VICTOR HUGO
Everything in my youth seemed calculated to keep me far removed from
romanticism. Those about me talked only of the great classics and I saw
them welcome Ponsard's _Lucrece_ as a sort of Minerva whose lance was to
route Victor Hugo and his foul crew, of whom they never spoke save with
detestation.
Who was it, I wonder, who had the happy idea of giving me, elegantly
bound, the first volumes of Victor Hugo's poems? I have forgotten who it
was, but I remember what joy the vibrations of his lyre gave me. Until
that time poetry had seemed to me something cold, respectable and
far-away, and it was much later that the living beauty of our classics
was revealed to me. I found myself at once stirred to the depths, and,
as my temperament is essentially musical in everything, I began to sing
them.
People have told me _ad nauseam_ (and they still tell me so) that
beautiful verse is inimical to music, or rather that music is inimical
to good verse; that music demands ordinary verse, rhymed prose, rather
than verse, which is malleable and reducible as the composer wishes.
This generalization is assuredly true, if the music is written first and
then adapted to the words, but that is not the ideal harmony between two
arts which are made to supplement each other. Do not the rhythmic and
sonorous passages of verse naturally call for song to set them off,
since singing is but a better method of declaiming them? I made some
attempts at this and some of those which have been preserved are:
_Puisque ici bas toute âme_, _Le Pas d'armes du roi Jean_, and _La
Cloche_. They were ridiculed at the time, but destined to some success
later. Afterwards I continued with _Si tu veux faisons un réve_, which
Madame Carvalho sang a good deal, _Soirée en mer_, and many others.
The older I grew the greater became my devotion to Hugo. I waited
impatiently for each new work of the poet and I devoured it as soon as
it appeared. If I heard about me the spiteful criticisms of irritating
critics, I was consoled by talking to Berlioz who honored me with his
friendship and whose admiration for Hugo equalled mine. In the meantime
my literary education was improving, and I made the acquaintance of the
classics and found immortal beauties in them. My admiration for the
classics, however, did not diminish my regard for Hugo, for I never
could see why it was unfaithfulness to him not to despise Racine. It was
fortunate for me that this was my view, for I have seen the most fiery
romanticists, like Meurice and Vacquerie, revert to Racine in their
later years, and repair the links in a golden chain which should never
have been broken.
The Empire fell and Victor Hugo came back to Paris. So I was going to
have a chance of realizing my dream of seeing him and hearing his voice!
But I dreaded meeting him almost as much as I wished to do so. Like
Rossini Victor Hugo received his friends every evening. He came forward
with both hands outstretched and told me what pleasure it was for him to
see me at his house. Everything whirled around me!
"I cannot say the same to you," I answered. "I wish I were somewhere
else." He laughed heartily and showed that he knew how to overcome my
bashfulness. I waited to hear some of the conversation which, according
to my preconceived ideas, would be in the style of his latest romance.
However, it was entirely different; simple polished phrases, entirely
logical, came from that "mouth of mystery."
I went to Hugo's evenings as often as possible, for I never could drink
my fill of the presence of the hero of my youthful dreams. I had
occasion to note to what an extent a fiery republican, a modern Juvenal,
whose verses branded "kings" as if with a red hot iron, in his private
life was susceptible to their flattery. The Emperor of Brazil had called
on him, and the next day he could not stop talking about it constantly.
Rather ostentatiously he called him "Don Pedro d'Alcantara." In French
this would be "M. Pierre du Pont." Spanish inherently gives such florid
sounds to ordinary names. This florid style is not frequent in French,
and that is precisely what Corneille and Victor Hugo succeeded in
giving it.
A slight incident unfortunately changed my relations with the great
poet.
"As long as Mlle. Bertin was alive," he told me, "I would never permit
_La Esmeralda_ to be set to music; but if some musician should now ask
for this poem, I would be glad to let him have it."
The invitation was obvious. Yet, as is generally known, this dramatic
and lyric adaptation of the famous romance is not particularly happy. I
was much embarrassed and I pretended not to understand, but I never
dared to go to Hugo's house again.
Years passed. In 1881 a subscription was taken up to erect a statue to
the author of _La Légende des Siècles_, and they began to plan
celebrations for its dedication, particularly a big affair at the
Trocadéro. My imagination took fire at the idea, and I wrote my _Hymne à
Victor Hugo_.
As is well known, the master knew nothing at all about music, and the
same was true of those around him. It is a matter of conjecture how the
master and his followers happened to mistake some absurd and formless
motif for one of Beethoven's sublime inspirations. Victor Hugo adapted
the beautiful verses of _Stella_ to this halting motif. It was published
as an appendix in the _Châtiments_, with a remark about the union of two
geniuses, the fusion of the verse of a great poet with the _admirable_
verse of a great musician. And the poet would have Mme. Drouet play this
marvellous music on the piano from time to time! _Tristia Herculis!_
As I wanted to put in my hymn something peculiar to Victor Hugo, which
could not possibly be attributed to anyone else, I tried to introduce
this motif of which he was so fond. And, by means of numerous tricks
which every musician has up his sleeve, I managed to give it the form
and character which it had lacked.
The subscription did not go fast enough to suit the master, and he had
it stopped. So I put my hymn in a drawer and waited for a better
opportunity.
About this time M. Bruneau, the father of the well-known composer,
conceived the idea of giving spring concerts at the Trocadéro. Bruneau
came to see me and asked me if I had some unpublished work which I would
let him have. This was an excellent occasion for the presentation of my
_Hymne_, as it had been written with the Trocadéro in mind. The
performance was decided on and Victor Hugo was invited to come and hear
it.
The performance was splendid--a large orchestra, the magnificent organ,
eight harps, and eight trumpets sounding their flourishes in the organ
loft, and a large chorus for the peroration of such splendor that it was
compared to the set pieces at the close of a display of fireworks. The
reception and ovation which the crowd gave the great poet, who rarely
appeared in public, was beyond description. The honeyed incense of the
organ, harps and trumpets was new to him and pleased his Olympian
nostrils.
"Dine with me to-night," he said to me. And from that day on, I often
dined with him informally with M. and Mme. Lockrou, Meurice, Vacquerie
and other close friends. The fare was delightful and unpretentious, and
the conversation was the same. The master sat at the head of the table,
with his grandson and granddaughter on either side, saying little but
always something apropos. Thanks to his vigor, his strong sonorous
voice, and his quiet good humor, he did not seem like an old man, but
rather like an ageless and immortal being, whom Time would never touch.
His presence was just Jove-like enough to inspire respect without
chilling his followers. These small gatherings, which I fully
appreciated, are among the most precious recollections of my life.
Time, alas, goes on, and that fine intellect, which had ever been
unclouded, began to give signs of aberration. One day he said to an
Italian delegation, "The French are Italians; the Italians are French.
French and Italians ought to go to Africa together and found the United
States of Europe."
The red rays of twilight announced the oncoming night.
Those who saw them will never forget his grandiose funeral ceremonies,
that casket under the Arc de Triomphe, covered with a veil of crape,
and that immense crowd which paid homage to the greatest lyric poet of
the century.
There was a committee to make musical preparations and I was a member.
The most extraordinary ideas were proposed. One man wanted to have the
_Marseillaise_ in a minor key. Another wanted violins, for "violins
produce an excellent effect in the open air." Naturally we got nowhere.
The great procession started in perfect order, but, as in all long
processions, gaps occurred. I was astonished to find myself in the
middle of the Champs Elysées, in a wide open space, with no one near me
but Ferdinand de Lesseps, Paul Bert, and a member of the Académie, whose
name I shall not mention as he is worthy of all possible respect.
De Lesseps was then at the height of his glory, and from time to time
applause greeted him as he passed.
Suddenly the Academician leaned over and whispered in my ear,
"Evidently they are applauding us."