Purpose and Responsibility in the Novels of Victor Hugo

Although the Romanticists did not, for the most part, think of their work in terms of volition, their basic attitude — exemplified in Victor Hugo — is revealed through several aspects and characteristics that are, in fact, attributes of volition. Specifically, I would refer to purpose and to responsibility. As they pertain to the faculty of volition, purpose is that which is derived from the ability to direct one’s consciousness, to select a value, to determine a goal and to determine a course of action to achieve that end; and responsibility implies that consciousness is capable of making itself felt in reality, that actions, taken to achieve goals, do indeed have ramifications and consequences in reality. To put it in slightly different terms — purpose is that aspect of volition which pertains to consciousness; and responsibility, as it pertains to reality.

For the Determinist — and for his literary counterpart, the Naturalist — such concepts as purpose and responsibility are either meaningless, distorted or entirely irrelevant to their work. And this is why their literary output has gradually descended into today’s nightmarish incoherence.

Any discussion of purpose and responsibility must focus on the works of the Romanticists, and necessarily so, for it was they who gave an (implicit) literary expression to the concept of volition. And from this implicit expression there arose an altogether new kind of character — one whose actions were goal-oriented, who defined their purpose and sought their values; men who realized that if they were indeed masters of their fate then they had to be willing to accept the justice of reality; they had to be willing to accept the responsibility for their actions.

It was this sort of attitude that Hugo instilled in his characters.

Purpose

There is present in the works of Victor Hugo the underlying attitude that man is by his very nature a purposeful being, and that it is natural that man should conceive of himself as goal-oriented and his actions in the context of the end he seeks. In the play Hernani the hero makes this declaration to his love: “You think me, perhaps, a man/Like others, one with sense, who knows the end/At which he aims, and acts accordingly.” The purposeful man, for Hugo, was the rule and not the exception.

Though he considered man by nature to be purposeful, nevertheless, Hugo realized that purpose is the result of a volitional act, that it required a conscious effort. If conscious control is not exerted, the result is liable to be a man such as Hernani despairs of being, when he says, “Where shall I go?/I cannot tell. But I am urged, compelled/By an impetuous breath and wild decree;” this is a fine, artistic rendition of how such a non-conscious man would feel — a description that has been amplified in the last few years by Objectivist writers on psychology, when they speak of a non-conscious man being controlled by unknown whims.

The purposefulness with which Hugo endowed his characters is not confined to any particular value-system, nor to any particular type of character, high or low, villain or hero. Instead, he dealt with all levels of intellecual awareness, refinement and development — from, for example, Quasimodo, The Hunchback of Notre Dame, to Claude Frollo, in the same novel, who “had, from his youth, gone through almost the entire circle of human knowledge,…” As would be expected, such a wide diversity of characters would necessarily display various goals and values and various levels of awareness of those goals and of their very own purpose.

The more concrete purposefulness, limited in range to one specific goal, without the character’s generally being aware of any larger implications, Hugo used for those characters he created who have a lesser intellectual range. A good example of this type of character is the woman Michelle Flechard in the novel Ninety-Three in her search through the war-torn countryside of Vendee during the French Revolution for her children. It is also, by the way, a good example of Hugo’s ability to instill in the lowliest of his characters an inherent nobility that a modern-day Naturalist couldn’t begin to give a king.

…All her days were the same: she walked straight ahead and never stopped. Her exhausted sleep, wherever she could find a place to lie down, was no more rest than the morsels she ate here and there, as birds forage, were food. She ate and slept just enough to prevent herself from falling dead. …She thought of the adventures she had gone through, of the encounters, the indignities, the conditions laid down, the bargains proposed and submitted to, sometimes for shelter, sometimes for a piece of bread, sometimes merely for information as to how to find her way….Her wanderings were horrible, but nothing mattered to her provided she found her children.

The woman’s purpose is concrete and extremely limited. She seeks her children — that and nothing more. But within her limited means she exhibits as profound a commitment to her goal as any character of a more intellectual concern. Though her intellectual range does not extend very far, it can certainly be said that her sense of purpose runs deep.

It is for those characters of a larger conceptual framework, whose intellectual abilities allow them to grasp abstractions, whom Hugo reserved for a more generalized and abstract purposefulness. This, however, does not mean that the sense of purpose guiding Hugo’s characters becomes in any way diffused or lifeless simply because the goal is on a more abstract level. In fact the very opposite is true. The emotional commitment of his characters to their goals becomes all the more passionate as the issues grow more complex and abstract and the goals of a longer range.

Using once again the novel Ninety-Three as an example and looking at the major protagonists, I can illustrate this point. The novel deals with the French Revolution and its adversaries. On the one side is the Marquis de Lantenac, committed to the re-establishment of the Monarchy. His devotion, though, is not for one particular king, but rather to the institution of Monarchy itself. His equals, on the opposite political side, are Gauvain and Cimourdain, both as devoted to the Revolution as Lantenac is to the Monarchy (though Gauvain and Cimourdain each have a slightly different conception of what the Revolution should be, stand for and accomplish). These men are committed to a specific goal only in so far as it will further their larger objectives; nor are they dedicated to individuals, only to institutions, ideas, ideals, concepts — in a word, abstractions.

In highlighting Cimourdain we can perceive how their purposeful action goes beyond the range of the moment, or an attachment for any individual, when it is motivated by — and takes place on — a higher, abstract scale. Hugo characterizes Cimourdain thusly: “He had the absolute in him”; and “He had the blind certainty of the arrow, which sees nothing but the goal and goes towards it.” Cimourdain readily grasped the ideals of the Revolution to his bosom and becomes a formidable and purposeful agent of the Convention. Cimourdain’s loyalty in maintaining his purpose, the ideal he sees the Revolution as being, Hugo reveals late in the novel, showing us to what extent his characters are willing to go to keep that integrity of purpose, to gain the end towards which they strive.

At the climax of the novel, Cimourdain is faced with the alternative of freeing the young commander of the republican forces Gauvain, whom he has raised and loved as his own and trained in the ideals of the Revolution; or Cimourdain can sentence him to death. To free Gauvain would mean, however, for Cimourdain, betraying the Revolution; to sentence him to death would mean losing the only man he has ever felt any emotion for. A lesser perhaps would have relinquished his ultimate purpose; but Cimourdain goes “straight ahead, fatefully”, displaying a strength of will, character and purpose that makes his conception heroic. Holding intact his inviolate purpose, Cimourdain sentences Gauvain to death, then commits suicide himself.

Toilers of the Sea, thematically, deals quite explicitly with the issue of man and purpose. Additionally, it is a congenial novel for several other reasons. First, the villainly of Sieur Clubin and Rantain is, for the most part, extraneous to the central conflict, which is Gilliatt’s struggle with nature. Consequently, there is no clash of value systems. Hugo was free to be simply on the side of man (which, in fact, he basically always was) and did not have to choose which value-system he considered virtuous. Second, Hugo’s occasionally exasperating Christianity does not intrude to any great extent on Gilliatt’s battle to save the steamship. It is only near the very end, where Gilliatt must deal in the realm of man once again, that Hugo felt it necessary to bring a tragic ending to his story.

Book II of the novel, the section in which Gilliatt struggles alone in the middle of the sea to free the stranded steamship so that he might win the woman he loves, presents the very essence of Hugo’s image of a purposeful man.

That solitary position Gilliatt had more than accepted; he had deliberately chosen it. …The overwhelming enterprise of saving the steamship, the risk, the danger, the toil multiplied by itself, the possible destruction of the salvor in his work, famine, fever, nakedness, distress — he had chosen all these for himself! Such was his selfishness….

Hugo realized that if Gilliatt were to go to the magnificent lengths he would have to, if he were to undergo the necessary hardships to achieve his goal, then Gilliatt had to be willing to accomplish this task willingly. It had to be an act of volition, and further it had to be in his own self-interest. “Such was his selfishness,” Hugo exclaims, and we must agree with him. It is a magnificent selfishness, indeed.

Exhaustion of the bodily strength does not necessarily exhaust the will….All that Gilliatt lost in vigour, he gained in tenacity. The destruction of the physical man under the oppressive influence of that wild surrounding sea, and rock, and sky, seemed only to reinvigorate his moral nature.

Gilliatt felt no fatigue; or, rather, would not yield to any….

Bodily needs become rather trivial beside this strength of will. Not that Gilliatt does not recognize the pain and agony he is going through; he does, but he refuses to succumb to it. Beside his all-consuming purpose, his physical needs are unimportant.

Other writers, such as Jack London, have also portrayed such characters as Gilliatt with an indomitable will to live. But whereas London’s characters fall to an animalistic level in order to survive, Hugo’s characters become nearly superhuman. London wonders how far his men will descend to remain alive, and Hugo wonders how high his men will climb. London seems to be looking down; Hugo, up.

Only the most concrete-bound reader would claim that Toilers of the Sea is simply another Robinson Crusoe story, for it is far more than that. It is a drama on the most profound metaphysical level: of man against nature, the mind struggling with the universe, moving inanimate matter to its will. It is on this level that the full significance of the novel becomes apparent; it is on this level that the full impact and magnificence of a purposeful man reaches the reader. It is on this level the heroic is born.

He endured all this suffering without any other thought than is comprised in the word “Forward”. His work flew to his head; the strength of the will is intoxicating. Its intoxication is called heroism.

Responsibility

The term responsibility has become such a vague, misused, ill-defined word that I think it might be worth while to examine the idea more closely before I deal with it in the works of Victor Hugo. But keep in mind that my purpose is not to give the concept of responsibility an exhaustive analysis but only to indicate the general outline and direction in which Hugo used the idea.

According to the Determinist, responsibility in terms of the individual is essentially meaningless. Since he does not think of man as being a volitional being, able to choose and select his values, able to determine his own course of action, it is ludicrous to think of him as being responsible. What is the determining factor in human action must take the responsibility, and today credence is given to the idea that responsibility can be established on a collective level. Consequently, it is not at all unusual to hear that society is responsible for educating children and taking care of the sick. A literary expression of collective responsibility can be found in much of the work of Emile Zola.

On the other hand, there is a variation that sees responsibility as an interlocking web (usually of guilt) of which everyone, by virtue of being human, is a part. An act has certain consequences; those consequences, in turn, give rise to further acts, which in their turn have consequences, and so on and so on and so on. Of course, the original act itself is only a part of a larger network. Caught in a network of interdependent responsibility, we must all be willing to accept partial blame for every act that is committed.

It is easy to see, however, that if everyone is to be held responsible for every other individual’s acts, then ultimately no one will be held responsible. From a literary standpoint this attitude usually resolves itself into the protagonist accepting the guilt of the universe as his own. Faulkner, in his portrayal of Temple Drake in Requiem for a Nun, leads one to this kind of conclusion.

Both attitudes cited above ignore the faculty of volition — ignore the fact that volition is a precondition of responsibility. (I am assuming here that consciousness has been established.) Certainly there is interaction among men, which sometimes makes it difficult to establish responsibility. But if a causal relationship can be found and if the action was freely taken, then responsibility can be fixed. Hugo, of course, didn’t put it in quite so explicit terms, but such an attitude, I think, can be discerned. It is with this viewpoint in mind that I can turn to the Romantic expression of responsibility.

“This man was a compound of two sentiments,…respect for authority and hatred of rebellion; and in his eyes, theft, murder, all crimes, were only forms of rebellion.” “In his strong and implicit faith he included all who held any function in the state,…” How would a man who held a profound commitment to authority, in all its many and varied guises, react when he discovered that the very authority he so admired was being undermined? Further, how would he react when he learned that it was he himself who had done the undermining?

The description above is of Javert, of course, the tenacious inspector of Les Miserables. And he is confronted with just this dilemma. He has discovered that he has been undermining the authority of the state. The important question is, What will he do to rectify the wrong he has committed? To what extent will he be willing to accept his responsibility?

…“There has been a criminal act committed, Monsieur Mayor.”

“What act?”

“An inferior agent of the government has been wanting in respect to a magistrate, in the gravest manner. I come, as is my duty, to bring the fact to your knowledge.”

“Who is this agent?” asked Monsieur Madeleine.

“I,” said Javert.

Javert had been suspicious of the Mayor for some time, and finally, in a fit of anger, he had denounced him to his superiors as being a former criminal who was still wanted on several counts. Had Javert’s suspicions been correct he would have felt himself vindicated in what he had done, for he was bringing a criminal to justice. But his superiors told him he was mistaken. Javert realizes that, according to his own standards, he has committed a wrong — that is, by questioning a superior. Faced with this dilemma, Javert accepts his responsibility and reports — denounces! — himself.

“As is my duty,” Javert tells the Mayor. But “duty” to what or to whom? To himself, of course; to his own conscience. For Hugo makes it abundantly clear that Javert’s questionings would have never been discovered, had not the Inspector taken it upon himself to denounce his own actions.

Javert goes on:

“…I have often been severe in my life towards others. It was just. I did right. Now if I were not severe towards myself, all I have justly done would be injustice….I have caught myself doing wrong— So much the worse! I must be sent away, broken, dismissed, that is right….I simply ask the dismissal of Inspector Javert.”

Javert realizes that to deny his responsibility now would negate the whole of his past and all of his actions as a police officer. He recognizes the hypocrisy that would exist should he reject his responsibility. It is this consistency — so natural in Javert — that strikes one as being so out of place in modern fiction.

Finally, Javert carries the denunciation of himself to the final step.

“You will say that I might tender my resignation. To resign is honourable; I have done wrong. I ought to be punished. I must be dismissed.”

Javert asks for something much more difficult than forgiveness; he asks for justice.

Keep in mind that Javert is a man who feels a deep and profound passion for his work. Quite literally, it is all that he has to live for; his whole life has been bound up in his performance as a law officer. And yet, in this scene, he demands not only that he lose the only thing that gives his life meaning but that it happen in utter disgrace. This is what makes Javert’s actions so impressive. He alone demands that the wrong he feels himself to have committed be corrected by destroying all that is meaningful to him. Is this not a full acceptance of responsibility?

The novel Ninety-Three also offers an illuminating example of this sense of responsibility by which Hugo’s characters distinguish themselves.

To place the following section in context: After a long and difficult struggle, Gauvain, the commander of the republican forces, finally captures the elusive leader of the royalist forces, Marquis de Lantenac. Gauvain manages this, however, only because the Marquis has returned to the scene of battle to save three children caught in a fire. Now, Gauvain feels that to sentence this man to death would be a betrayal to the Revolution. Knowing full well that the sentence for aiding the enemy is death, Gauvain frees the Marquis and takes Lantenac’s place in the cell to await trial.

Cimourdain raised his head, folded his arms, looked at the door and called out, “Bring in the prisoner.”

A man appeared in the doorway, between the two gendarmes.

It was Gauvain.

Cimourdain started.

“Gauvain!” he cried. Then he said, “I asked for the prisoner.”

“I’m the prisoner,” said Gauvain.

“You?”

“Yes.”

Cimourdain, having raised Gauvain from a boy and instilled in him his own dedication to the Revolution and its ideals, finds it difficult to believe that Gauvain could be involved in any way in the enemy leader’s escape.

“…He must have found a way to escape; he wouldn’t have needed anyone’s help.”

“He was helped,” said Gauvain.

“Helped to escape?”

“Yes.”

“Who helped him?”

“I did.”

Cimourdain, through an entirely sincere belief his former student could not do such a thing, tries to find alternative methods Lantenac could have used to escape, and by doing so he gives Gauvain every opportunity to deny his part in the escape. But Gauvain steadfastly refuses to deny his own responsibility; he lays the blame squarely on his own shoulders.

Finally, though, Cimourdain is convinced of Gauvain’s guilt in the matter, and he stammers:

“Then you deserve…”

“Death,” said Gauvain.

After establishing his own guilt, Gauvain is willing to pronounce what he knows should be his sentence.

You will notice how spare and uncomplicated this scene is (in rhetorical terms), Hugo is most eloquent when the dialogue he gives his characters is at its simplest. In other scenes the characters are much more verbose, but it is this scene that provides the most eloquent statement of Hugo’s estimate of the nobility of man.

Gauvain, fully conscious of what he has done and is doing, accepts the responsibility for his act; he establishes his own guilt and names his sentence. Like Javert, he seeks only justice.

…“I’m guilty. In speaking thus, I seem to be speaking against myself. I’m not. I’m speaking in favor of myself. When a guilty man acknowledges his guilt, he saves the only thing worth saving: honor.”

“Is that all you have to say in your own defense?” asked Cimourdain.

“I’ll add only that since I was the commander it was my duty to set an example, and that since you’re now judges you have the same duty.”

“What example would you request?”

“My death.”

Certainly Hugo was wrong in much of his philosophy, but it is acts like Gauvain’s and Javert’s, done with such resolute calmness, that will endear Hugo’s artistry, for long to come. As with Hugo himself, underlying their conscious philosophy often, purpose and responsibility illuminate his characters’ being, suffusing the whole of their fictional existence with light.

Jesse F. Knight is a fiction writer. He has published an article on Hugo in the New Capitalist Digest and is currently working on a book on Hugo.