XVI. OF MATERNAL LOVE-LUCRECE BORGIA. WE can never forget the first representation of Lucrece Borgia. We followed with an ardent curiosity the development of this powerful drama. We did not weep, we were not moved; we were astonished and overwhelmed by it. These violent feelings, these multiplied theatrical tricks, these dramatic turns, kept us in continual suspense. We were not af fected, but we felt ourselves oppressed by a heavy and imperious yoke which we could not shake off. In speaking thus, we express, we know, the physical emotion which we experienced, rather than the moral emotion which we usually expect to find at the Theatre. But this drama has this peculiarity, that the moral and physical emotions are continually confounded. The ideas and sentiments seem to be no more the emotions of the mind or the soul, so impetuous and violent are they; they are the movements of instinct; and the passions of the human heart seem to be divested of their morality, as if of a last weakness, in order to find in a kind of deliberate brutality a new source of power and grandeur. Hence, as we are persuaded that dramatic literature has no other resources except the emotions of the human soul, we ask, in seeing this drama advance with temerity to this invisible, though certain, boundary, where sensation takes the place of sentiment, where pity becomes a suffering, where, in fine, illusion almost borders on reality; we ask, if this piece be not the last dramatic work possible, and if art has not exhausted its power in this last and terrible delivery. You have already seen the kind of blame which we attach to the drama of Victor Hugo. The author has wished to represent maternal love; but while Voltaire has taken care to give to Merope all the virtues which could still ennoble maternal tenderness, Victor Hugo, in Lucrece Borgia, has placed this sentiment in the midst of all the vices; not that they may be purified by this solitary virtue, or that they should extinguish it, but in order that they may serve as a contrast, being persuaded that it would shine out to more advantage across the darkness which surrounds it. He has wished, as he himself has said, to put the mother in the monster. What is the consequence? In Lucrece Borgia, maternal love is no longer a passion inspired by nature, approved by morality, and which becomes the purest and most ardent virtue of woman, but a blind and violent emotion which is excited by passion and caprice. There are, in Lucrece Borgia, two parts, and they are joined together with much force and ability. In the first part, we see how the mother endeavors to save her son; in the second, how the son is induced to kill his mother. The first part resembles Merope, and the second Semiramis; for Victor Hugo has, if we may so speak, combined and concentrated in his drama, the interest of the two tragedies of Voltaire. We will follow, in these two phases of the drama, the development of the character of Lucrece Borgia. Gennaro is the son of Lucrece Borgia; he is the fruit of her incestuous connection with her brother, John Borgia. She has for this son the tenderness of a mother, but she does not confess it. Gennaro has grown up without knowing his mother; he has become one of the bravest chiefs of the carriers (condottieri) of Italy, and he is in the service of the Republic of Venice. At Venice, he has met with Lucrece Borgia; and as soon as he has discovered who she was by the imprecations of his friends, he has abandoned her with horror. This is the first chastisement of Lucrece. The horror which she inspires, prevents her from disclosing to Gennaro that she is his mother, when she is insulted in his presence, and by him. Very soon after Gennaro comes to Ferrara; and as his friends joke him about the love with which he has, they say, inspired Lucrece Borgia, he effaces with his poniard the first letter of that name, which is engraved on the front of the Borgia palace. It remains orgia, the true device of this woman and this family. Lucrece Borgia, not knowing who offered this indignity to her name, goes to complain of it to the Duke of Ferrara, her husband; and he, who knows the tenderness of Lucrece for Gennaro, and is mistaken as to the nature of this love, makes a solemn promise to her, that she shall be avenged as she requests. Donna Lucretia. One word, sir, before the guilty man is brought in. Whoever this man may be, whether of your city or your house, Don Alphonso, pledge me your word of a crowned duke, that he shall not go hence alive. Don Alphonso. I pledge it; I pledge it to you. Do you understand me well, madam? Donna Lucretia. It is well. Ah! Doubtless I understand it. Introduce him now, that I may interrogate him myself. . . . (Seeing Gennaro enter.) Gennaro ! Don Alphonso (approaching her softly and smiling). Do you know this man? Donna Lucretia (aside). Gennaro! What fatality, my God! Then Lucrece demands of her husband a particular interview, and requests him to pardon Gennaro. Alphonso refuses. She urges him. Donna Lucretia. You cannot? But why can you not grant me something as insignificant as the life of this captain? Don Alphonso. Do you ask me why? Donna Lucretia. Yes, why? Don Alphonso. Because the captain is your lover, madam! Heavens ! Don Alphonso. Because you have been to seek him at Venice, because you would go to hell to find him. . . . because even now you regard him with looks full of tears and devouring passion! ... Donna Lucretia. My Lord! my Lord! I entreat you on my knees and with my hands clasped together, in the name of Jesus and Mary, in the name of my father and mother; my Lord, I entreat you to save the life of this captain. Don Alphonso. If you could read the fixed resolution which is in my soul, you would no more speak of him, than if he were already dead. Donna Lucretia (rising). Ah! Take care of yourself, Don Alphonso of Ferrara, my fourth husband! Neither the entreaties nor the menaces of Lucretia moved Alphonso: "I have left to your highness," says he, "the choice of the kind of death; decide!” Donna Lucretia (wringing her hands). O, my God! O, my God! O, my God! Don Alphonso. You do not answer? I will kill him in the antechamber with my sword. (He is about to leave, she seizes his arm.) Donna Lucretia. Stop! Don Alphonso. Do you prefer to pour out for him yourself a glass of Syracusan wine? Donna Lucretia. Gennaro ! Don Alphonso. He must die! Donna Lucretia. do you choose? Donna Lucretia. Not by the sword! The manner is of little consequence. Which The other. Don Alphonso. You will take care not to deceive yourself, and pour out for him yourself from this golden flagon which you know. I will be present myself. Do not suppose that I am about to quit you. Donna Lucretia. I will do what you desire. We do not intend to make any remarks with regard to the poison which Alphonso constrains Lucretia to present, herself, to Gennaro. This refinement of cruelty, we are aware, ought to introduce the principal scene between Lucretia and Gennaro; and Lucretia accepts the horrible duty of pouring out the poison herself for her son, only because she has the counter-poison (antidote) ready. But the spectator who is not aware that she has this resource, is astonished to see a mother consent to pour out the poison herself for her son. Does she know if she can give him the counter-poison in time? Does she know if Don Alphonso will leave her alone with Gennaro? And, above all, why does she resort to these dangerous expedients, when she can by a word save Gennaro? Alphonso believes that Gennaro is the lover of Lucretia, and this is the reason why he wishes his death. Let Lucretia say that he is her son, the jealousy of the Duke is appeased and Gennaro is saved. But this son is the fruit of an incest. After the reproaches which Alphonso makes to Lucretia, we do not see that she runs any risk in confessing her fault; she hazards the loss of the esteem of her husband, and she has to gain the life of her son. What is it then that arrests her? son is about to perish by the sword or by poison, and she preserves silence! Is it fear? She is a mother. Is it modesty? She is Lucretia Borgia. Does Merope hesitate when Polyphon orders the soldiers to strike Egisthe? "Barbarian! he is my son!" Her exclaims she; and yet this maternal cry must not save Egisthe, for Egisthe, as soon as he is recognized, is the enemy of Polyphon, and he has every thing to fear; while Gennaro, as soon as Lucrece shall have confessed him for her son, will have nothing more to fear from Alphonso. Why, then, does not the cry of Merope, this irresistible shriek, in beholding the sword suspended over the head of her son, proceed from the lips of Lucrece Borgia? For, in a word, she has prayed and entreated; she has been flattering, insinuating, and she has obtained nothing; she has menaced, she remembered the beautiful movement of Clytemnestra, who in the Orestes of Voltaire, defends her son against Egisthe, when this son came to Argos to sacrifice his mother; she has warned her fourth husband not to push her to extremities. Her threats have not succeeded any better than her entreaties. What, then, remains for her to do in order to save her son, but the heartrending cry of Merope? Yes, if Lucrece pronounces this solemn word, Gennaro is saved; but then, this would put an end to the piece; for it is this solemn word, which makes the denouement; it is this word, suspended during the whole drama, which the author reserves for the last; it is the word which explains and concludes all. As soon as this word is pronounced, the piece stops. Let it then be suspended, notwithstanding the peril of Gennaro. Let it be suspended, at the terrible moment when Lucrece pours out the poison for him, with her own hands, and presents to him the bowl, though we doubt whether the firmness of a mother has ever been exposed to a more severe trial. But take care! To suspend such a word, a great motive is necessary, another cause besides the necessity of the drama; the spectator must believe that the personage should have good reasons for not pronouncing the word which would explain every thing. Lucrece Borgia, you say, trusts to the counterpoison; she can save Gennaro, without yet confessing that he is her son. We acknowledge it. Let us examine this scene. Lucrece has remained alone with Gennaro : Donna Lucretia. Gennaro! you are poisoned! Donna Lucretia. Poisoned ! Gennaro. I could have doubted of it, the poison having been poured out by you. |