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 ame, 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 reve, which Madame Carvalho sang a good deal, Soiree 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.”