
The Years 1831 an 1832, immediately succeeding the July Revolution, are among the most singular and striking in our history.
In part four of Les Miserables things really start to happen. This is not to say that the previous seven hundred plus pages have been lacking in action, they certainly have not, but in part four events begin to turn in ways that can only end in a revolution that will catch up in its wake all of the characters the reader has come to know. It's no coincidence that this is the first part of the five that cannot be read as a self-contained narrative; it ends on the eve of battle, and every reader wants to know what will happen next, even those of us who already know what happens.
Previous sections of Les Miserables have focused on smaller groups of characters and their stories, but in Part IV everyone who is still alive makes an appearance, everyone's plot line is advanced, as all of Paris begins to either rise up or to take cover in advance. The events of the plot, like the lives of the characters, begin to play out against the background of history. While Jean Val-Jean makes plans to flee France, his "daughter" Cossette finally meets Marius face to face:
He fell back on the bench with her at his side. Neither could speak. The stars were beginning to show. How did it happen that their lips came together? How does it happen that birds sing, that snow melts, that the rose unfolds, that the dawn whitens behind the stark shapes of trees on the quivering summit of the hill? A kiss, and all was said.
Shortly after this kiss Cossette and Marius finally introduce themselves to each other. I've gone this far without discussing Hugo's writing, but a paragraph like that cannot go by without comment--it is both wonderful and terrible at the same time. I don't know how it reads in French, but in English it's very difficult not to laugh a little even if you can let yourself be carried away by it. I do recall how wonderful a first kiss can be, but birds singing, snow melting, the sun rising over the "quivering summit of the hill."? Gracious! And "And all was said."? This comes on page 810 with over 400 pages still to go! I had a professor in my undergraduate days who said Thomas Hardy was a great writer, but he wasn't a very good writer. I would so love to ask him what he thinks of Victor Hugo. This is the language one expects to find in a low end romance novel, not a great classic. But there it is. Is the reader going to laugh? To cry? I admit, I laughed a little.
But not all is kisses and sunrises in Part IV. Marius's circle of friends are all deeply involved in politics and are meeting in a favorite tavern to plan what to do when the fighting starts. One of the more verbose among them, Grantaire, has this opposing world view to offer:
"I've just swallowed a bad oyster! My hypochondria's starting again. Bad oysters and ugly waitresses, how I had the human race! I came by way of the Rue Richelieu, past the big public library. The places is like a pile of oyster-shells. All those books, all that paper and ink, all those scribbled words. Somebody had to write them. Who was the idiot who said that man was a biped without a quill? And then I ran into a girl I know, a girl as lovely as a spring morning, worthy to be called April, and the little wretch was in a transport of delight because some poxed-up old banker has taken a fancy to her. The smell of money attracts women like the scent of lilac; they're like all the other cats, they don't care whether they're killing mice or birds. Two months ago that wench was living virtuously in an attic, sewing metal eye-holes into corsets, sleeping on a truckle-bed and living happily with a flower-pot for company. Now she's a banker's doxy. It seems it happened last night, and when I met her this morning she was jubilant. And what's so disgusting in that she's just as pretty as ever. Not a sign of high finance on her face. Roses are better or worse than women in this respect, that you can see when the grubs have been at them. There's no morality in this world."
It's one thing when a character gives voice to this kind of language--Grantaire is a man in love with his own speech, a man who'll say what he will and win a certain kind of admiration for his gift-of-gab--but it's another thing when the narrator joins in. While Grantaire and his cronies meet, complain and plan their next political action the streets of Paris begin to come alive.
And while a battle that was still political was preparing in that place that had witnessed so many revolutionary acts; while the young people, the secret societies, and the schools, inspired by principle, and the middle-class inspired by self-interest, were advancing upon each other to clash and grapple; while each side hastened and sought the moment of crisis and decision--remote from all this and from the battlefield itself, in the deepest recesses of that ancient Paris of the poor and destitute which lay hidden beneath the brilliance of the rich and fortunate Paris, there was to be heard the sombre growling of the masses: a fearful and awe-inspiring voice in which were mingled the snarl of animals and the words of God, a terror to the faint-hearted and a warning to the wise, coming at once from the depths, like the roaring of a lion, and from the heights like the voice of thunder.
Okay, I'll go with great writer. That's all one sentence. I'm impressed and basically ready to join the battle. It's towards the end of Part IV that the reader begins to get Victor Hugo at his best. He is unafraid of sentimentality (it's really just one of many tools at his disposal) nor he is bothered by the possibility that he may be openly manipulating his readers emotions--that's his job in the end. The result is the kind of rising tension other writers dream of achieving, a 1200 page novel that ends up being a page-turner.
There was a pause, as though both sides were waiting. Suddenly a voice called out of the darkness, the more awesome because no speaker was to be seen, so that it sounded like the voice of darkness itself:
'Who's there?'
At the same time they heard the clicking of muskets being cocked.
Enjolras responded in lofty and resonant tones:
'The French Revolution!'
'Fire!' ordered the voice, and in an instant glare of the light shone upon the front of the houses as though a furnace-door had been swiftly opened and closed.
"Whose there? The French Revolution!" how does Hugo get away with that. Lines like that should get belly-laughs, but I was practically pumping my fist in the air as I read it. And if everything loses something in translation, well, just imagine... It would be worth learning how to read French.
I've fallen a little behind in my reading schedule, but I do intend to finish Les Miserables before the end of May. After spending so much time with one book, it will probably be a bittersweet end. But I expect the novel itself will have a bittersweet ending. With a story as big as Les Miserables, how could the author pick just a happy ending or just a sad one. I expect to find a full does of each.