First edition.
Contemporary half red shagreen over marbled paper boards, (a few discreet repairs), spine in six compartments, date to foot, marbled paper-lined endpapers and pastedowns, covers preserved, top edge red.
A very handsome autograph inscription signed by Victor Hugo to Alphonse Daudet.
Mrs. Daudet's collection stamp to first endpaper.
Victor Hugo represented for Alphonse Daudet, as for the other writers of his generation, the incontestable master of the Pantheon of the arts. His benevolent attention runs through Daudet's work, often listed side by side with Rousseau, Byron, Sand and Delacroix.
If during Daudet's childhood and youth, Hugo, an exile of enormous stature in Guernsey, remained a distant ideal, "almost above humanity", his return to France allowed him finally to meet the master. Around 1875, just after his first works appeared, Alphonse and Julia Daudet were thus invited to Hugo's house; Hugo was living with Juliette Drouet at the time.
From then on, they become frequent visitors to the house right up to the poet's death. Hugo helped with the young Léon Daudet's education, his grandson Georges' best friend and, later, for a short while, Jeanne's husband.
In her Souvenirs d'un cercle littéraire [Memories of a Literary Circle], Julia Daudet talks of their friendship of ten years with "the idol of lyric France":
"I can see Victor Hugo at the end of his great table: the aged master, a little cut off, a little deaf, presiding with god-like silence, the little absences of a genius on the verge of immortality. His hair all white, his face colorful, and his eyes like an old lion's that would occasionally flash with ferocious bursts of force. He is listening to my husband and Catulle Mendès, between whom there is a very animated discussion on the subject of the youth and celebrity of famous men and their charm for women...During the debate, we moved through to the salon, with Hugo musing beside the fire, famous, omni-present and a demi-god, but perhaps still missing his youth a little, as Mme Drouet sleeps softly."
The friendship between this great Romantic writer and one of the masters of the nascent naturalist school is testimony to Hugo's sharpness who, even during his glory days, preserved a special and benevolent attention for modern literature, no matter how far removed it was from his own lyricism.
This inscription from Hugo to Daudet on a work considered - along with Le Pape [The Pope] and La Pitié suprême [The Supreme Compassion] - a "philosophical testament" by Henri Guillemin, resonates strongly, the passing of the writer's political and moral responsibilities to a devoted disciple.
Provenance: Alphonse Daudet, his sale at Sicklès (1990, IV, n°1200) then Philippe Zoummeroff's sale (2 Avril 2001).
An extract from Memories of a Literary Circle by Julia Daudet :
"How could I forget that first visit to his, in the rue de Clichy, in a modest apartment so out of proportion to his glory, to the image of his glory that we had, which would have filled entire palaces. He got up out of his chair beside the fire, opposite Madame Drouet, his old friend...I was shocked by how small he was but soon, after he had greeted me and begun talking to me, I felt him very big indeed, very intimidating. And this timidity that I felt then, I would always feel towards him, the result of my great admiration and respect, something akin to that for an absent god, that my parents had inculcated within me for inspired poets. I could never overcome that wobble in my voice whenever I would reply to his kind words, and I was shocked to hear women, over the course of almost ten years, when admitted to his presence, regale him with their personal matters and their everyday chatter.
That evening, when he had introduced me, all in a flutter, to Madame Drouet, she said to me with her most charming grace: 'This is the old people's bit, you know, and you're far too young for us. But Monsieur Victor Hugo will introduce you to his daughter-in-law, Madame Lockroy; only he is qualified to do so.'
So I was conducted to the other end of the room, of an average size, but which seemed to be cut in two by a table bearing a bronze elephant, most majestic - Chinese or Japanese, I think. In any case, it served to make two little most distinct groups which nonetheless communicated easily without blending one into the other.
At this moment of his return, Victor Hugo was feeling exulted and was full of stories which he told with an inexhaustible verve whenever politics did not invade his dinner table too much. And how graceful his welcome, what noble manners and what a fine grandfatherly smile under his hair, that I saw grow whiter and whiter as he approached eighty. All the poets used to come to the salon in the rue de Clichy, and later to the house in the Avenue d'Eylau. But was this change of scene really necessary? It seemed to be a step down in the health and then in the spirits of the grand old man. And yet, he always loved to host his friends and the welcome in this open house was not the least of its charms for, gathered around the table, garnished at one end with the Master's two grandchildren, the company still looked for direction from their host's eyes and he himself sometimes struck a vein of memories so vibrant, so wonderfully recounted, that we were all bowled over the entire evening. Mme Drouet grew quietly older beside him, covered by two bandanas whose aspect was a little faded and melodramatic, right up until the day where a merciless illness broke her delicate beauty and made her the suffering effigy painted by Bastien Lepage, who died under the same tortures. Towards the end, the Master would glance sadly at her empty plate and noble, ravaged face during these intimate dinners.
'Madame Drouet, you're not eating, you must eat, take heart.'
Eat! She was dying. Did he know it? Was the great old man, so strong and so hardy, trying to fool himself, as he saw his companion of fifty years go?
In the big living room, a handsome portrait by Bonnat hung, with a paternal attitude, and an immense bust by David presided. The little living room was decorated with striped and colored wallpaper, which seemed to have been chosen for Dona Sol. In the garden connected to the verandah by a platform of two steps, Leconte de Lisle, Meurice and Vacquerie, Paul de Saint-Victor, the smiling Banville reappeared, Flaubert and Goncourt talked, Mallarmé, Léon Cladel, François Coppée, Catulle Mendès, and Clovis Hugues, shadows in a vanished Eden. Then there were Léon Glaize, Gustave Rivet, Pierre Elzéar, and tiny Mme Michelet distributing roses at a party, as well as ambassadors, diplomats, the Emperor of Brasil, and painters, sculptors, and so many politicians I can't remember all their names!
These are my direct impressions of one of the soirees we attended, Alphonse Daudet and I, one snowy evening, when our horse stumbled three times during the trip over as we were crossing the Esplanade des Invalides:
I can see Victor Hugo at the end of his great table: the aged master, a little cut off, a little deaf, presiding with god-like silence, the little absences of a genius on the verge of immortality. His hair all white, his face colorful, and his eyes like an old lion's that would occasionally flash with ferocious bursts of force. He is listening to my husband and Catulle Mendès, between whom there is a very animated discussion on the subject of the youth and celebrity of famous men and their charm for women. Alphonse holds that in a salon full of all sorts of talented people of all ages a very young man, the unknown author, the overlooked poet will get female attention if he is handsome. Catulle Mendes answers that he would, firstly, remain unnoticed, and that all women went in for celebrity, which seems to me more correct. Fortunately, women not only have the eyes in their heads, but also the eyes of their souls and their hearts. For intellectual women, the looks of an artist or a great poet don't matter - it's the reflective aspect, the tormented features of a man who lives his emotions. They go for talent, to suffering that passes, and they hardly think about physical beauty. Now you could say that they seek out famous authors motivated by personal ambition, but the other feeling, that attracts them to tempting youths, seems to me even less respectable.
And I laugh at the pretention of these two charming debaters in labeling and analyzing us. Talking about 'women' is like talking about 'birds': there are so many different species and types, whose song and feathers are so completely different!
During the debate, we moved through to the salon, with Hugo musing beside the fire, famous, omni-present and a demi-god, but perhaps still missing his youth a little, as Mme Drouet sleeps softly. Her fair white hair covers her delicate head like the two wings of a dove, and the buttons of her blouse follow the pattern of the soft, almost resigned, breathing of an old woman sleeping.
It was soon after this evening that that great gathering took place in which all Paris marched past, on the Avenue d'Eylau, the windows of this little bedroom that was now home to a deathbed, in May 1885, full of roses and plainly furnished, as it is represented in the Victor Hugo Museum in a room in the poet's former apartment on the Place Royale.
Very evocative, this old corner of the Marais, especially if we consider that Victor Hugo wrote almost all his historical works there. We can picture the poet at work in the early morning hours, to which he kept, the high windows of the houses all identical and in the same style, stretching all the way around the square, guarding the memory of the tournaments, the duels, promenades and uprisings of several generations now vanished beneath these thick, ancient arcades, which keep no trace of fleeting humankind.
We had dinner at Victor Hugo's house the week before he died. He told us as we were coming in, more pale that usual, and tottering as he walked:
'I'll be going soon, I can feel it'. Then he squeezed Georges' shoulder: 'Without this one, I would have gone long ago.'
I will never forget his slightly solemn and prophetic tone - I was struck by a sadness and presentiment. I felt the dispersal of this unique centre of the world that could never come together again!"
