BY ORDER OF THE KING.

(L'Homme qui Rit.)

A ROMANCE OF ENGLISH HISTORY: BY VICTOR HUGO.

PART II.-BOOK THE SECOND.

(Continued.)

CHAPTER IX.

ABSURDITIES WHICH FOLKS WITHOUT TASTE CALL POETRY.

HE pieces written by Ursus were interludes-a kind of composition out of fashion now-a-days. One of these pieces, which has not come down to us, was entitled, "Ursus Rursus." It is probable that in it he played the principal part. A pretended exit, followed by a re-appearance, was apparently its praiseworthy and sober subject. The titles of the interludes of Ursus were sometimes in Latin, as we have seen, and the poetry frequently in Spanish. The Spanish verses written by Ursus were rhymed,as was nearly all the Castilian poetry of that period. This did not puzzle the people. Spanish was then a familiar language; and the English sailors spoke Castilian even as the Roman sailors spoke Carthaginian (see Plautus). Moreover, at a theatrical representation, as at mass, the Latin, or any other language unknown to the audience, is by no means embarrassing to them.

They get out of the dilemma by adapting to the sounds familiar words. Our old Gallic France was particularly prone to this manner of being devout. At church, under cover of an Immolatus, the faithful chanted, "I will make merry;" and, under a sanctus, “Kiss me, my sweet."

It was found necessary that the Council of Trent should put an end to these familiarities.

Ursus had composed expressly for Gwynplaine an interlude, with which he was pleased. It was his best work. He had thrown all his soul into it. To give the sum in the product is the greatest

triumph any one can achieve. The toad who produces a toad makes a grand success. You doubt it? Try, then, to make one.

Ursus had greatly polished this interlude. This bear's cub was entitled, "Chaos Vanquished." A night-effect. At the moment when the curtain drew up, the crowd, massed around the green box, saw nothing but blackness. In this blackness three confused forms moved in the reptile state: a wolf, a bear, and a man. The wolf did the wolf; Ursus, the bear; and Gwynplaine, the man. The wolf and the bear represented the ferocious forces of Nature-unreasoning hunger and savage obscurity. Both rushed on Gwynplaine. It was chaos combating man. No form could be distinguished. Gwynplaine fought enfolded in a winding-sheet, and his face was covered by his thickly-falling locks. All else was shadow. The bear growled, the wolf gnashed his teeth, the man cried out. The man was down; the beasts overwhelmed him. He cried for aid and succour; he hurled into the unknown an agonised appeal. He gave a death-rattle. To witness this agony of the prostrate man, scarcely now distinguishable from the brutes, was appalling. The crowd looked on breathless; in one minute more the wild beasts would triumph, and chaos would re-absorb man. A struggle-cries-howlings; then, all at once, a silence.

A song in the shadows. A breath had passed, and they heard a voice. Mysterious music floated, accompanying this chant of the invisible; and suddenly, without anyone knowing where or how, a white cloud arose. This whiteness was a light; this light was a woman; this woman was a spirit. Dea-calm, fair, beautiful, formidable in her serenity and sweetness-appeared in the centre of a luminous mist.

A profile of brightness in the dawn. She was a voice: a voice, light, profound, indescribable. She sung in this new-born light; she, invisible, made visible. They thought they heard the hymn of an angel, or the song of a bird. At this apparition the man, starting up in his ecstasy, struck the beasts with his fists, and overthrew them.

Then the vision, gliding along in a manner difficult to understand, and therefore the more admired, sang these words in Spanish sufficiently pure for the English sailors who were present :—

"Ora! llora!

De palabra
Nace razon.

De luz el son." a

Pray! weep! Reason comes from words. Song creates light.

Then, looking down, as if she saw a gulf below, she went on,

"Noche, gnita te de alli !

El alba canta hallali." b

By degrees, as she sang, the man raised himself more and more ; and from lying he was now kneeling, his hands elevated towards the vision, his knees placed on the beasts, who lay motionless, and as if thunder-stricken.

She continued, turning towards him,—

"Es menester a cielos ir,

Y tu que llorabas reir." e

And, approaching him with the majesty of a star, she added,

And she put her hand on his brow. Then another voice arose, more deep, and, consequently, still sweeter—a voice broken and enwrapt with a gravity both tender and savage. It was the human chant responding to the chant of the stars. Gwynplaine, still kneeling in obscurity, his head below Dea, and on the vanquished bear and wolf, sang,

And suddenly from the shadow a ray of light fell clearly on Gwynplaine. Then, through the darkness, was the monster fully exposed. To describe the commotion of the crowd was impossible.

A sun of laughter rising. Such was the effect. Laughter springs from unexpected causes, and nothing could be more unexpected than this termination.

Never was any sensation comparable to that produced by the ray of light striking on this mask, at once ludicrous and terrible. They laughed, all around, this laugh. Everywhere: above, below, behind, before, at the uttermost distance; men, women, old grey heads, rosy

Night! go away; the dawn sings hallali.

• Thou must go to heaven, and smile, thou that weepest. Break the yoke; throw off, monster, thy dark clothing. e O, come, beloved one! thou art soul, I am heart.

faced children; the good, the wicked, the gay, the sad. Everybody. And even in the streets, those who saw nothing, hearing the laughter, laughed also. The laughter finished in clapping of hands and stamping of feet.

The curtain dropped, Gwynplaine was recalled with frenzy. From that time the success was enormous. Have you seen "Chaos Vanquished?" They ran after Gwynplaine. The listless came to laugh, the melancholy came to laugh, the evil consciences came to laugha laugh so irresistible, that it seemed almost like a malady. But there is a pestilence from which men do not fly, and that is the contagion of joy. The success, it must be admitted, did not get beyond the populace. A large crowd means a crowd of nobodies. They could see "Chaos Vanquished" for a penny. Fashionable people never go where a penny admits them.

Ursus thought a good deal of his work, which he had brooded over for a long time. "It is in the style of one Shakspeare," he said, modestly.

The juxta-position of Dea, added to the indescribable effect of Gwynplaine. This white figure, by the side of the gnome, represented what might have been called divine astonishment. The audience regarded Dea with a sort of mysterious anxiety. She had in her aspect the dignity of a virgin and of a princess, not knowing man, and knowing God. They saw that she was blind and felt as if she could see. She seemed to stand on the threshold of the supernatural. The light that beamed on her seemed half earthly and half heavenly. She had appeared on earth, moving as they move in heaven in the radiance of morning. She found a hydra, and formed a soul. She had the air of a creative power satisfied, but astonished, at the result of her creation; and they fancied they could see in the divine surprise of that face, the expression of desire for the cause, and wonder at the result. They felt that she loved this monster. Did she recognise that he was one? Yes; since she touched him. No; since she accepted him.

This depth of night and this glory of day united formed in the mind of the spectator a clear obscure in which appeared endless perspectives. How much of divinity existed in the germ, in what manner the penetration of the soul into matter was accomplished, how the disfigured is transfigured, how the deformed becomes heavenly, all these glimpses of mysteries, made part of an almost cosmical emotion-the convulsive hilarity produced by Gwynplaine. Without going too deed, for spectators like not the fatigue of seeking below the surface, something more was understood than VOL. IV., N. S. 1869.

C

was perceived. And this strange spectacle had the transparency of an avatar.

As to Dea, what she felt cannot be expressed by human words; she felt in the midst of a crowd, and knew not what a crowd was. She heard a murmur, that was all. For her the crowd was but a breath. Generations are bygone breaths. Man respires, aspires, and expires. In this crowd Dea felt alone, and shuddered as one suspended over a precipice.

All at once, in this trouble of innocence in distress, prompt to accuse the unknown, in her dread of a possible fall, Dea, serene notwithstanding, and superior to the vague agonies of peril, but inwardly shuddering at her isolation, found confidence and support. She had seized her thread of safety in the universe of shadows; she put her hand on the powerful head of Gwynplaine.

Joy unspeakable! she places her rosy fingers on this forest of crisp hair. The curls touched give an idea of softness. Dea touched a lamb which she knew to be a lion. All her heart poured out an ineffable love. She felt out of danger, she had found her saviour. The public believed that they saw the contrary. To the spectators the being loved was Gwynplaine, and the saviour was Dea. "What matters," thought Ursus, to whom the heart of Dea was visible; and Dea reassured, consoled, and delighted, adored the angel whilst the people contemplated the monster, and endured, fascinated also, though in an inverse sense, that dread Promethean laugh. True love is never weary. Being all soul it cannot cool. A brazier becomes covered with cinders; not so a star. These exquisite impressions were renewed every evening for Dea, and she was ready to weep with tenderness whilst the audience were in contortions of laughter. Those around her were but joyful; she, she was happy.

The effect of the gaiety due to the sudden shock caused by the rictus of Gwynplaine was evidently not intended by Ursus. He would have preferred more smiles and less laughter, and more of a literary triumph. But triumph consoles. He reconciled himself every evening to his excessive success, as he counted how many piles of farthings made shillings, and how many piles of shillings made pounds, and besides, he said, after all, now that the laugh is forgotten and "Chaos Vanquished" has reached the depths of their minds, something of it will remain there.

Perhaps he did not altogether deceive himself; the foundations of a work settle down in the public mind. The truth is, that this populace, attentive to this wolf, this bear, to this man, then to this music, to these howlings governed by harmony, to this night