In his twentieth year, fortune came to him in triple form:  he brought out a book of poems that netted him seven hundred francs; soon after the publication of this book, Louis the Eighteenth, who knew the value of having friends who were ready writers, bestowed on him a pension of one thousand francs a year; then these two pieces of good fortune made possible a third—­his marriage.

Early marriages are like late ones:  they may be wise and they may not.  Victor Hugo’s marriage with Adele Foucher was a most happy event.

A man with a mind as independent as Victor Hugo’s is sure to make enemies.  The “Classics” were positive that he was defiling the well of Classic French, and they sought to write him down.  But by writing a man up you can not write him down; the only thing that can smother a literary aspirant is silence.

Victor Hugo coined the word when he could not find it, transposed phrases, inverted sentences, and never called a spade an agricultural implement.  Not content with this, he put the spade on exhibition and this often at unnecessary times, and occasionally prefaced the word with an adjective.  Had he been let alone he would not have done this.

The censors told him he must not use the name of Deity, nor should he refer so often to kings.  At once, he doubled his Topseys and put on his stage three Uncle Toms when one might have answered.  Like Shakespeare, he used idioms and slang with profusion—­anything to express the idea.  Will this convey the thought?  If so, it was written down, and, once written, Beelzebub and all his hosts could not make him change it.  But in the interest of truth let me note one exception: 

“I do not like that word,” said Mademoiselle Mars to Victor Hugo at a rehearsal of “Hernani”; “can I not change it?”

“I wrote it so and it must stand,” was the answer.

Mademoiselle Mars used another expression instead of the author’s, and he promptly asked her to resign her part.  She wept, and upon agreeing to adhere to the text was reinstated in favor.

Rehearsal after rehearsal occurred, and the words were repeated as written.  The night of the performance came.  Superb was the stage-setting, splendid the audience.  The play went forward amid loud applause.  The scene was reached where came the objectionable word.  Did Mademoiselle Mars use it?  Of course not; she used the word she chose—­she was a woman.  Fifty-three times she played the part, and not once did she use the author’s pet phrase; and he was wise enough not to note the fact.  The moral of this is that not even a strong man can cope with a small woman who weeps at the right time.

The censorship forbade the placing of “Marion Delorme” on the stage until a certain historical episode in it had been changed.  Would the author be so kind as to change it?  Not he.

“Then it shall not be played,” said M. de Martignac.

The author hastened to interview the minister in person.  He got a North Pole reception.  In fact, M. de Martignac said that it was his busy day, and that playwriting was foolish business anyway; but if a man were bound to write, he should write to amuse, not to instruct.  And young Hugo was bowed out.