back. The very day that Napoléon le Petit followed his conquerors out of French territory, Victor Hugo entered, and proceeding to Paris, threw himself passionately into the national defence. It may seem a strange thing to say, but this year of disaster must have been a grand and almost a joyous one in Hugo's life. It was the vindication of his exile, in so far as that had been voluntary. It gave him a chance, which he embraced, of translating his heroic words into deeds. Any true man who had for years been writing about the glory of his country and the sacred duty of maintaining her honor must have felt a proud and awful joy in the opportunity to talk now with deeds and words.
The rest of his life, from 1872 to 1885, was spent in conspicuous eminence, on a throne of popularity where he sat the autocrat of republican France, without a rival, and with scarce an enemy. It is true that his career as an active politician was a failure, but then it must have been soon apparent to him that he ought never to have entered upon it, and that he could be more useful and incomparably more distinguished in his own work. He died in Paris, on the 22d of May, 1885. His funeral was a demonstration which has seldom been equalled in the world's history for solemn pomp and the proud grief of a nation.
The question of the man's personality need not enter into our estimate of a dramatist, a novelist, or an historian, though as a matter of fact it does. But we can hardly consider lyric poetry merely with reference to its intrinsic quality. Lyric poetry is generally a record of its author's most intimate emotions; it is a sublimation of his life: and this is peculiarly true in the case of Victor Hugo. For, after all, his chief subject was himself. It is certainly permissible, and we can readily understand that it is indeed almost necessary, that a lyric poet should view the world subjectively. One can therefore find no fault with Victor Hugo for this. But it is a marked characteristic of his work that he cannot get outside of himself, that he is rarely carried away by his passion for the beautiful and the true, though this passion he did really possess. So although we cannot blame his egoism as a fault, we must deplore it as a defect; for on account of it alone he falls short, in the opinion of many critics, of being a great world-poet, one of the supreme consolers and sustainers of humanity.
There is a fine essay on Victor Hugo by Mr. Frederic W. H. Myers, [note: In volume v of The Nineteenth Century.] which all students of the poet ought to read, not only because it is a very thorough criticism on Hugo as a lyric poet, but also because it is a masterly piece of work altogether, and full of suggestions. Mr. Myers says: «In his moral nature we shall find much that is strong, elevated, and tender; a true passion for France, a true sympathy for the poor and the oppressed, a true fondness for children. Further than this it will be hard to go; so plain will it be that the egoism which penetrates M. Hugo's character is a bar to all higher sublimity, and has exercised a disastrous effect on his intellectual as well as on his moral character.
«In calling M. Hugo egoistic I am far from accusing him of vulgar self-seeking – of an undue regard for any tangible form of personal advantage. What I mean is that he seems never to forget himself; that whatever truth he is pursuing, whatever scene he describes, his own attitude in regard to it is never absent from his mind. And hence it results that all other objects are unconsciously made secondary to the great object of making an impression of the kind desired. From the smallest details of style up to the most serious steps in political conduct this preoccupation is visible. It was the same spirit which prompted the poet to begin one of his most solemn elegiac poems with the repeated assertion «that it should never be said that he kept silence, that he did not send a sombre strophe to sit before his children's tomb», and which prompted the politician to resign in a moment the trust which Paris had committed to him, because the Assembly would not listen to him with the respect which he thought his due.»
Mr. Myers seems too sparing of his praise for what Hugo did that is excellent in poetry, passing without mention some of his sweetest songs and most stirring outbursts of grandeur. His essay came as antidote to the immoderate eulogy published just before by Mr. Swinburne, and overdoes its promise of giving us a calmer estimate of Hugo. Mr. Myers does not do justice to the contents of Hugo's poetry, and he is perhaps not as susceptible of being ravished by the form as Swinburne was. Yet there is truth in what Mr. Myers says when he tells us that he thinks Hugo's «central distinction lies in his unique power over the French language, greatly resembling Mr. Swinburne's power over the English language, and manifesting itself chiefly in beauty and inventiveness of poetical form and melody.» Mr. Edward Dowden speaks with high praise of Hugo's successful efforts «to reform the rhythm of French verse, to enrich its rhymes, to give mobility to the caesura, to carry the sense beyond the couplet, to substitute definite and picturesque words in place of the fadeurs of classical mythology and vague poetical periphrasis.» And this is indeed Hugo's chief distinction and the chief distinction of all the Romanticists, for their pretended searching of foreign literature and mediaeval history brought them less poetical material than variety and vigor of poetical form.
The two most characteristic classes of subjects of Victor Hugo's poems are politics, in a wide sense of the word, and his own family life. He is not a great poet of nature, though some of his sea-pictures are very remarkable. He was prevented by his egoism from being a great interpreter of the heart or a great preacher of divine truth. But Mr. Myers, with much reason apparently, finds a fundamental weakness in Hugo's early political poetry also. He tells, and proves it too, that Hugo had not fully made up his mind, prior to his banishment, what his political ideal was. He sang the praises of the Bourbons when they were on the throne; but then he was a mere boy, and I have shown how at that time he was under the potent influence of the period, which made for conservatism. That surely is a part of his history of which he has no reason to be ashamed, even though he soon emancipated himself from royalist tendencies. But what is harder to understand, for a foreigner, is how he could have become a worshipper of Napoleon and a friend of Louis Bonaparte. It is only the French who could thus kiss the hand that smote them, and love a tyrant because he brought them false glory – the glory of victory in
