Soulié was brave, without being quarrelsome; but he had the sensitiveness both of the student and of the Southerner. He was passably skilful as a swordsman and a first-rate shot.
Soulié at first thought me a worthless lad, of no importance; and it was quite natural he should. He was astonished and almost overwhelmed by my early successes. By that time I knew Soulié as he was; jealous almost to envy, but, by reason of the strong kindliness of his good and upright heart, able to keep all the evil tendencies of his character under control. A constant struggle was waged within him between good and bad principles, and yet not once perhaps did the evil principle get the better of him. He very often tried to hate me, but never managed to succeed: very often, when he set out to run me down in conversation, he would end by praising me. And, as a matter of fact, I was the man who hampered his career more than any other: in the theatre, in the newspapers, in the matter of books, I was everywhere in his path, doing him involuntary but actual damage everywhere; and, in spite of this, I was so certain of Soulié, and so sure of his supreme justice and goodness of heart, that, if I had needed any act of service, I should have gone to Soulié to ask it of him, rather than of any other—and he would have rendered me this service, more readily than any other person would.
At first Soulié turned his attention towards poetry. It was in the domain of poetry, I believe, that he looked to make his conquests. His first stage-play was an imitation of Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet. I never experienced greater emotion than that which I felt at the first representation of this play.
We were often months or a year without seeing each other; but when fate turned us face to face, no matter how far off we might be, we each walked straight to the other's heart and open arms. Perhaps, before catching sight of me, Soulié had not particularly cared to meet me; perhaps, had someone told him, "Dumas is over there," he would have made a detour; but, directly he caught sight of me, the electric current dominated his will and he was mine, body and soul, as though never a single jealous thought had crossed his mind. It was different with regard to Hugo or Lamartine: he did not like them, and he rarely spoke impartially of their talent. I feel convinced that it was Hugo's Odes et Ballades and Lamartine's Méditations which led Frédéric Soulié to write in prose. Rest in peace, friend of my youth, companion of my first serious efforts, I will depict thee as thou wert; I will design a statue of thee, not a bust; I will isolate thee; I will place thee on the pedestal of thy works, so that all those who never knew thee may take the measure of thy impressive figure; for thou art one of those who can be studied from all aspects, and who, living or dead, have no need to be afraid of being placed in a full light.
At the time of which I am writing, Soulié was linked in literary friendship with Jules Lefèvre and Latouche,—Latouche, with whom he quarrelled so fiercely later over Christine. In private life, his chief friend was a tall, stout fellow called David, who was at that time, and may still be, a stockbroker. I do not know whether Soulié was his only friend; but I believe that on the Exchange he made not a few enemies.
When we went to see Soulié, he was entertaining a dozen of his friends to tea, cake and sandwiches. Such luxuries quite dazzled me. Soulié was conscious of his own powers, and this rendered him extremely scornful towards second-rate literature. In his efforts to poach upon other writers' preserves, until the time came when he could do better than they, he treated certain contemporary celebrities, whose positions I envied greatly, with lofty off-handedness. He proposed, he said, to publish an Almanac for the coming year, 1824, entitled the Parfait Vaudevilliste, which should consist of ready-made verses from old soldiers and young colonels. Among these verses from old soldiers were some of the first order, and the following may be taken as a model: it is one which Gontier sang in Michel et Christine, and for which he was enthusiastically applauded nightly:—
"Sans murmurer,
Votre douleur amère,
Frapp'rait mes yeux, plutôt tout endurer!
Moi, j'y suis fait, c'est mon sort ordinaire;
Un vieux soldat sait souffrir et se taire,
Sans murmurer!"
There were also, at that time, in the plays in course of representation, a certain number of choruses applicable to current events, and these found a fitting place in the Parfait Vaudevilliste. Unfortunately, I did not copy any of them at Soulié's at that period. Three or four months before his death, I begged him to send me his collection: he had lost it. Instead, he sent me five or six of the choruses he remembered; only he could not tell me exactly to what period they belonged; he could only affirm that they were not bastard waifs and strays, as might readily be believed, but acknowledged and legitimate offspring; and, by way of proof, he sent along with them the names of their begetters.