Helen Humphreys Three-Book Bundle (47 page)

You never have to look further than a man’s life to understand his work.

Gustave Planche was a literary critic for the
Revue des deux mondes
. Like me, he had been a medical student before entering the world of literature. Later on, he would despise Victor’s plays as much as I did. We had a great deal in common, and as a result, we ignored each other completely. I was secretly afraid that he was a better version of me.

There we were, a small group of talented men, some of us young and some of us already in our prime. When Victor brought me into the Cénacle, he was the least famous among them, apart from the boy, Alfred de Musset. And yet one day, he would be the most famous of all.

I shouldn’t have to point this out, of course, but seeing how things have gone, I have to. When I first met Victor Hugo, it was I who was the more well known. I was the one who had the reputation.

We were such great friends, Victor and I. When the Hugos moved to nearby Notre-Dame-des-Champs, it seemed natural that I follow them there. You have only to look as far as his family to know with what high esteem I was held by him at the time. His first child, a son, was the embodiment of our friendship and was given the marriage of our two names—Charles Victor.

T
O UNDERSTAND MY STORY,
you must also understand the political turmoil in France at the time. In July of 1830, four years after I met Victor, there was a revolution. It lasted only three days, but it changed the country, and this city.

The infamous 1789 revolution, when we overthrew the monarchy, could still be tasted, perhaps, when King Charles X passed two wildly unpopular laws. The first, that a person could be put to death for profaning the Catholic Church. And the second, perhaps more unpopular, that citizens couldn’t rightfully inherit property if they, or those they were inheriting from, had been declared “enemies of the revolution.” The first revolution.

It is never a good idea to remind people that they have rebelled against a king before.

The press was outraged on behalf of the populace, and many vitriolic articles were published. Charles X then restricted freedom of expression for journalists and newspapers, proclaiming that a newspaper’s printing presses could be destroyed if the king decided what it was publishing was treasonous. The
Globe
, of course, was never really at risk of such consequences, as we were primarily a literary review. But I helped petition against the censorship. I collected signatures and attended rallies in the public squares.

The king—never a bright sort of man, in my opinion—chose to go boar hunting in the country at the point of greatest unrest in Paris. It was a hot July, and the rich were leaving the crowded, unsanitary city if they could.

There was still the taste of insurgence among Parisians. It was no great effort to organize, to fight, to bring down the monarchy in three short days. The shopkeepers closed their doors. As their printing presses were being demolished by soldiers, the editors of one newspaper were throwing freshly inked copies from the windows of their offices to the waiting crowd below.

There was the usual violence and destruction of property in the city, but thankfully no works of art were destroyed in the fracas, as had happened in the first revolution. In the end, Charles X abdicated and Louis-Philippe d’Orléans became our king. Restrictions were relaxed. Social reform was in the air. Peace returned.

But let me go back to Victor’s terrible play, which opened five months before the revolution. I can still remember every detail of that evening.

U
NTIL THIS YEAR,
no drama of romantic sensibility has ever been presented at the Comédie-Française, the Classicists noisily opposing the utterance of lines that deal with the flesh-and-blood nature of passion. Even the actors in Victor’s play aren’t happy with it. But all the controversy is selling out every house and making Victor rich. When Adèle and I arrive at the Comédie-Française for the evening performance of
Hernani
, we have to fight our way into the lobby.

Adèle has hooked her arm in mine and I clasp it tightly against me, for fear of losing her to the mob.

“It’s like this every night,” she says to me, her lips close to my ear. “Victor has never had such publicity.”

It is no different in the theatre hall. We have seats in the first balcony. I can look around and easily spot Victor’s new bohemian friends, with their long hair and dishevelled clothing. They are in strict contrast to the Classicists, the men stiff and starched, their top hats in their laps, the women gowned and bejewelled. There is shouting and hooting. Many of the bohemians are standing in the aisles, trying to intimidate the patrons as they take their seats.

“Why is there a smell of garlic and sausage?” I ask Adèle.

“Some of our supporters have been here since the afternoon,” she says, “in order to secure the seats. They’ve had to bring their supper with them.” She shifts closer to me, so that the sides of our bodies are touching. “Charles,” she says, “despite the pandemonium, I love how this feels.”

I know what she means. I had dressed slowly, dined hastily, come in a carriage to pick up Madame Hugo at her house. We rode to the theatre together, walked through the lobby like man and wife, have taken our seats as though it is the most familiar thing in the world to be out together of an evening. It is, in fact, the first evening we have done so, and time shakes out its splendid robes before us.

“Thank God for Victor’s verbosity,” I say. The play is five acts. What with the heckling, we could be here all night.

When the gas lights are dimmed, just before the curtain goes up, Adèle leans over and kisses me on the cheek. Such a simple gesture, and yet the most profound pleasure in the world.

What draws two people together? Is it recognition, shared sympathies? Is it merely an unguarded moment, when they are able to see each other without defences, without reserve? Can one fall into oneself through the attentions of a lover?

Love makes more questions than it answers. But I know this—in those moments with Adèle, I could not imagine feeling more than I did, being other than I was. I could not imagine a world outside our love. What I failed to recognize, perhaps, was that the world we inhabited made no space for us. This night at the theatre, watching Victor’s play, would be the only evening we would ever spend entirely together.

I already know, from many conversations with Victor and from attending an early rehearsal of the play, what
Hernani
is about.

The story takes place in sixteenth-century Spain. It has political overtones, but the drama is essentially a love triangle among the old, senile Don Ruy Gomez; the young nobleman, Hernani; and the woman they both desire, Doña Sol. Gomez is to marry Doña Sol, and Hernani is determined to stop the union, even though it has been contractually agreed upon and can’t be prevented. This particular cage is rattled constantly throughout the five acts of the play, and it grows tiresome to hear Hernani proclaim his love (yet again) to Doña Sol, and to hear her say (yet again) that she would rather die than marry Don Ruy Gomez. Everything hits the same note, and the melodramatic props—torches, disguises, vaults—don’t help matters.

Victor has no subtlety.

But as it turns out, it is a good thing that all the utterances are at such a fevered pitch, otherwise they would be drowned out by the hissing from the Classicists. Practically every speech is interrupted by boos and jeers, and then by the applause and cheering of Victor’s bohemian friends. The actors often have to stop, mid-monologue, to let the noise from the audience subside before beginning their lines again.

I try to pay attention to what’s happening on the stage. I try to listen to the words, watch the frantic, sometimes farcical actions of the characters. I know that Victor will question me about everything later, and I had better be able to give him some firm opinions. But the truth is that I don’t care about the lovers. When Hernani tells Doña Sol (again) of his devotion to her, I want him to shut up. Their relationship is too passive. She is nothing more than a glorified servant, never challenging him, always available to him. She shows much more spirit with Don Ruy Gomez. I think theirs
would
be a better marriage.

Maybe because I am in love, other lovers appear fraudulent. Only Adèle and I know the exquisite happiness of true love. Only Adèle and I are fully worthy of its blessing.

That, or Victor can’t write a good drama.

“The heckling makes the play seem more interesting than it is,” whispers Adèle in a quiet moment. I squeeze her hand. We are always in such agreement, as though what I am thinking in my head is, in fact, a conversation with her.

At the end of the first act, Hernani declares his desire to kill his rival for the love of Doña Sol.

“My vengeance will guide my dagger to your heart,” he says. “Without a sound, it will find its mark.”

“Do you think Victor suspects?” I whisper to Adèle.

“Guesses,” she says.

“What’s the difference?”

“When you suspect, there is evidence. With a guess, there is only instinct.”

Hernani’s speech sends a shiver of apprehension through me nonetheless.

At the intermission, we dare not leave our seats in the balcony for fear of having to do battle as we make our way along the aisle. There are people yelling on the stairways and down in the lobby. Their voices lift up to reach us. The circular lobby is its own stage, decorated with pillars, all the stairways leading away from it like spokes fanning out from the hub of a wheel.

I turn in my seat slightly so I can look at Adèle. She has turned in her seat to look at me. Sometimes we do this for hours at a time. We cannot seem to get enough of each other. Every little thing is fascinating.

“I love your ears,” I say. I can just see the lobes hiding in her hair. They look like pearls.

“I love your eyes,” she says.

“I love
your
eyes.”

We go on like this,
sotto voce
, until the unruly audience members have clambered back into their seats and the lights have mercifully dimmed enough that I can run my hand up the inside of Adèle’s thigh, the material of her dress whispering in protest.

She takes my hand in the dark and raises it to her mouth, licking each of my fingers slowly and deliberately.

I feel faint, and with my other hand, I grip the armrest of my seat to keep from toppling over.

The curtain goes up. The ridiculous action begins again.

The audience appears more spirited after the intermission. I realize they have probably been drinking to fuel their fighting ardour. I suddenly worry about our position near the balcony railing. What if a riot breaks out? We could be thrown over the railing or trampled to death in our seats. These days, whenever Parisians gather together in a public space, it seems that there is the danger of a riot. I look around nervously.

Hernani gives another tiresome speech about his undying love. A Classicist in the dress circle hurls a cabbage at the stage. Hernani gambols adroitly out of the way. The cabbage lies centre stage, and there is a moment when all the actors regard it, as though it possesses miraculous properties, as though it is an oracle they have sudden need to consult.

“Behold the holy cabbage,” I say to Adèle, and she giggles.

Hernani continues with his speech, and Doña Sol, with her back to the audience, kicks the cabbage. It rolls slowly, solemnly across the stage and disappears into the wings.

The audience applauds, and even I find myself grinning. Perhaps this is what I will tell Victor: that the actions of the crowd add drama to the play, that the throngs keep the action passionate and spirited. It is not a distraction to have the hecklers; rather, it is an enhancement.

Don Ruy Gomez wants to marry Doña Sol to regain his lost youth. He is sympathetic because of this, but towards the end of the play, he becomes more and more demonic. It has to be thus, I suppose; he has to be blamed for the fate of the lovers. First, Doña Sol, chained to her destiny as the old man’s wife, takes poison, and then Hernani kills himself in response.

“Why doesn’t she just run off?” I say, annoyed at Victor’s churlishness in killing the lovers. And then something else occurs to me. “Do you think I am meant to be Gomez?”

“If you are anyone, my sweet,” Adèle says reassuringly, “you are Doña Sol.”

There is a rush on cabs at the front of the theatre after the play, so we decide to walk partway home. I tuck the fact of the lack of cabs away in my mind to be used, if need be, to explain to Victor why we took so long to travel back to Notre-Dame-des-Champs.

Adèle slides her arm through mine. “At last,” she says. “We are free of Victor at last.”

But we will never be free of Victor, I think. Even this, our wonderful night together, has all been in service to Monsieur Ego Hugo. I will take Adèle home and then spend hours sitting up with Victor analyzing every moment of the evening’s performance. I don’t know that I can bear this.

“Do you really love me?” I ask, meaning, Would you do anything for me? Would you leave your family and begin life again with me?

Adèle stops me in the street, takes my face in her hands. “I couldn’t love you more,” she says. “You set me free. And I especially love you, dear Charles, because you never make undue demands on me.”

We walk along the Seine. The river is oily in the moonlight, flexing between its banks like a wild thing. Aside from a few men fishing by lantern, we are the only people walking the cobblestoned streets. It is very dark. I am a little nervous about thieves, and am glad that I am carrying a small mother-of-pearl dagger concealed on my person. Mother, who is more afraid of thieves than I am, insisted upon it.

Adèle pokes me in the ribs. “You’re not listening to me,” she says.

“Forgive me. I was thinking of how to describe the river.” A river I have seen so many times that my familiarity with it seems to lift it beyond description.

“Don’t become like Victor,” warns Adèle. “He never listens to anything I say either.”

I bristle at the comparison. “I am nothing like Victor,” I say.