It being reported that Victor Hugo has just purchased for the sum of £13,000 a piece of land in the immediate vicinity of his present abode, with a view of building on it an entirely new house “of his own designing,” the following extract from a preliminary letter of instructions to the contractor who has undertaken the work will be read with interest.
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“You will ask me whether I am an Architect; and I reply to you, ‘An Architect is one who constructs.’ Do I construct? Yes. What? Never mind; let us proceed. To construct a house you require a basement. This is the language of the Contractor. But the Poet meets him with a rejoinder. A basement is a prison, and Liberty can not breathe through a grating. This was the case at the Bastille! What has been done at the Bastille does not repeat itself. What then? You will commence the house on the first floor.”
Does this stagger the Architect? Unquestionably! Yet to commence a house on the first-floor is easy enough. To the Contractor? No. To the Poet? Yes. How? By a flight. Two flights will take anyone somewhere. Upstairs? Yes. Downstairs? Certainly! In my lady’s chamber? Why not? This is a phenomenon, and surprises you. Just now you were on the stare. Now you are on the first-floor landing. Therefore, you have taken a rise. Out of whom—the Architect? Possibly. Let us resume.
And now for the drawing-room.
This will be colossal. Why? Because the furniture in it will be stupendous. To talk of stupendous furniture is to suggest the opening scene of a Pantomime. A big head! Whose? No matter. But you will inquire as to this furniture. You will probably say, ‘Will there be chairs?’ No. ‘Arm-chairs?’ Useless. ‘Sofas with six legs?’ A phantom! ‘What then? Canopied thrones for four-and-twenty, with one of a superior make and quality?’ Quite so. ‘Why?’ Because it is here that Genius, after dinner, will meet the Kings and Emperors that aspire to pay it homage. ‘Will there be windows?’ Rather—and there is this convenient thing besides—eight-and-forty balconies. You will say at once, ‘Two a-piece?’ But you will quickly add—‘What of the gardens beneath?’ To this there is only one answer possible—‘Fireworks!’
Roman candles, rockets, and Bengal lights? No.—A set piece? Yes. Representing what? Somebody! Now there is this advantage about a set-piece that represents somebody—if carefully prepared, regardless of expense, and covering an area of 90 feet by 120. It may be permanent. Some one whispers ‘Advertisement.’ To this I make a supreme reply, ‘Fame!’
And now let us pass to another room. Shall we put our foot in it? Yes. Why? Because it is the kitchen.
——:o:——
The Spoiler of the Sea.