When he found himself well outside the door he was furious.  He would see the King himself.  And he did see the King.  His Majesty was gracious and very patient.  He listened to the young author’s plea, talked book-lore, recited poetry, showed that he knew Hugo’s verses, asked after the author’s wife, then the baby, and—­said that the play could not go on.  Hugo turned to go.  Charles the Tenth called him back, and said that he was glad the author had called—­in fact, he was about to send for him.  His pension thereafter should be six thousand francs a year.

Victor Hugo declined to receive it.  Of course, the papers were full of the subject.  All cafedom took sides:  Paris had a topic for gesticulation, and Paris improved the opportunity.

Conservatism having stopped this play, there was only one thing to do:  write another; for a play of Victor Hugo’s must be put upon the stage.  All his friends said so; his honor was at stake.

In three weeks another play was ready.  The censors read it and gave their report.  They said that “Hernani” was whimsical in conception, defective in execution, a tissue of extravagances, generally trivial and often coarse.  But they advised that it be put upon the stage, just to show the public to what extent of folly an author could go.  In order to preserve the dignity of their office, they drew up a list of six places where the text should be changed.

Both sides were afraid, so each was willing to give in a point.  The text was changed, and the important day for the presentation was drawing nigh.  The Romanticists were, of course, anxious that the play should be a great success; the Classics were quite willing that it should be otherwise; in fact, they had bought up the claque and were making arrangements to hiss it down.  But the author’s friends were numerous; they were young and lusty; they held meetings behind locked doors, and swore terrible oaths that the play should go.

On the day of the initial performance, five hours before the curtain rose, they were on hand, having taken the best seats in the house.  They also took the worst, wherever a hisser might hide.  These advocates of liberal art wore coats of green or red or blue, costumes like bullfighters, trousers and hats to match or not to match—­anything to defy tradition.  All during the performance there was an uproar.  Theophile Gautier has described the event in most entertaining style, and in “L’Historie de Romanticisme” the record of it is found in detail.

Several American writers have touched upon this particular theme, and all who have seen fit to write of it seem to have stood under umbrellas when God rained humor.  One writer calls it “the outburst of a tremendous revolution in literature.”  He speaks of “smoldering flames,” “the hordes that furiously fought entrenched behind prestige, age, caste, wealth and tradition,” “suppression and extermination of heresy,” “those who sought to stop the onward march of civilization,” etc.  Let us be sensible.  A “cane-rush” is not a revolution, and “Bloody Monday” at Harvard is not “a decisive battle in the onward and upward march.”