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Updated: June 2, 2025
Meyerbeer was, then, excusable to a certain extent, but he abused all indulgence in such matters. In order to preserve intact his musical forms even in recitatives, which are, as a matter of fact, only declamation set to music he accented the weak syllables and vice versa; he added words and made unnecessarily false verse, and transformed bad verse into worse prose. He might have avoided all these literary abominations without any harm to the effect by a slight modification of the music. The verses given to musicians were often very bad, for that was the fashion. The versifier thought he had done his duty by his collaborator by giving him verses like this: Triomphe que j'aime! Ta frayeur extrême Va malgré toi-même Te livrer
I should go back and see the original ones and then I'd hasten up to Paris." And, with a volume of Meyerbeer open in his hand, Gaston hummed: "'Robert, Robert, toi que j'aime. Why, padre, I think that your library contains none of the masses and all of the operas in the world!" "I will make you a little confession," said Padre Ignazio, "and then you shall give me a little absolution."
"Oh, que j'aime le militaire!" sighed the old French song, no doubt with a touch of frivolity; but the sentiment moves us all. Sages have thought the army worth preserving for a dash of scarlet and a roll of the kettledrum; in every State procession it is the implements of death and the men of blood that we parade; and not to nursemaids only is the soldier irresistible.
Brotteaux chose the speech of the patron saint of France in the first canto of the Pucelle: "Je suis Denis et saint de mon métier, J'aime la Gaule,..." The citoyen Blaise, though a far less well-read man, replied without hesitation with Richemond's ripost: "Monsieur le Saint, ce n'était pas la peine D'abandonner le céleste domaine...."
Victor Hugo, who traveled through Flanders in 1837, stopped for a time in Malines, and was so impressed with the carillon that he is said to have written there the following lines by moonlight with a diamond upon the window-pane in his room: "J'aime le carillon dans tes cités Antiques, O vieux pays, gardien de tes moeurs domestiques, Noble Flandre, où le Nord se réchauffe engourdi Au soleil de Castille et s'accouple au Midi.
Est-ce qu'il y'ait quelque chose qui vous ait diverti? Faites-moi le plaisir de me l'indiquer. J'aime beaucoup les ridicules." Parliament is up at last. We official men are now left alone at the West End of London, and are making up for our long confinement in the mornings by feasting together at night. On Wednesday I dined with Labouchere at his official residence in Somerset House.
At home, if I grew tired of talking to one, I could talk to another. If I waxed weary of Bobby's sea-tales, I might refresh myself with listening to the Brat's braggings about Oxford with Tou Tou's murdered French lesson: J'aime, I love. Tu aimes, Thou lovest. Il aime, He loves. How many thousand years ago, the labored conjugation of that verb seems to me!
Purdy spiced the hour with a comic song, and in the character of an outraged wife tickled the risibility of the ladies. Zara and Mrs. Long both produced HOME THEY BROUGHT HER WARRIOR DEAD! from their portfolios; so Zara good-naturedly gave way and struck up ROBERT, TOI QUE J'AIME! which she had added to her repertory while in England.
The opera was the same which had been performed at the visit in October; but this time the Jacobins had not been forewarned so as to pack the house, and Madame du Gazon's duet was received with enthusiasm. Again, as she sung "Ah, que j'aime ma maîtresse!" she bowed to the royal box, and the audience cheered.
But this is exceptional; as a rule, elaborate compliments take the place of personal confessions; and, while Voltaire is never tired of comparing Frederick to Apollo, Alcibiades, and the youthful Marcus Aurelius, of proclaiming the rebirth of 'les talents de Virgile et les vertus d'Auguste, or of declaring that 'Socrate ne m'est rien, c'est Frédéric que j'aime, the Crown Prince is on his side ready with an equal flow of protestations, which sometimes rise to singular heights. 'Ne croyez pas, he says, 'que je pousse mon scepticisime
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