hen I am reminded that he was
married, but that he was separated from his wife. She lived in Lyons and
he in Paris. One day they persuaded him to go to Lyons and 'make it up'
with her.

He started. In those days the journey took five days and five nights. On
the eleventh day after his departure he was back in Paris. 'Well,' they
said to him, 'is it all right?'

'I could not see her,' replied he, 'when I called at her house. They
told me that she had gone to Mass.' So he came back.

I once criticised the acting of a well-known actress before good folks,
who said to me: 'Ah, but she is a woman who leads an irreproachable
life!' What do I care about that? I am very glad to hear it, for the
sake of her husband and children; but I would rather go and hear Miss
So-and-so, who stirs my soul to its very depth by her genius, although I
am told, by jealous people, no doubt, that she is not quite as good as
she should be.

I hear that Sarah Bernhardt travels with either a lion, a bear, or a
snake. Very well, that is her business. She goes to a hotel with her
menagerie, and does not ask you to invite her to stay with you. Is that
a reason for not going to see her play Phedre, Tosca, Fedora, or any
other of her marvellous creations?

Wagner could not compose his operas unless he had on a red plush robe
and a helmet. What do I care if this enabled him to write 'Lohengrin,'
'Tannhaeuser,' and the Trilogy?

One day Alexandre Dumas, a lunatic of the purest water, called on
Wagner. The latter kept him waiting half an hour. Then he appeared
dressed as Wotan. 'Excuse me, Master,' he said to Dumas, 'I am composing
a scene between the god and Brunnehilde.'

'Don't mention it, please,' replied Dumas, who, before leaving, invited
him to come and see him in Paris. A few months later Wagner called on
Dumas. The latter kept him waiting a little, and then appeared with
nothing on but a Roman helmet and a shield.

'Excuse me, Maestro,' he said, 'I am writing a Roman novel.' The two
great geniuses or lunatics were quits.

I knew a great poet who could no more write good poetry than he could
fly unless he had blue paper. Victor Hugo would have been a failure if
he had not been able always to be provided with very thick pens.

Balzac could write only on condition he was dressed as a monk, had the
shutters of the room closed, and the lamps lighted. Alfred de Musset
would compose his immortal poetry only when under the influence of
drink. A