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Victor Hugo As An Editor

Victor Hugo As An Editor image
Parent Issue
Day
16
Month
January
Year
1874
Copyright
Public Domain
OCR Text

Hans Christian Andersen sends to the Skaiidinavisk Review an account of his interview with Víctor Hugo at the newspaper office of the latter, a translation of which appeara in Apphton's Journal : Probably the most iuteresting uewspaper office I have ever visited is that of the Paris Happel, which is owned by Victor Hugo and his son. The Happel is the largest of the radical journals of Paris ; it is as ably written as any of the newspapers of that great city, which is no wondpr, considering that the great poet himself is a regular con tributor to its coluuius; and it has a circulation so extensiva as to tuake it very protitable property. I had a letter to Víctor Hugo, aud, not finding him at his residence in the Bue D'luce, drove to the office of the Bappel, where I was told,I would be certain to meet him. Le llappel occupies most elegant apartments in a new iive-story building 011 the Boulevard Hontmartie. The editorial sanctuni is a splendid room on the second floor, with large windows, and a most delightful view of oue of the finest portions of Paris. "When I was ushered in by a young page I saw a palé, slender gentleman of forty-five or filty, rising slowly and painfully 1'roni a sola on which he was reclining. " M. Victor Hago ?" I aaked. " I am M. Hugo's son," he replied. " My father will be here presen tly. Can I do anything for you f' I told him who I was and what I had come for. Then we were friends at once. He was kind enough to teil me that he had read some of my books, and I was proud to hear from him that his father wonld be delighted to see me. Poor fellow ! He next told me about his bad health. He has been an invalid for years ; and I saw from his pallid, hollow cheeks that his days are numbered. Still, although a hopeless cansumptive, he is daily at his post, and cheerfully carries on the laborious work of a managing editor. Todo so in Paris is not only an arduous ond delicate, but also a dangerous task. I heard with profound emotion the pathetic story which M. Hugo told me about the misfortunes of his illustrious family. He himself ís its last representative since the death of his younger brother. He has a wife, but no children. A few years pet, and the world will know nu more ot j. ;he Hugos, who, for nerely three-quarters r íf a century, have played so conspicuous rj i part in the history cf France - Víctor f Bugo's father, a general of the First t piriT, his eider brother Abel, a brilliant t aistorian, his sons excellent poets and ] still better journalist. The poor man , with whom I was conversing told me all r ibout his lainented brother, who, au ent student, uudoubtedly worked himself j to death, writting in the daytinie for Le , Bappel, and translating Burns and ter Seott until late at uight. Halt an hour passed in this delightful and withal saddeniug manner, when the door opened and Víctor Hugo himself stepped in. I reeognized tiim at once, i though nearly thirty years had passed ' since I had seen hini last. That was in 1845, when he delivered a fiery speech in the Chamber of Peers. His hair then was black, now it was as white as snow : but his bearing was still as erect and proud as then, aud his eye still possessed that magnetic, wonderful brilliancy, which renders his face, although not exactly handsoine, ro remarkably attractive. Louis Phillippe, with wbom Víctor Hugo was on the bust of terms, always said of him : " Whenever M. Hugo asks anything of me I grant it at cnoe. I would not dare to look hini in his great, curious eye, and retuse. Let me add that Victor Hugo never asked anything wrong. of that king. His weieome was cordial in the extreme. He informed me that Dickens, my poor, dear friend, had told him, in 1858 that I intended to visit him at his retreat ontbe Island of Guernsey. How kind to remember it ! We were friends at once. Not a trace of haughtinesa is to be found in the manners of' this prince of poets. He invited me to dine with him that day at six, and would uot hear of any excuse. f&He asked me to look at the papers a moment, rang a. bell, and took froin the entering boy a proof sheet. I could not ïelp watching bim as he glanced over ït. [t was a brief editorial, but it evidently did not please Mm. Seizing a lead-pencil, he bastily wrote some Unes on the roof-sheet, and then whispered to his son. The latter made a soothing reruark to his father, which at once removed the frown froiQ Víctor Hugo's fine brow. I asked him how he liked newspaper work. He laughed, and said he was hardly able to give a competent opinión about it, as be did so little of it. " You must ask M. de Girardin about it," he said, good naturedly. " He can teil you all bout it. I never was much of a journalist." " You write your editorials in verse," I said ; and I complimented him with unfeigned adiniration upon the magnificont liues he had reoently addreased to the Count de Chainbord, To my astonishment father and son looked at oue another and suiiled. The son explained it all to me. " Father," he said, " blained me forgiving the poem to the printer. He was dissatisfied wfter finishing it. It was not good enough. I gave it, without his knowledge, to the compositora. Next day he was angry with me. I am glad, M. Audersen that you side with me." Aud thus we chatted on for over an honr. Assistant editors and reporters cauie ia. The young Hugo gave them their instructions in the kindest uianner, his father interposing, uow and then, with one those oaustic remaiks for which he is noted. in the course of the conversation he asked me about my eyesight. He said he had read somewhere that I had been in danger of losing it entirely. " I was twenty-two years old," he said, " when the doctor forbade me to read, under pain of becoming blind. Eighteen uionths I did not open a book or write a line ; but, when niy eyes did not get auy better, I pursued the opposite courso. - Then 1 did get bcttcr. For once the doctors were at fault." A number of proof-sheets were brought to hini, and I arose. He took both of uiy hands. " At gix," he said, waruily to me ; " and you must stay all the evening." At the appointed hour I was at his house. He took me to his dining room. No one was here but he and I. Still, there were six chairs beaides our own. - On ono of them was the inscription, in letters of gold. "Abseutes adsumt." In this manner the great poot honors the meniory of his departed dear ones.

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Subjects
Old News
Michigan Argus