The Hunchback of Notre-Dame (2024)

I have officially been wooed by nineteenth century French literature. First Dumas and now this. I just finished reading Victor Hugo’s The Hunchback of Notre-Dame, and it was fantastic. The characters, the themes, the literary structures… Ahhh… *swoons*

Before I proclaim my love affair with Victor Hugo, I have to mention some negatives. First off: very, very difficult book to get into. I struggled through at least the first hundred pages, and I’m not that hard to please. Secondly, up until this point, I had always thought that abridged novels were ridiculous. How could the editors take parts out and still have the story make sense? Upon reading unabridged Hugo, I understand. The man had complete chapters devoted to discussing the history of Paris or the history of the cathedral, and while I admit that it was a clever way to show off his knowledge and spread his political ideals, it was not what I bargained for.

The novel would have been more accurately titled “The Archdeacon of Notre Dame.” (Frollo was not a judge as in the Disney movie. They just tried to secularize him to an equivalent position.) I argue that Frollo was the protagonist. The story spent most of its time with him: his internal struggle, his plotting. And his character was fantastic! He was underhanded, but I pitied him. He was pathetic, but I feared him. He did evil, but I loved him. Frollo was not simply a powerful villain; he was a dynamic, complex character that, at times, the reader could really sympathize with.

The other characters in the novel were equally impressive. Esmeralda’s sweet, strong innocence (she was only sixteen) and foolish devotion to Phoebus is heart wrenching. Quasimodo’s strength of body and heart is awe-inspiring. Phoebus’ selfish arrogance is antagonizing. The minor characters, from the old heckling woman, to the foolish young Frollo (the Archdeacon’s brother), to the rambling philosopher, create a motley portrait of a fascinating world.

Hugo’s occasional comments on society cannot go unnoted. I especially enjoyed one episode where Quasimodo was being questioned in court. In the novel, unlike in the Disney movie, Quasimodo is deaf, so, as he is being questioned, he tries to anticipate the judge’s questions and answer them accordingly. The irony is that the judge was doing the same thing. Hugo created a deaf judge. Beautiful. Anyway, a funny scene ensued, and Hugo made his point.

The best part of the story (maybe, there were just so many good ones) was likely Hugo’s portrayal of love. Love was everywhere: the inexplicable love Frollo had for his useless brother, the love that caused Frollo to accept Quasimodo, the love that broke a mother’s heart at the loss of her daughter, the faithful love that sent Quasimodo to Frollo with his tail between his legs… But the most stunning and provocative of all was the comparison of the three men who “loved” Esmeralda: one man, “loving” her so much that he wanted to possess her; one man, “loving” her for the moment, until another girl came along; and one man “loving” her so much that she went before everything: before his desire to be with her, before his desire to have her, before his own desire to live. *swoons again* Awesome book…

When I started reading it, everyone felt the need to warn me that it didn’t end like the Disney movie. I was afraid. I was scared that after stringing me along, Hugo was going to kill it at the end. Don’t worry: he doesn’t. The end is moving and beautiful and fitting and so what if it’s not Disney: it’s great.

And, to further please the happy reader, there were a million good quotes. Here you go:

“Oh, love!... That is to be two, and yet one. A man and a woman joined, as into an ange; that is heaven!” (Esmeralda).

“Great edifices, like great mountains, are the work of the ages.”

“He found that man needs affection, that life without a warming love is but a dry wheel, creaking and grating as it turns.”

“Alas! The small thing shall bring down the great things; a tooth triumphs over a whole carcass. The rat of the Nile destroys the crocodile, the swordfish kills the whale; the book will kill the edifice” (Frollo).

“It is to this setting sun that we look for a new dawn.”

“Spira, spera.” (“Breathe, hope.”)

“For love is like a tree; it grows of itself; it send its roots deep into our being, and often continues to grow green over a heart in ruins.”

“What man orders… Circ*mstances disorder” (Frollo).

“Everyone knows that great wealth is not acquired by letters, and that the most accomplished writers have not always a warm hearth in wintertime. The lawyers take all the wheat for themselves and leave nothing by chaff for the other learned professions” (Gringoire, the philosopher).

“A lighted candle never attracts one gnat only.”

“That’s life… It’s often our best friends who make us fall” (Gringoire).

“The human voice is music to the human ear.”

Just a wonderful sample of the jewels contained in The Hunchback of Notre-Dame. The novel was difficult, but well worth the effort. I’m just sitting here in awe of it. I can’t write any more.

Inicio lento, final espectacular.

Cuando niño amé mi infancia; jugaba sin parar, me encantaba hablar hasta el punto que me obligaban a callar y los deportes eran mi centro de atención en todo momento. Cuando estaba en esa etapa de mi vida —que por cierto extraño y de la cual siento nostalgia cada vez que pienso en ella— como no me gustaba permanecer quieto, mi atención hacia la televisión era mínima. Razón obvia que me llevó a olvidar muchos de los programas o películas que conocí en mi niñez, como por ejemplo El Jorobado de Notre-Dame: De hecho ni siquiera recuerdo si de niño vi la película o no. Afortunadamente, el tiempo pasa y nuestros roles cambian. En mi caso, el rol de tío que apareció a los 17 años fue el que me llevó a conocer esta historia de Victor Hugo. Era una tarde del 2020, me encontraba aburrido, mi sobrina también, y tras ver un listado de películas infantiles resultamos viendo la famosa cinta de Disney de El Jorobado de Notre-Dame. Personalmente, la disfruté muchísimo, pero principalmente fue por la crueldad y dureza del arcediano, Claude Frollo. Me siento atraído por este tipo de villanos vengativos que no ceden ante sus enemigos, y que usan toda su inteligencia para evitar que el protagonista venza. Pero bueno, la película acabó y ya me preparaba para quitarla, cuando en los créditos el nombre de Victor Hugo capturó mi atención al leer que él era el creador de esa historia. ¡Yo no tenía ni idea! Pero de inmediato busqué esta obra porque conociendo la gran capacidad de Victor Hugo de crear personajes, se volvió para mí una urgencia leer este libro y conocer más a fondo a Claude Frollo. Entonces lo leí y al finalizar quedé sorprendido por la forma como pueden transformar una historia tan cruel en una adaptación hecha para toda la familia.

La historia se desarrolla a finales del siglo XV en la ciudad de Paris, en el periodo de transición entre la Edad Media y la Edad Moderna que conocemos como el Renacimiento. Una época donde las torturas, ejecuciones, creencia en la alquimia y en la brujería son parte del día a día de las personas que viven allí. Victor Hugo nos presenta un contexto histórico excelente donde conoceremos desde la forma como está construida la Catedral de Notre Dame, hasta el descaro y decadencia de la sociedad representada por la Corte de los Milagros, donde los truhanes, vagabundos y limosneros se resguardaban de noche después de pasar todo el día fingiendo enfermedades, robando y engañando al crédulo. También conoceremos la opinión del autor hacia la guillotina, la destrucción de las edificaciones antiguas, la imprenta, la arquitectura, entre otros temas. Todo eso está muy bien y con ese contexto realmente sentiremos como si viviéramos en la Francia del siglo XV, pero, el problema, es que el autor se excede tanto en sus descripciones que el inicio se vuelve demasiado lento; es tan lento, que en las primeras 250 páginas solo encontramos tres escenas. Y sí, ese es el estilo de Victor Hugo, pero a veces se extiende tanto que se convierte en una molestia, o por lo menos eso sentí yo tras leer cuarenta páginas consecutivas atiborradas de descripciones sobre los lugares que se ven desde la cima de Notre-Dame: Eso no es nada agradable. Lo curioso es que ya estaba acostumbrado al estilo de Victor Hugo tras leer Los Miserables, pero en la primera mitad del libro inevitablemente perdí la paciencia y por momentos creí que en las páginas restantes encontraría más descripciones que historia en sí. Además, hay muchas expresiones en latín, provocando que constantemente debamos revisar las anotaciones del libro para entender el significado de aquellas frases, afectando directamente el ritmo de la obra. La prosa ha sido lo más difícil de este libro.

Sin embargo, el libro se vuelve interesante desde que cierto personaje grita la palabra «Asilo». En ese tiempo si un delincuente entraba en un castillo, en una catedral o en un hotel de un príncipe y pedía asilo, automáticamente por ley debían resguardarlo en ese lugar sin tener en cuenta sus delitos y no podían apresarlo. Desde allí el libro entra en un estado de emotividad impresionante, donde conoceremos la diferencia entre un amor puro, un amor obsesivo y un amor ingenuo. Pero no solo eso, también encontramos un ritmo intenso, acción, drama, tragedia, tristeza, locura total, terror, violencia, etc. Cuando llegué a la mitad creí que al final me arrepentiría de leer este libro, pero afortunadamente no ha sido así, y es justamente el desenlace por lo que vale la pena soportar la lentitud inicial: Es un final conmovedor.

Los personajes, tal y como lo esperaba, son un punto muy positivo de este libro. Están bien desarrollados, tienen su comportamiento, pensamientos y creencias muy bien definidas y al igual que en Los Miserables, cuando se juntan o se relacionan entre ellos es que ocurre la verdadera magia. Son personajes muy diferentes entre sí, pero comparten una particularidad en común: La atracción que sienten por Esmeralda. Ella, con sus 16 años, llena de belleza, sensualidad y pureza, enamora a quienes la ven bailar diariamente cerca de Notre-Dame. Esmeralda es descrita con tanta dulzura e inocencia, que en un mundo tan perverso es natural que ella sea el centro de las miradas. Los demás son personajes codiciosos, egoístas y malvados, pero inolvidables. No olvidaré a Gringoire y su obsesión por una cabra; no olvidaré a Phoebus y su repugnante presencia; no olvidaré a Jehan y sus malas decisiones; no olvidaré a Esmeralda y su ingenuidad; no olvidaré a Quasimodo y su amor no correspondido que me hizo recordar mis fracasos amorosos; y sobretodo no olvidaré la obsesión, psicopatía y maldad del arcediano Claude Frollo.

En resumen, un libro que me ha gustado pero que he sufrido. No es tan espectacular como me lo imaginaba, pero ha sido un placer conocer la verdadera historia de Notre-Dame. Y cuando menciono «la verdadera historia» tampoco significa que el libro y la adaptación sean completamente diferentes; sin embargo, sí descubrimos sucesos que han sido omitidos o alterados, naturalmente por la audiencia a la que fue dirigida la adaptación. Incluso gracias a este libro entenderemos mejor el contexto histórico donde se realizan los sucesos de la película. Y sí, la prosa es complicada, pero en este caso hay que comprender que el autor no escribía para un público futuro, sino para quienes vivían en su propia época por lo que es entendible su forma de contar la historia. La calificación es de cuatro estrellas.

This isn't a review of the book itself, but rather a sampler of its English translations. Since the ratio of English readers of Hugo to English translators of Hugo is perilously close to 1:1, I thought a quick taste test was in order, so I've whipped up this plateau d'amuse-gueules so that you can find your favorite. I've compiled as many versions of the opening paragraph(s) as I could find online; I had no luck unearthing Hazlitt [1833], but most of the others are here. I've ended with Hugo's original French, the essence of which will be surprisingly intelligible after you've parsed it against a couple of the less impressionistic translations. (Just for fun, I've added my own translation at the end, so you can see whether my opinion is worth a crap.)

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If you want an opinion without having to slog through all these, I think the only ones close to great literature in English are Beckwith [1895] and maybe Sturrock [1978], who seems to follow Beckwith rather closely. Beckwith is quite good, with Sturrock a notch below, and all the rest defacing Hugo as much as his detested 'masons' were then defacing the medieval facade of Paris.

:: Shoberl [1833] ::
On this day 348 years, six months, and nineteen days since the good people of Paris were awakened by a grand peal from all the bells in the three districts of the City, the University, and the Ville. The 6th of January, 1482, was, nevertheless, a day of which history has not preserved any record. There was nothing worthy of note in the event which so early set in motion the bells and the citizens of Paris. It was neither an assault of the Picards or the Burgundians, nor a procession with the shrine of some saint, nor a mutiny of the students, nor an entry of our "most redoubted lord, Monsieur the king," nor even an execution of rogues of either sex, before the Palace of Justice of Paris. Neither was it an arrival of some bedizened and befeathered embassy, a sight of frequent occurrence in the fifteenth century. It was but two days since the last cavalcade of this kind, that of the Flemish ambassadors commissioned to conclude a marriage between the Dauphin and Margaret of Flanders, had made its entry into Paris, to the great annoyance of the Cardinal of Bourbon, who, in order to please the king, had been obliged to receive this vulgar squad of Flemish burgomasters with good grace, and to entertain them at his hotel de Bourbon with a goodly morality, mummery, and farce, while a deluge of rain drenched the magnificent tapestry at his door.

:: Anonymous [19th century, adopted by Everyman's Library] ::
On the 6th of January, 1482, the Parisians were awakened by the noise of all the bells within the triple circuit of the City, the University, and the Town ringing in full peal. Yet this is not a day of which history has preserved any remembrance. There was nothing remarkable in the event which thus put in agitation so early in the morning the bells and the good people of Paris. It was neither an assault of Picards or of Burgundians; nor a shrine carried in procession; nor a revolt of scholars in la vigne de Laas; nor an entry of notre dit tres-redoute seigneur Monsieur le Roi - that is, in plain English, of their most dread lord the King ["In good plain English"!? - Matvei]; nor yet a good hanging up of thieves, male and female, at the Justice de Paris (justice and gibbet having been synonymous in the good old feudal times)[That remark is also actually in the translation - Matvei]. Neither was it the sudden arrival, so frequent in the 15th century, of some ambassador and his train, all covered with lace and plumes. Scarcely two days had elapsed since the last cavalcade of this sort, that of the Flemish envoys commissioned to conclude the marriage treaty between the Dauphin and Margaret of Flanders, had made its entry into Paris, to the great annoyance of Monsieur le Cardinal de Bourbon, who to please the king had been obliged to give a gracious reception to that rude train of Flemish burgomasters, and entertain them, at his Hotel de Bourbon, with one of the rude dramatic exhibitions of the time, while a beating rain drenched the magnificent tapestry at his door.

:: Alger [1882] ::
348 years, six months, and nineteen days ago today, the Parisians were waked by the sound of loud peals from all the bells within the triple precincts of the City, the University, and the Town. And yet the 6th of January, 1842, is not a day of which history takes much note. There was nothing extraordinary about the event which thus set all the bells and the citizens of Paris agog from early dawn. It was neither an attack from the Picards or the Burgundians, nor some shrine carried in procession, nor was it a student revolt in the Ville de Laas, nor an entry of "our greatly to be dreaded lord the king", nor even the wholesale slaughter of a band of thieves before the Palace of Justice. Neither was it the arrival, so frequent during the 15th century, of some plumed and laced embassy. It was scarcely two days since the last cavalcade of this sort, that of the Flemish ambassadors empowered to arrange a marriage between the Dauphin and Marguerite of Flanders, had entered Paris, to the great annoyance of Cardinal Bourbon, who, to please the king, was forced to smile upon all this rustic rout of Flemish burgomasters, and to entertain them at his own mansion with "a very fine morality and farce", while a driving rainstorm drenched the splendid tapestries at his door.

:: Hapgood [1888] ::
Three hundred and forty-eight years, six months, and nineteen days ago today, the Parisians awoke to the sound of all the bells in the triple circuit of the city, the university, and the town ringing a full peal. The sixth of January, 1482, is not, however, a day of which history has preserved the memory. There was nothing notable in the event which thus set the bells and the bourgeois of Paris in a ferment from early morning. It was neither an assault by the Picards nor the Burgundians, nor a hunt led along in procession, nor a revolt of scholars in the town of Laas, nor an entry of "our much dread lord, monsieur the king," nor even a pretty hanging of male and female thieves by the courts of Paris. Neither was it the arrival, so frequent in the fifteenth century, of some plumed and bedizened embassy. It was barely two days since the last cavalcade of that nature, that of the Flemish ambassadors charged with concluding the marriage between the dauphin and Marguerite of Flanders, had made its entry into Paris, to the great annoyance of M. le Cardinal de Bourbon, who, for the sake of pleasing the king, had been obliged to assume an amiable mien towards this whole rustic rabble of Flemish burgomasters, and to regale them at his Hôtel de Bourbon, with a very "pretty morality, allegorical satire, and farce," while a driving rain drenched the magnificent tapestries at his door.

:: Beckwith [1895] ::
Exactly 348 years, six months, and nineteen days have passed away since the Parisians were awakened by the noise of all the bells within the triple walls of the city, the University, and the town, ringing a full peal. Yet the 6th of January, 1482, was not a day of which history has preserved any record. There was nothing remarkable in the event which thus put in agitation so early in the morning the bells and the good people of Paris. It was neither an assault of the Picards or of the Burgundians, nor a shrine carried in procession, nor a revolt of scholars in the vigne de Laas, nor an entry of their most dread lord the king, nor a grand hanging up of thieves, male and female, at the Justice de Paris. Neither was it the sudden arrival, so frequent in the fifteenth century, of some ambassador and his train, all covered with lace and plumes. Scarcely two days had elapsed since the last cavalcade of this sort -- that of the Flemish envoys commissioned to conclude the marriage treaty between the Dauphin and Margaret of Flanders -- had made its entry into Paris, to the great annoyance of Monsieur le Cardinal de Bourbon, who, to please the king, had been obliged to give a gracious reception to that rude train of Flemish burgomasters, and entertain them, at his Hotel de Bourbon, with one of the rude dramatic exhibitions of the time, while a beating rain drenched the magnificent tapestry at his door.

:: Bair [1956] ::
On January 6, 1482, the people of Paris were awakened by the tumultuous clanging of all the bells in the city. Yet history has kept no memory of this date, for there was nothing notable about the event which set in motion the bells and citizens of Paris that morning. It was not an attack by the Picards or the Burgundians, a procession carrying the relics of some saint, an entry of "Our Most Dread Lord, Monsieur the King," nor even a good hanging of thieves. Nor was it the arrival of some foreign ambassador and his train, all decked out in lace and feathers, a common sight in the 15th century. It had been scarcely two days since the latest cavalcade of this kind had paraded through the streets: the delegation of Flemish ambassadors sent to conclude the marriage between the Dauphin and Marguerite of Flanders. To his great annoyance, Cardinal de Bourbon, in order to please the king, had been obliged to give a gracious reception to that uncouth band of Flemish burgomasters and entertain them in his mansion. [Yes, Bair omitted the driving rain drenching the tapestries! - Matvei]

:: Unknown (though after you read this, it will be clear that the translator was Alan Smithee) [Wordsworth Classics edition - perhaps Cobb 1964?] ::
One morning, 348 years, six months, and nineteen days ago, the Parisians were awakened by a grand peal from all the bells, within the triple enclosure of the City, the University, and the Town. Yet the 6th of January, 1482, was not a day of which history has preserved any record. There was nothing remarkable in the event that so early in the morning set in commotion the bells and the bourgeois of Paris. It was neither a sudden attack made by Picards or by Burgundians, nor a shrine carried in procession, nor a student fight in the city of Laas, nor the entry of 'our most dread lord the King', nor even a goodly stringing up of thieves, male and female, on the Place de la Justice. Nor it was it a sudden arrival, so common in the 15th century, of some ambassador and his train, all belaced and beplumed. Only about two days ago, indeed, the last cavalcade of this kind, Flemish envoys commissioned to conclude the marriage treaty between the young dauphin and Marguerite of Flanders, had made entry into Paris, to the great annoyance of Cardinal Bourbon. To please the king, his Eminence had undertaken to give gracious reception to the rough crowd of Flemish burgomasters, and to entertain them at his Hotel de Bourbon with a 'very fine morality, burletta, and farce,' whilst a beating rain was all the time drenching his magnificent tapestries at his portals.

:: Sturrock [1978] ::
348 years, six months, and nineteen days ago today, the people of Paris awoke to hear all the churchbells in the triple enclosure of the City, the University, and the Town in full voice. Not that 6 January 1482 is a day of which history has kept any record. There was nothing noteworthy about the event that had set the burgesses and bells of Paris in motion from early morning. It was not an assault by Picards or Burgundians, it was not a reliquary being carried in procession, it was not a student revolt in the vineyard of Laas, it was not an entry by 'our most redoubtable Lord Monsieur the King', it was not even a fine hanging of male and female thieves on the gallows of Paris. Nor was it the arrival, so frequent in the 15th century, of an embassy, in all its plumes and finery. It was barely two days since the last cavalcade of this kind, that of the Flemish ambassadors charged with concluding the marriage between the dauphin and Marguerite of Flanders, had made its entry into Paris, much to the annoyance of Monsieur the Cardinal of Bourbon, who, to please the king, had had to put on a smile for this uncouth mob of Flemish burgomasters and entertain them, in his Hotel de Bourbon, with a 'very fine morality, satire, and farce', as driving rain drenched the magnificent tapestries in his doorway.

:: Krailsheimer [1993] ::
Just three hundred and forty-eight years, six months, and nineteen days ago today Parisians woke to the sound of all the bells pealing out within the triple precinct of City, University, and Town. The sixth of January 1482 is not, however, a day commemorated by history. There was nothing very special about the event which thus launched the bells and the people of Paris into movement from early in the morning. It was not an attack by Picards or Burgundians, not a procession of relics, not a student revolt in the Laas vineyard, not ‘our aforesaid most dread sovereign Lord the King’ making his entry, not even the fine spectacle of men and women being hanged for robbery at the Palais de Justice in Paris. Nor was it the arrival of some embassy, a frequent occurrence in the fifteenth century, all bedizened and plumed. It was hardly two days since the last cavalcade of that kind, the Flemish embassy sent to conclude the marriage of the Dauphin and Marguerite of Flanders, had entered Paris, much to the annoyance of the Cardinal de Bourbon, who, to please the King, had had to put on a welcoming smile for this rustic bunch of Flemish burgomasters and treat them, in his Hotel de Bourbon, to ‘a very fine morality, satire, and farce’, while torrential rain soaked the magnificent tapestries hung at his door.

:: Liu [2002] ::
Three hundred and forty-eight years, six months, and nineteen days ago, the good people of Paris awoke to the sound of all the bells pealing in the three districts of the Cité, the Université, and the Ville. The sixth of January, 1482, was, however, a day that history does not remember. There was nothing worthy of note in the event that set in motion earlv in the morning both the bells and the citizens of Paris. It was neither an assault of the Picards nor one of the Burgundians, nor a procession bearing the shrine of some saint, nor a student revolt in the vineyard of Laas, nor an entry of “our most feared Lord, Monsieur the King,” nor even a lovely hanging of thieves of either sex before the Palace of justice of Paris. It was also not the arrival of some bedecked and befeathered ambassador, which was a frequent sight in the fifteenth century. It was barely two days since the last Cavalcade of this kind had been seen, as the Flemish ambassadors commissioned to conclude a marriage between the Dauphin and Margaret of Flanders had entered Paris, to the great annoyance of the Cardinal de Bourbon, who, in order to please the King, had been obliged to receive the entire rustic crew of Flemish burgomasters with a gracious smile, and to entertain them at his Hotel de Bourbon with “very elaborate morality plays, mummery, and farce,” while pouring rain drenched the magnificent tapestry at his door.

:: Unknown [CreateSpace edition, 2013] ::
348 years, six months, and nineteen days ago today, the Parisians awoke to the sound of all the bells in the triple circuit of the city, the university, and the town ringing a full peal. The 6th of January, 1842, is not, however, a day of which history has preserved the memory. There was nothing notable in the event which thus set the bells and the bourgeois of Paris in a ferment from early morning. It was neither an assault by the Picards nor the Burgundians, nor a hunt led along in procession, nor a revolt of scholars in the town of Laas, nor an entry of 'our much dread lord, monsieur the king', nor even a pretty hanging of male and female thieves by the courts of Paris. Neither was it the arrival, so frequent in the 15th century, of some plumed and bedizened embassy. It was barely two days since the last cavalcade of that nature, that of the Flemish ambassadors charged with concluding the marriage between the dauphin and Marguerite of Flanders, had made its entry into Paris, to the great annoyance of M. le Cardinal de Bourbon, who, for the sake of pleasing the king, had been obliged to assume an amiable mien towards this whole rustic rabble of Flemish burgomasters, and to regale them at his Hotel de Bourbon, with a very 'pretty morality, allegorical satire, and farce', while a driving rain drenched the magnificent tapestries at his door.

:: and at long last ... ::
Il y a aujourd’hui trois cent quarante-huit ans six mois et dix-neuf jours que les parisiens s’éveillèrent au bruit de toutes les cloches sonnant à grande volée dans la triple enceinte de la Cité, de l’Université et de la Ville.

Ce n’est cependant pas un jour dont l’histoire ait gardé souvenir que le 6 janvier 1482. Rien de notable dans l’événement qui mettait ainsi en branle, dès le matin, les cloches et les bourgeois de Paris. Ce n’était ni un assaut de picards ou de bourguignons, ni une châsse menée en procession, ni une révolte d’écoliers dans la vigne de Laas, ni une entrée de notre dit très redouté seigneur monsieur le roi, ni même une belle pendaison de larrons et de larronnesses à la Justice de Paris. Ce n’était pas non plus la survenue, si fréquente au quinzième siècle, de quelque ambassade chamarrée et empanachée. Il y avait à peine deux jours que la dernière cavalcade de ce genre, celle des ambassadeurs flamands chargés de conclure le mariage entre le dauphin et Marguerite de Flandre, avait fait son entrée à Paris, au grand ennui de Monsieur le cardinal de Bourbon, qui, pour plaire au roi, avait dû faire bonne mine à toute cette rustique cohue de bourgmestres flamands, et les régaler, en son hôtel de Bourbon, d’une moult belle moralité, sotie et farce, tandis qu’une pluie battante inondait à sa porte ses magnifiques tapisseries.

:: Matvei P [2014] ::
It was on this day, three hundred and forty eight years, six months, and nineteen days since, that the people of Paris awoke to the din of all the bells ringing out a grand peal from the triple ramparts of the City, the University, and the Town. Yet the 6th of January, 1482, was not otherwise a day that history records. There was nothing remarkable in the event which, all that morning, had set the bells of Paris and her dwellers so astir. It was no invasion from Picardy or Burgundy, no solemn procession of relics to a shrine, no revolt of scholars from the vineyards of Laas, no entrance of our most dread lord the king, no fine hanging of thieves at the Palace of Justice. Nor was it the sudden arrival, so frequent in those days, of some ambassador, richly brocaded and beplumed. It had been two days since the last such parade -- that of the Flemish ambassadors tasked with confirming the marriage between the dauphin and Marguerite of Flanders -- had made its way to Paris, to the great annoyance of the cardinal of Bourbon, who, to please the king, had had to welcome this bumpkin lot of Flemish worthies to his estate and there regale them with mummeries and farces, as all the while a driving rain drenched the magnificent tapestries at his door.

Ceci n'est pas un roman

Diciamolo subito: uno dei primi e più famosi romanzi storici francesi, in realtà, non è un vero romanzo; chi si aspetta di trovare in queste pagine una trama lineare, che proceda ininterrottamente con un inizio, uno sviluppo e una fine, rimarrà profondamente deluso.
Il giovane Victor Hugo scrisse quest'opera con uno scopo assai preciso, che andava ben oltre la mera emulazione di Walter Scott: sensibilizzare la società francese nei riguardi dell'architettura storica, per impedire che molti tesori del passato venissero distrutti.
Il titolo, del resto, la dice lunga; non è Quasimodo o Il gobbo di Notre-Dame e nemmeno Gli amori perversi dell'arcidiacono alchimista, ma Notre-Dame de Paris, la protagonista è lei, la cattedrale gotica. Non si scappa.
Non un vero romanzo, dunque, ma un trattato sulla Parigi medievale, sulle sue vie, le sue piazze, i suoi palazzi e le sue chiese, Notre-Dame su tutte, che Hugo fa rivivere in queste pagine; ma pure una profonda riflessione filosofica sull'importanza della Storia e delle sue vestigia; il resto, i personaggi, l'intreccio, le invenzioni letterarie che pur non mancano, è solo contorno, un orpello necessario per rendere l'opera vendibile al pubblico più vasto, un ninnolo per baloccare il lettore e nulla più.
Le vere digressioni, qui, non sono le descrizioni urbanistiche, le argomentazioni storiche, le riflessioni filosofiche, le denunce politiche, ma le poche trame narrative che emergono come scogli fra una disquisizione e l'altra.

Perché il ventottenne Victor si produsse in tanto sforzo?
Hugo aveva molto a cuore il tema della conservazione dell’architettura storica, qualche anno prima aveva già dato alle stampe il pamphlet Guerre aux démolisseurs! e bisogna ricordare che nel 1831, in Francia, il concetto di tutela del patrimonio era del tutto assente, gli edifici storici erano solo edifici vecchi e, in quanto tali, potevano essere abbattuti senza grosse remore.
Erano anni in cui, dopo le devastazioni e i saccheggi della prima Rivoluzione, i gotici luoghi di culto parigini versavano in uno stato di misero abbandono; Notre-Dame cadeva a pezzi e il progetto di demolizione della Sainte-Chapelle per costruire un nuovo padiglione del Palazzo di Giustizia era in via di approvazione.
Il rischio di perdere gran parte del patrimonio storico-architettonico fu concreto, e fu anche merito dell'esegesi del Medioevo racchiusa in questo romanzo se l'opinione pubblica parigina si scosse e la politica le venne dietro: nel 1834 Prosper Mérimée fu nominato Ispettore Generale dei monumenti storici, iniziarono grandi campagne di studio che aprirono la strada, a partire dal decennio successivo, alle teorie ed alle pratiche di restauro di Viollet-le-Duc (che probabilmente conosceva a memoria il romanzo di Hugo, tant’è che ne copiò l'espressione "libro di pietra" per descrivere le architetture storiche), teorie che poi si riverberarono in tutta l'Europa continentale, fino a far assurgere il gotico a "stile nazionale" francese.

Le idee di Hugo sulla tutela sono ovviamente figlie del loro tempo, e se oggi il ripristino di una forma originaria andata perduta nel corso dei secoli è -o dovrebbe essere- considerato un modus operandi non più corretto, nella sua accezione più ampia il pensiero di Hugo è tutt'ora condivisibile, perché non si può distruggere un patrimonio che non ci appartiene, che era dei nostri antenati e sarà dei nostri posteri, solo in nome del progresso o del cambiamento del gusto collettivo; questa è una lezione che Parigi non ha mai imparato del tutto: se il successo di Notre-Dame de Paris contribuì a garantire la salvaguardia dei grandi monumenti gotici cittadini, pochi anni dopo la sua pubblicazione ci avrebbe pensato il barone Haussmann a distruggere quel poco che restava della città storica, per creare i grandi boulevards per cui oggi Parigi è tanto celebre. Nel corso degli anni sono andati perduti per sempre capolavori architettonici come la vertiginosa chiesa barocca di Sainte Anne la Royale, progettata da quel genio di Guarino Guarini, oppure, in tempi più recenti, Les Halles, meraviglioso mercato coperto ottocentesco realizzato in vetro e metallo, demolito solo una quarantina d'anni fa per far posto a un centro commerciale.

Tornando al romanzo, Hugo era pur sempre uno scrittore d'incomparabile talento, ed anche quel minimo di trama che c’è, è comunque degna d'attenzione; soprattutto nella seconda parte la narrazione acquista spessore, l'arcidiacono Claude Frollo è un personaggio che non si dimentica tanto facilmente.
Tuttavia, nonostante la prosa superba, ci sono anche momenti d'involontaria comicità, come quando Esmeralda esclama: "Amo il vostro nome, amo la vostra spada. Su, sguainate la spada, Phœbus, fatemela vedere"; ecco, non siamo tanto distanti dal "bevi qualcosa, Pedro" di marchesiniana memoria.

Nel finale, straziante come solo Hugo sapeva fare, la narrazione subisce di nuovo una battuta d'arresto, proprio sul più bello, per far spazio ad una riflessione sul deterioramento del potere monarchico, ma, bisogna dirlo, gl'impavidi lettori che riescono ad arrivare a quel punto ormai hanno fatto il callo alla prosa di Hugo, alias il Dottor Divago, e non si stupiscono più di nulla.

Notre Dame, the great cathedral of central Paris, gave Victor Hugo’s 1831 novel its original title. We in the English-speaking world know the book as The Hunchback of Notre Dame, and tend to focus on the character of Quasimodo, the bell-ringer whose physical deformities conceal a brave and kind heart. The reason for the confusion of titles is quite simple: the book’s English translator, working in a time when literary Gothicism was highly popular, simply retitled the novel for its first English-language publication in 1833, figuring no doubt that a book named after a hunchback would sell more copies than a book named after a cathedral.

As titles go, however, Notre Dame de Paris is truer to the spirit of what Hugo wanted his novel to provide – a grand, epic look at life in medieval Paris, unified around the cathedral that has been overlooking Parisian life from the Île de la Cité ever since its completion in 1345. The novel’s action takes place during the late-15th-century reign of King Louis XI, at a time when Notre Dame was just over a century old. By 1831, however, Notre Dame was showing her age; she had suffered significant damage from anti-clerical rioters during the French Revolution, and Hugo was concerned that many of Paris’s treasures of Gothic architecture might be permitted to crumble into dust.

It is for that reason that Hugo includes in the novel extensive passages like this one in support and defense of Gothic masterpieces like Notre Dame: “[T]hree kinds of ravages nowadays disfigure Gothic architecture: wrinkles and warts on the skin – these are the work of Time; wounds, contusions, fractures, from brutal violence – these are the work of revolutions from Luther to Mirabeau; mutilations, amputations, dislocations of limbs, restorations -- this is the barbarous Greek and Roman work of professors.” Read this book as Notre Dame de Paris, looking at all the characters in terms of how their lives relate to the life of the cathedral – rather than focusing solely on one (albeit undeniably interesting) character – and you will suddenly find that you are reading an entirely different, and much richer, novel.

You’ll still get to spend time with the same unforgettable characters, of course. Pierre Gringoire, the aspiring poet, may reflect Hugo’s own belief in the power of words and literature to bring about positive change. There is pathos in Gringoire’s hopeless love for the Romani (“Gypsy”) woman Esmeralda; Hugo, whose liberal and reformist frame of mind made him sympathize with all who suffered oppression, focuses on the anti-“Gypsy” prejudice among the people of medieval Paris, as when the character of Gervaise says that the Romani people’s “teeth are long enough to eat little children. And I would not be surprised if La Esmeralda were to pick a bit now and then, though she has such a small, pretty mouth. Her white goat plays so many marvelous tricks that there must be something wrong at bottom.” I’ve never seen this person do anything wrong, but she simply must be doing some awful thing, because it suits me to think so. Hugo captures the nature of prejudice in a single line of dialogue.

It is Esmeralda’s fate to be beautiful, and – paradoxically – her misfortune to be loved. She is loved by Gringoire, whom she marries to save him from the wrath of the Truands, the professional criminals whose “Court of Miracles” Gringoire accidentally wanders into; but she is indifferent to his love, and regards him only as a rather f*ckless friend. She is loved by Quasimodo the bell-ringer, who rescues her from execution in one of the novel’s most famous passages; and the feelings of pity that prompt her to bring water to Quasimodo during his public punishment in front of the church become feelings of appreciation and respect once he has saved her from execution. Most ominously, Esmeralda is loved – or, more accurately, lusted after – by the arch-deacon Frollo, a powerful church official whose vows of chastity go out the stain-glassed window once he has seen Esmeralda dance.

A lifetime of repressed or suppressed lust seethes within Frollo, who at one point in the novel tells Esmeralda that her “superhuman beauty…can come only from heaven or from hell” and concludes, unsurprisingly, that “I perceived the demon’s trap, and had no further doubt that you were from hell, and had come for my perdition.” A lust-racked man blames an innocent woman for the fact that he lusts after her, and intends to destroy her if he cannot have her. So little has changed since 1831, or since 1470, or since the first time a woman said “no” to a man who desired her without loving her.

But what of Esmeralda herself? She has a heart; whom does she love? Tragically, Esmeralda has given her heart to Captain Phoebus de Chateaupers. A bold cavalryman and leader of archers, Phoebus is a veritable Apollo for good looks and gallantry; but he is doubly well-named in that he is a false god whose reality belies his quasi-divine appearance. And Esmeralda’s idolatry for Phoebus betrays her at one crucial point in the novel.

Hugo’s dedication to the liberal, democratic spirit of la République française emerges in his portrayal of King Louis XI. Known historically as le rusé (“the Cunning”) and l’universelle aragne (“the Universal Spider”), King Louis emerges as a capricious figure, granting clemency and ordering executions as the whims of the moment move him. Esmeralda, rescued from execution by Quasimodo, enjoys the benefits of sanctuary within Notre Dame, but the king orders that “The witch must be hanged” and subsequently asks the Virgin Mary to forgive him for violating the sanctuary of her cathedral, asking that she “Forgive me then for this time, our Lady of Paris!” and assuring her that “I will never do so again, and I will give you a beautiful statue of silver, just like the one I gave last year to our Lady of Ecouys. Amen!” Thus, with a Judas Iscariot-like bribe of silver, the King of France is prepared to deliver an innocent woman over to the gallows. In the time when Notre Dame de Paris was published, the corrupt post-Napoleonic Bourbon dynasty had just been replaced by a constitutional monarchy; and in his portrayal of the King, Hugo makes clear his support for the spirit of Liberté, égalité, fraternité.

In a novel filled with torture and brutality, some measure of justice is achieved; the cruel and hypocritical Frollo gets his comeuppance, and Gringoire’s belief that the power of words can outlast the power of physical force and compulsion gets some measure of vindication. But the cost in innocent human life, by novel’s end, is high; and with the novel’s final image, the reader is reminded in a moving way of Quasimodo’s pure, uncorrupted, hopeless love for the beautiful Esmeralda. Small wonder that Quasimodo has made such an impression upon generations of readers, or that he has been portrayed so memorably on screen by actors like Lon Chaney, Charles Laughton, Anthony Quinn, Anthony Hopkins, Tom Hulce, and Mandy Patinkin.

I read Notre Dame de Paris on a trip to Paris in 2006. My bookmark for the novel is a boarding pass for the flight home (Air France 5870, Paris to Detroit; courteous flight attendants, good wine with dinner). My impressions of Paris now are the same as my impressions of Paris back in 2006, as I walked the battlements of Notre Dame and looked out, from a gargoyle’s-eye view, upon la ville lumière, the City of Lights. Hugo’s Notre Dame de Paris captures in 1831 what people all over the world know about Paris today: that for all the tragedies and traumas that Paris has suffered over its long history, the spirit of Paris lives on, imperishable.