Musical Memories | Page 8

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came to see me and asked me if I had some unpublished work which I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