No More Learning

SALTABADIL: Well, let us make a bargain, Maguelonne.
If anyone comes knocking at our inn
By midnight, he shall go into the sack.
My client only wants to fling some corpse
Into the river, and on this wild night
He will not see what he is throwing in.

MAGUELONNE: It is just on the hour. No one will come.
Cannot you ram this faggot in the sack?

SALTABADIL: Who would take that for a limp body? No!
Either a traveller or the man upstairs.
That is all! Will you take the chance?

MAGUELONNE (_weeping_): I must.

BLANCHE: Oh, God, I cannot! No! I am too young.
He does not love me.

[_A church-bell begins to chime the hour. _

SALTABADIL: Midnight!

MAGUELONNE: Hark, a knock!

BLANCHE (_stumbling to the door_):
My father hates him. . . . Perhaps it will not hurt,
If they strike hard and kill me at a blow.
Oh, if he only loved me!

MAGUELONNE (_opening the door_): Who is there?

BLANCHE: Give me a shelter for the night.

MAGUELONNE: Come in.

[_She enters. As she crosses the threshold_, SALTABADIL
_raises his dagger, and the curtain falls. _


ACT III

SCENE. --_The same; but when the curtain rises, only the outside of the
inn is now seen. It is unlighted; everything is in darkness. _

TRIBOULET (_knocking at the door_): Make haste!

SALTABADIL (_bringing out a sack_): Here is your man.

TRIBOULET (_helping him carry it_): Give me a light.
I want to see him--is he really dead?

SALTABADIL: We must not use a light. We might be seen.
Where is the money?

TRIBOULET (_giving him a bag_): Here. (_Looking at
the sack_) I have you at last!
Long have I waited for this happy hour!

SALTABADIL: Come, throw it in the Seine!

TRIBOULET: I want no help.
Your part is done. Leave me alone.

SALTABADIL: Quick, then!
Somebody may come by. Is the man mad?

[TRIBOULET _has knelt down in the mud by the sack.
The rain streams on him, and his face, convulsed
with hideous joy, is illumined by the lightning. _
SALTABADIL _enters the inn and shuts the door. _

TRIBOULET (_feeling the sack_): Yes! I can feel his
spurs. It is the King!

Now let the heavens break above my head,
And the earth rock and open at my feet!
The vengeance of a clown shakes the whole world!
Francois, the pivot on which Europe turns,
Is broken. German, Spaniard, and Turk
Can make a slaughterhouse of Christendom.
The King of France is dead!

[_Leaping up in a fury, he kicks the sack. _

Francois the First,
Do you remember how you treated me?
Who is the dog now, eh? --the dog to kick
And tumble about to make the courtiers laugh?
You liked my daughter, did you? A clown's brat
Found favour with a king! You stooped too low.
This is the road that you must take.

[_He drags the sack to the parapet. While he is doing
so,_ MAGUELONNE _opens the door of the inn and lets
out_ THE KING, _who goes off singing gaily in the
opposite direction. _

TRIBOULET (_lifting the sack on the parapet, to push
it over_): Go down!

THE KING:
Oh, woman is fickle, and man is a fool
To trust in her word!

TRIBOULET: Oh, God! Whose voice is that?
[_He pulls back the sack. _

THE KING (_now unseen in the darkness_):
She changes without any reason or rule,
As her fancies are stirred.

TRIBOULET: He has escaped! (_Running up to the
inn_) Accursed villains, you have cheated me! (_He
pulls at the door, but it will not open_. )
Who have they put in the sack?
[_He returns to it. _
Some innocent wayfarer? I must see.

[_He tears open the sack, and peers into it. _

It is too dark (_wildly_). Has no one got a light?

[_As he is dragging the body out of the sack the lightning
irradiates it. _

My daughter! God! My daughter! No, Blanche, no!
I sent you to Evreux. It is not her.

[_The lightning again flashes out, and clearly shows the
pale face and closed eyes of the girl. _

Speak, for the love of God! Speak! Oh, the blood!
Blanche, are you hurt? Speak to me! Blanche!

BLANCHE (_opening her eyes_): Where am I? Father!

[_She tries to rise, but falls back groaning. _ TRIBOULET
_takes her in his arms. _

TRIBOULET: Blanche, have they struck you?
It is too dark to see.

BLANCHE (_in a broken, gasping voice_):
The dagger struck me . . . but I . . .
Saved the king . . .
I love him. Father . . . have they let him live?

TRIBOULET: I cannot understand.

BLANCHE: It was my fault . . .
Forgive me . . . father, I----

[_She struggles, speechless, in the agony of death. _

TRIBOULET (_shrieking_): Help! Help! Oh, help!

[_Rushing to the ferry-bell by the riverside, he rings it
madly. The people in the cottages around come running
out in wild alarm. _

A WOMAN: What is it? Is she wounded?

A MAN: She is dead.

TRIBOULET (_taking the lifeless body in his arms and
hugging it to his breast_): I have killed my child!
I have killed my child!


FOOTNOTES:

[L] Victor Hugo was a man with a remarkable aptitude for
divining the real course of popular feeling and giving violent
expression to it. It was this that made him one of the leaders of the
modern republican movement in France. Precluded by his earlier works
from attacking the monarchy openly, he set about discrediting it by
a series of historical plays in which the French kings were depicted
in a sinister light. In "Marion de Lorme" he holds up the weakest of
the Bourbons to bitter contempt; in "The King Amuses Himself" ("Le roi
s'amuse"), produced in 1832, he satirises the most brilliant of the
Valois--Francois I. The portrait is a clever but one-sided piece of
work; it is based on facts; but not on all the facts. It is true that
Francois used to frequent low taverns and mix in disreputable company,
but he was also the most chivalrous king of his age, and a man of fine
tastes in art and letters. Nevertheless, the play is one of the best
of Victor Hugo's by reason of the strange and terrible character of
the king's jester, Triboulet. This ugly little hunchback is surely a
memorable figure in literature. The horror and pity which he excites
as he sits by the river in the storm and darkness, rejoicing in the
consummation of his scheme of revenge, have something of that awfulness
which is the note of veritable tragedy. The scene is a superb example
of dramatic irony.




The Legend of the Ages[M]


_Conscience_

Cain, flying from the presence of the Lord,
Came through the tempest to a mountain land;
And being worn and weary with the flight,
His wife and children cried to him, and said:
"Here let us rest upon the earth and sleep. "
And, folded in the skin of beasts, they slept.
But no sleep fell on Cain; he raised his head,
And saw, amid the shadows of the night,
An eye in heaven sternly fixed on him.
"I am too near," he said, with trembling voice.
Rousing his weary children and worn wife,
He fled again along the wilderness.
For thirty days and thirty nights he fled.
Silent and pale, and shuddering at a sound,
He walked with downcast eyes, and never turned
To look behind him. On the thirtieth day
He came unto the shore of a great sea.
"Here we will live," he said. "Here we are safe.
Here on the lonely frontier of the world! "
And, sitting down, he gazed across the sea,
And there, on the horizon, was the eye
Still fixed on him. He leaped up, wild with fear,
Crying, "Oh, hide me! Hide me! " to his sons.
And Jabal, the tent-maker, sheltered him
Within his tent, and fastened down with stones
The flapping skins. But Cain still saw the eye
Burning upon him through the leathern tent.
And Enoch said, "Come, let us build with stone,
A city with a wall and citadel,
And hide our father there, and close the gates. "
Then Tubalcain, the great artificer,
Quarried the granite, and with iron bands
Bound the huge blocks together, and he made
A city, with a rampart like a hill
Encircling it, and towers that threw a shade
Longer than any mountain's on the plain.
Deep in the highest and the strongest tower,
Cain was enclosed. "Can the eye see you now? "
His children asked him. "Yes, it is fixed on me,"
He answered. And with haggard face he crept
Out of the tower, and cried unto his sons,
"I will go down into the earth, and live
Alone, within a dark and silent tomb.
No one shall ever see my face again,
And I will never look at anything. "
They made a vaulted tomb beneath the earth,
And he was lowered into it; the hole
Above his head was closed; but in the tomb
Cain saw the eye still sternly fixed on him.


_Eviradnus_

When John the Striker, lord of Lusace, died,
Leaving his kingdom to his gentle niece,
Mahaud, great joy there was in all the land;
For she was beautiful, and sweet and young,
Kind to the people, and beloved by them.
But Sigismund, the German emperor,
And Ladislas of Poland were not glad.
Long had they coveted the wide domains
Of John the Striker; and Eviradnus,
The tall, white-haired Alastian warrior,
Home from his battles in the Holy Land,
Heard, as he wandered through the castle grounds,
Strange talk between two strangers--a lute-player
And troubadour--who with their minstrelsy
Had charmed the lovely lady of Lusace.
And she was taking them with her that night
To Corbus Castle--an old ruined keep
From which her race was sprung. Ere she was crowned,
An ancient custom of the land required
Mahaud to pass the night in solitude
At Corbus, where her ancestors reposed,
Amid the silence of the wooded hills
On which the stronghold stands. Being afraid
Of the ordeal, Mahaud took with her
The two strange minstrels, so that they might make
Music and mirth until she fell asleep.
An old priest, cunning in the use of herbs,
Came with her to the border of the wood,
And gave her a mysterious wine to drink
To make her slumber till the break of day,
When all the people of Lusace would come
And wake her with their shouts, and lead her forth
To the cathedral where she would be crowned.

* * * * *

To enter Corbus on this solemn night,
Or linger in the woods encircling it,
Was death to any man. Eviradnus
Did not fear death. Opening the castle gate
He strode into the chamber where Mahaud
Would have to pass the night. Two long, dim lines
Of armed and mounted warriors filled the hall,
Each with his lance couched ready for the shock,
And sternly silent. Empty panoplies
They were, in which the lords of old Lusace
Had lived and fought and died, since the red days
When Attila, from whom their race was sprung,
Swept over Europe. Now, on effigies
Of the great war-horses they loved and rode,
Their armoured image sat; and eyeless holes
Gaped in their visors, black and terrible.
Seizing the leader of this spectral host,
Eviradnus dragged his clanging body down,
And hid it; and then leaped upon the horse.
And with closed visor, motionless mail and lance
Clenched in his gauntlet, he appeared transformed
Into an iron statue, like the rest,
As through the open window came the sound
Of lute-playing and laughter, and a song
Sung by the troubadour, rang righ and clear:

Come, and let us dream a dream!
Mount with me, and ride away,
By the winding moonlight stream,
Through the shining gates of day!

Come, the stars are bright above!
All the world is in our scope.
We have horses--joy and love!
We have riches--youth and hope!

Mount with me, and ride away,
Through the greenness and the dew;
Through the shining gates of day,
To the land where dreams come true!

"Look! " cried Mahaud, as she came in the hall
With the two minstrels. "It is terrible!
Sooner would I have lost my crown than come
Alone at midnight to this dreadful place.
"
"Does this old iron," said the troubadour,
Striking the armour of Eviradnus,
"Frighten you? " "Leave my ancestors in peace! "
Exclaimed Mahaud. "A little man like you
Must not lay hands on them. " The troubadour
Grew pale with anger, but the tall lute-player
Laughed, and his blue eyes flamed upon Mahaud.
"Now I must sleep," she said, "the priest's strange wine
Begins to make me drowsy. Stay with me!
Stay and watch over me all night, my friends. "
"Far have we travelled," said the troubadour,
"In hopes to be alone with you to-night. "
And his dark face lightened with a grim smile,
When, as he spoke, Mahaud fell fast asleep.
"I'll take the girl," he cried to the lute-player,
"And you can have the land! Are you content? "
"Yes," said the lute-player, "but love is sweet. "
"Revenge is sweeter! " cried the troubadour.
"'A little man like me! ' Those were her words.
Neither as queen nor empress shall she reign!
I swore it when she flouted me. She dies! "
"I cannot kill her," said the lute-player,
"I love her. " "So do I! " the other said.
"I love her and hate her. If she lived,
There would be war between us two. She dies!
We love her; we must kill her. " As he spoke
The troubadour pulled at a ring, and raised
A flagstone in the floor. "I know this place,"
He said. "A lord of Lusace had this trap
Made for his enemies. 'Twill serve our need!
Help me to lift her. All the land is yours. "
"Look! " screamed the lute-player. "Oh, God! Oh, God! "
The troubadour turned round, and his knees shook.
One of the iron images had leapt
Down from its lifeless horse, and with drawn sword
And clank of armour, it now drove at them.
"King Ladislas and Emperor Sigismund! "
It shouted in a terrible voice that fell
Upon them like a judgment from on high.
They grovelled at its iron feet, and shrieked,
"Mercy! Oh, mercy! " And Eviradnus,
Doffing his helmet and cuirass, exclaimed,
"I am a man and not an iron ghost!
It sickens me to see such cowardice
In the two greatest conquerors of the age.
Look! I have taken all my armour off;
Meet me like men, and use what arms you will. "
"'Tis only an old man," said Ladislas.
"Hold him in front, while I strike from behind. "
Eviradnus laid down his sword, to loose
The last piece of his armour, and the Pole
Ran at him with a dagger; with one hand
The old man gripped the little king, and shook
The life out of him. Then, as Sigismund
Snatched up his sword, and left him still unarmed,
Eviradnus stooped, and, seizing the dead king,
He whirled him by the feet, like a huge club.
Stricken with terror, Sigismund recoiled
Into the open trap. Eviradnus
Flung his strange weapon after him, and they fell,
The living emperor, and the lifeless king,
Into the dark abyss. Closing the stone,
Eviradnus put on his mail, and set
The hall in order. And when he had placed
The iron image on its horse, the dawn
Gleamed through the windows, and the noise
And murmur of the people of Lusace
Coming with branches of green broom to greet
Their lady, filled the air. Mahaud awoke.
"Where is my troubadour and lute-player? "
She said. Eviradnus bent over her,
His old grey eyes shining with tenderness.
"Lady," he said, "I hope that you slept well? "


_The Temple of the Captives_

The high-priest said unto the King of Kings:
"We need a temple to commemorate
Your glorious victories. " The King of Kings
Called unto him the captives he had made,
And bade them build the temple, and he asked:
"Is there a man among you who can plan
And raise this monument unto my fame? "
"No," said they. "Kill a hundred of these slaves! "
The King of Kings exclaimed. And this was done.
One of the captives promised then to build
A temple on the mountain looking down
Upon the city of the King of Kings.
Loaded with chains, the prisoners were dragged
Along the streets and up the mountain track,
And there they toiled with grim and angry eyes,
Cutting a building in the solid rock.
"'Tis but a cavern! " said the King of Kings.
"We found a lion's lair," the captive said,
"And fashioned it into your monument.
Enter, O King of Kings, and see the work
Your slaves have built for you! " The conqueror
And captive entered. To a royal throne
The King of Kings was led, that he might view
The temple; and the builder flung himself
Face downwards at his feet. Then, suddenly,
The throne began to sink below the floor.
"Where are we going? " said the King of Kings.
"Down the deep pit into the inner hall! "
The captive said. A sound like thunder rang
Above them, and the King of Kings exclaimed:
"What noise was that? " "The block of stone
That covers in this pit," the captive said,
"Has fallen in its place! " The King of Kings
Groped in the darkness, and with trembling voice
He asked: "Is there no way out of this pit? "
"Surely," the captive said, "the King of Kings,
Whose hands are swift like lightning, and whose feet
Tread down all nations, can find out a way? "
"There is no light, no sound, no breath of air! "
Cried out the King of Kings. "Why is it dark
And cold within the temple to my fame? "
"Because," the captive said, "it is your tomb! "


_Jean Chouan_

The work of pacifying Brittany
Was going on; and children, women, men,
Fled from the revolutionary troops
In wild disorder. Over a bare plain
And up a hill, swept by the guns of France,
They ran, and reached the shelter of a wood.
There they re-formed--the peasant royalists.
And then Jean Chouan, who was leading them,
Cried: "Is there any missing? " "No," they said,
Counting their numbers. "Scatter along the wood! "
Jean Chouan cried again. The women caught
Their babies to their breasts, and the old men
Tottered beside the children. Panic, fear
Possessed the broken, flying peasantry.
Only Jean Chouan stayed behind to watch
The movements of the enemy. He stood
Silent in prayer below the sheltering hill;
A tall, wild figure, with his long, loose hair
Streaming upon the wind. And suddenly,
A cry rang shrill and keen above the roar
Of the French guns. A woman's cry it was;
And, looking from the hill, Jean Chouan saw
A woman labouring, with bare, torn feet,
And haggard, terror-stricken face, to reach
A refuge in the forest. Up the hill,
Swep by the French artillery, she toiled,
And the shells burst around her. "She is lost! "
Jean Chouan murmured. "She will be destroyed
Before she reaches shelter. Oh, the brutes,
To mass their fire upon a woman's head! "

* * * * *

Then on the height that overlooked the plain,
Jean Chouan sprang, and stood against the sky,
Fearless and proud, superb and motionless,
And cried, "I am Jean Chouan! " The French troops
Gazed for a moment in astonishment
At his tall figure. "Yes, it is the chief! "
They said to one another, as they turned
Their guns upon him. "Save yourself! " he cried,
"My sister, save yourself! " as, mad with fright,
The woman stumbled onward. Like a pine
Too strongly rooted in the rock to bend
Or break beneath the fury of the storm,
He towered amid the hurricane of death
That roared and flamed around him. "I will wait
Until you gain the forest! " he exclaimed.
The woman hastened. Over the hill she crept,
And staggered down the valley. "Is she safe? "
Jean Chouan shouted, as a bullet passed
Right through his body. Standing still erect,
He waited, with a smile upon his lips,
The answer. When some voices in the wood
Cried, "Jeanne is safe. Return! " Jean Chouan said,
"Ave Maria! " and then fell down dead.


_Civil War_

"Kill him! " the mob yelled. "Kill him! " as they surged
In fury round their prisoner. Unmoved
And unafraid he stood: a constable
Of Paris, captured by the Communards.
His hands were black with gunpowder; his clothes
Were red with blood. A simple, fearless man,
Charged with the task of carrying out the law,
He gave no quarter, and he asked for none.
All the day he had fought against the mob
That swept with sword and flame along the streets
Of Paris, while the German conqueror
Battened on France. A woman sprang at him,
And shrieked, "You have been killing us! " "That's true,"
The man replied. "Come, shoot him here! " she screamed.
"No! Farther on! At the Bastille! " "No! Here! "
And while the crowd disputed, the man said:
"Kill me just where you like; but kill me quick. "
"Yes! " cried the woman, "shoot him where he stands.
He is a wolf! " "A wolf that has been caught,"
The prisoner said, "by a vile pack of curs! "
"The wretch insults us! " yelled the furious mob.
"Down with him! Death! Death! Death! " And with clenched fists
They struck him on the face. An angry flame
Gleamed in his eyes, but, silent and superb,
He marched along the street amid the howls
Of the ferocious, maddened multitude!
God! How they hated him! To shoot him seemed
Too light a sentence, as he calmly strode
Over the corpses of their comrades strewn
Along the street. "How many did you kill? "
They shrieked at him. "Murderer! Traitor! Spy! "
He did not answer; but the waiting mob
Heard a small voice cry: "Daddy! " and a child
Of six years' age ran from a house close by,
And struggled to remain and clasped his knees,
Saying, "He is my daddy. Don't hurt him!
He is my daddy--" "Down with the cursed spy!
Shoot him at once! " a hundred voices said;
"Then we can get on with our work! " Their yells,
The clangour of the tocsin, and the roar
Of cannon mingled. 'Mid the dreadful noise,
The child, still clinging to his father's knees,
Cried, "I tell you he's my daddy. Let him go! "
Pale, tearful, with one arm thrown out to shield
His father, and the other round his leg,
The child stood. "He is pretty! " said a girl.
"How old are you, my little one? " The child
Answered, "Don't kill my daddy! " Many men
Lowered their eyes, and the fierce hands that gripped
The prisoner began to loose their hold.
"Send the kid to its mother! " one man cried,
"And end this job! " "His mother died last month,"
The prisoner said. "Do you know Catherine? "
He asked his little boy. "Yes," said the child,
"She lives next door to us. " "Then go to her,"
He said, in grave, calm, kindly tones. "No! No!
I cannot go without you! " cried his son.
"They're going to hurt you, daddy, all these men! "
The father whispered to the Communards
That held him. "Let me say good-bye to him,
And you can shoot me round the corner-house;
Or where you will! " They loosed their prisoner
A moment, and he said unto his child:
"You see, we're only playing. They are friends,
And I am going for a walk with them.
Be a good boy, my darling, and run home. "
Raising his face up to be kissed, the child
Smiled through his tears, and skipped into the house.
"Now," said his father to the silent mob,
"Where would you like to shoot me; by this wall,
Or round the corner? " Through the crowd of men,
Mad with the lust for blood, a shudder passed,
And with one voice they cried: "Go home! Go home! "


FOOTNOTES:

[M] English poetry of the last eighty years is fine in quality
and great in volume, but it would be difficult to maintain that it
is the finest and greatest poetry of the period. It was France that
produced the master-singer, and with rare generosity both Tennyson and
Swinburne acknowledged that Victor Hugo was their superior. The range
of power of the Frenchman was marvellous; he was a great novelist, a
great playwright, a great political writer; but, above all, he was a
poet.