My heart failed as, on the eighth day, I ascended his stairs. I
remained a long while standing on the landing-place at his door without
daring to ring. At last some one came out, the door was opened, and I
was obliged to go in. M. Didot's face was as unexpressive and as
ambiguous as an oracle. He requested me to be seated, and while looking
for my manuscript, which was buried beneath heaps of papers, "I have
read your verses, sir," he said; "there is some talent in them, but no
study. They are unlike all that is received and appreciated in our
poets. It is difficult to see whence you have derived the language,
ideas and imagery of your poetry, which cannot be classed in any
definite style. It is a pity, for there is no want of harmony. You must
renounce these novelties which would lead astray our national genius.
Read our masters,--Delille, Parny, Michaud, Reynouard, Luce de
Lancival, Fontanes; these are the poets that the public loves. You must
resemble some one, if you wish to be recognized, and to be read. I
should advise you ill if I induced you to publish this volume, and I
should be doing you a sorry service in publishing it at my expense." So
saying, he rose, and gave me back my manuscript. I did not attempt to
contest the point with Fate, which spoke in the voice of the oracle. I
took up the volume, thanked M. Didot, and, offering some excuse for
having trespassed on his time, I went downstairs, my legs trembling
beneath me, and my eyes moistened with tears.
Ah, if M. Didot, who was a kind and feeling man, a patron of letters,
could have read in my heart, and have understood that it was neither
fame nor fortune that the unknown youth came to beg, with his book in
his hand; that it was life and love I sued for--I am sure he would have
printed my volume. He would have been repaid in heaven, at least.