Syncopation: A Memoir of Adele Hugo

To life there is a rhythm one knows from the womb. It begins as the beat of a mother’s heart—slow and steady and safe. An infant finds the pulse in its own heart and continues the rhythm in its needy sucking. The toddler pitter-pats to the rhythm, and the sound of the servants starting the day carry it through. The pulse is in the wind and the laps of the waves from the Seine; birds sing it and squirrels chitter it; the very soil under our feet moans and groans to its pounding.

In perfect time, from an especially forceful contraction, the baby fell into waiting hands. She screamed in blows staccato and clear, slowing rhythmically to a docile cooing more in tune to her station in life. Adèle was born an angel to a family of gods. Her father, Victor, was a poet, playwright, and politician, brilliant and beloved by his countrymen. She was named for her mother, the first Adèle, the most beautiful woman in France. Her brothers, Charles and François-Victor, were handsome, strong, and clever. And her sister, Léopoldine, was a model eldest sibling—doting and tender, never scolding or haughty. Her skin was a translucent mountain stream: cool and fresh and clean; her generous black hair captured the light and returned it in a blue sheen which mocked the night sky; the moon would hide when Léopoldine went out at night, the orb’s beauty waning in her glow. She was sweet like marzipan, gentle like a summer breeze, flexible like a reed, warm like an old Bordeaux. Léopoldine was perfect like a pearl.

Firecrackers exploded and people shouted when Adèle was born. It was July 28, 1830, the middle day of Les Trois Glorieuses, the three-day revolution protesting the tyrannies of King Charles X. With such a birthday, one knew at once that Adèle was born for glory and fame.

The Hugo house was the first on the newly constructed rue Jean-Goujon, with the wide fields of the Champs-Elysée as their backyard. The family had everything one could desire: parkland to explore, books to read, a small black piano, and each other.

And then one day, as a unit, this perfect family gasped. Those who survived missed a half-beat from the breath of life. If it had been a whole note, they could have perhaps fallen back into the rhythm, but it was a half-beat. They syncopated. They moved out of step, off-kilter. Forever more, they would run and jump and dream and scream, but they would be unable to slip into that easy rhythm, that regular beat that keeps time for the world.

—What are you doing, Dédé?

—I'm writing my memoires, Didine.

—You've not written them in first person, Dédé. Why do you write Adèle as if you are not Adèle?

—It is necessary. I will have more freedom in third person. I can explore the minds of others; I can write about places I have not been.

—Do you think that is a good idea?

—If I thought it were a bad idea, I would not do it.

—Au contraire, responded Didine. You would do it exactly because it is a bad idea. I see a sparkle in your eye at the idea of committing mayhem. These memoires will surely make people angry.

—Who will become angry? All of the people who might become angry are dead.

—They have left behind children. The children will surely try to stop you.

—Stop the truth? I feel an obligation to let the truth be known.

—Whose truth? asked Didine.

—Is there not but one truth? responded Dédé.

—Perhaps for God. For humans there is only memory and memory is unreliable.

Chapter 1: The Perfect Family

Madame Hugo hunched over a table in the sitting room, working on the household accounts. The publication of Victor’s novel Notre Dame de Paris and the many performances of the play Marion Delorme were great triumphs, but they did not immediately translate into money. With these successes, Victor saw himself as the leader of Paris’s literary set and had been inviting people to their home in the evenings nearly every night for the past fortnight, and he expected that good wine and brandy, as well as bread, cheese, and pastries be available for his guests. Adèle had had to trim the budget in other places. She had taken to skimping on new clothing for the children. They had always had fewer servants than their household needed. She wasn’t sure what else she could cut. Adèle added the numbers again but couldn’t get the accounts to balance. She would have to ask Victor for more funds. He might give them willingly, or he might rage, accusing her of extravagances. His moods were unpredictable.

She turned away from her work when the footman announced a visitor.

Monsieur Sainte-Beuve is here, shall I show him in?

Please.

Charles-Augustin Sainte-Beuve entered, taking off his top hat and bowing low. He was a small, ugly man dressed impeccably in a black tail coat, green waistcoat with a white cravat, and black trousers. His bald head shone in the light from the window as he bent. Under his left arm were two tissue-wrapped packages.

What brings you all the way out to our home today?

Do I need an excuse to visit my favorite family? asked Sainte-Beuve.

Of course not, but you are missing most of the family. Victor is in town and the children are at the park, but I expect them back any minute.

Shall I leave? asked Sainte-Beuve, looking from Madame Hugo to the servant who still stood in the doorway.

Please, stay. I enjoy your company, and they should be back shortly, said Madame Hugo. Georges, have Mathilde bring us some tea.

Georges hesitated. Mathilde is out with the children, Madame.

Quite. Well—

I’ve no need of anything, said Sainte-Beuve.

That’ll be all, Georges, said Madame Hugo. He left the room but did not shut the door.

These are for Dédé’s birthday, said Sainte-Beuve, placing the packages on a table by the sofa. You see, I am a good godfather and have not forgotten.

I would expect no less, said Adèle, signaling him to sit beside her on the sofa. So, what news do you bring me from the literary world?

Sainte-Beuve sat, placing himself a respectable distance from his friend's wife. Well, let’s see. The grandson of a neighbor sent me a collection of poems yesterday. She had told me so many times about her grandson being a writer, and I had such high hopes for his talent—his grandmother is a real dear. Unfortunately, the poems are not very good. Such a disappointment and so difficult to know how to respond.

What did you do?

Well, I haven’t done anything yet, answered Sainte-Beuve. "But, if one asks a literary critic to read one’s poems, one should expect criticism, n’est-ce pas? He rhymes well enough, and he understands the poetic form. The problem is his subject. He writes of love, yet he so obviously knows nothing about love."

And you are an expert on the nature of love? teased Adèle.

Perhaps not an expert, but certainly a student, replied Sainte-Beuve. This boy lacks the true passion of love. He writes intellectually, cleanly, and love cannot be handled in that fashion.

I disagree, said Adèle. I think love is best handled carefully.

Sainte-Beuve shook his head. What is the comparison that La Rochefoucauld makes? ‘Love is like a fever. One cannot control its violence nor its duration.’

Pah! answered Adèle. People use love as a reason to abandon self-control and do anything that they please. I don’t accept love as an excuse for bad behavior.

Sainte-Beuve laughed. You make me want to accuse you of having never been in love.

Which is obviously not true.

Is it? asked Sainte-Beuve with a peculiar look in his eye.

Madame Hugo's laugh was rich and without embarrassment. I loved Victor from the day I met him. I adore him still. I love you as well, my friend. What else did La Rochefoucauld say? ‘However rare is true love, true friendship is even more rare.’

You believe it is possible to stop a burning fever and call it friendship? asked Sainte-Beuve.

Yes. I do, said Adèle, looking at him with wide honest eyes. Our conversations delight me. The give and take, the way you listen to and think about the things I say. You are precious to me. Don’t try to change that.

Sainte-Beuve laughed a short embarrassed laugh. A man in love often acts the fool.

Adèle smiled. As long as he doesn’t act the drunkard.

Sainte-Beuve shifted awkwardly in his seat. I will have to re-consider my criticism of this young man’s poetry. My thoughts on the nature of love are apparently not universal.

A door slammed and the sound of children’s voices and laughter came from the hall.

They have returned, said Madame Hugo, getting up from the sofa and moving toward the door. "Mon Dieu! cried Maman, What has happened?"

The two boys were a mess. Toto was sopping wet, droplets falling from his tangled hair onto his muddy and rumpled tunic. One side of his face was smeared with dirt. Charlot was damp, not soaked, but one tunic sleeve was covered in dirt, and his trousers were dirty and torn at the knee. Maman pulled a leaf from his hair.

Toto fell into the fountain, began Mathilde, but she was interrupted by four-year-old Toto.

Charlot pushed me!

I did not! said six-year-old Charles. I was trying to help. When Mathilde pulled him out of the water he was crying, so I hugged and kissed him like this. Charlot encircled Toto with his arms and began pecking at his neck, tickling the little boy. Toto giggled and squirmed, and then both boys fell onto the floor, rolling around and smearing their mess onto the white marble tiles.

You see how they became so filthy, said Mathilde, grabbing both boys by their collars and raising them from the floor.

Well, off with both of you, said Maman. Change into clean clothes and lie down for your afternoon rest. Girls, come with me.

Mathilde dragged the boys away, and Didine and Dédé followed their mother and Sainte-Beuve into the sitting room. The girls were perfectly clean, dressed to match in white and yellow cotton frocks with frilled drawers showing below the hems. Only their hair was different, with eight-year-old Didine’s long tresses braided and rolled under a small white cap. Dédé’s dark hair was not long enough to be put up.

"Bon anniversaire, ma petite ange!" Sainte-Beuve picked up Dédé, hugging her tightly and twirling her around. She hugged him back, her short arms encircling his neck. Didine stood back, smiling.

Your godfather has brought you a birthday present, said Maman sitting on the sofa.

I have brought you two, because you are two, said Sainte-Beuve, retrieving packages from a table. One is for everyday, and one is for special.

Both gifts were wrapped in tissue paper and tied with bright pink ribbons. He put one gift on the rug in front of Dédé. You may open this one. The other he placed in front of Didine. I think you had better unwrap this.

Sainte-Beuve sat on the floor next to the girls as they opened the presents. Dédé tore away her paper to reveal a rag doll wearing a white and yellow cotton frock with frilled drawers just like her own. The doll’s brown yarn hair was glued to its head, with long braids hanging loose. Large brown eyes and a smiling red mouth had been painted on the thick, off-white cotton face. Dédé jumped up and down and hugged the doll, shouting. "Ma bébé! Ma bébé!"

Didine opened the other present carefully, untying the ribbon and not tearing the paper. An exquisite china doll lay in a tissue paper bed within the box. Lovely features had been painted on the china head: red lips and cheeks, brown eyes, black hair. The body was stuffed cloth under an intricate silk dress of blue and white. Beneath the skirt were several petticoat layers and lace-edged pantaloons. The doll’s hands and feet were made of china, the hands with delicately painted fingers and the feet wearing black boots. She’s so beautiful, gasped Didine.

Sainte-Beuve smiled at the older sister. I didn’t think she would survive an unwrapping by Dédé. You should probably take care of her until the birthday girl is old enough to handle her gently.

Thank you, monsieur, said Didine, unable to take her eyes from the china doll.

See! See! said Dédé, pushing past Didine to see.

Careful, said Didine pulling Dédé onto her lap. She’s very precious and will break easily. Isn’t she beautiful?

Oh! said the young girl. Touch?

Gently, said Didine, holding her sister’s hand and letting the little fingers caress the china doll’s painted hair.

From her place on the sofa, Maman watched Sainte-Beuve sitting on the floor with her daughters. With his skinny legs crossed and back bent crooked, he looked so awkward. Yet, the way he patiently listened to the girls’ stories and thoughts, and the way he tilted his head as he spoke to them, showed how comfortable he was.

I’m afraid it’s naptime, said Maman. What do you say to your godfather, Dédé?

At the sound of the word naptime, Dédé began crying and stomping her feet and Maman could get no "Merci" from her.

You can take your rag doll to bed with you, Dédé, but you should leave the other one here. Didine, will you help her lie down? Call Mathilde if she gives you any trouble.

Dédé struggled, still crying, but Didine pulled her from the room and closed the door.

The china doll was too much, said Maman. She would have been as happy with just the rag doll.

Sainte-Beuve leaned back on his elbows and straightened his legs. She’s my goddaughter, and I love her. I’ve felt a special bond with her since the day she was born.

Maman sighed deeply. If only she would stay a baby. Walking, talking. I can’t believe she is two already—and starting to be a handful. Not as much as the boys, mind you, but she gets so frustrated when she can’t say all the things she wants to say. She’s terribly stubborn.

I saw none of that.

You brought gifts. But you must have noticed what she did as soon as I asked her to—

Her last words were cut off when the door opened. Victor Hugo stopped at the entrance. What a surprise to come home and find my best friend on the floor at my wife’s feet.

Victor stayed in the doorway, his large body blocking all light from behind. His face was impassive, but Adèle knew the anger that generated such a countenance. Anger was there, held in check and would show itself soon enough.

Sainte-Beuve blushed and stood quickly. The girls were just here . . . he began.

Calmly, Adèle showed her husband the china doll in its box. A birthday present for little Adèle. Moving the box from the floor to a side table, she said, We didn’t expect you home so early.

Clearly. Where are the children?

Napping. Charlot and Toto for a while. Didine just left with Dédé.

Wonderful. Tell Mathilde to watch them, because I am taking you out. I’ve a hackney waiting. Sainte-Beuve, stop by after tomorrow night’s performance. I’ll be entertaining.

~

Once they had left the quiet of rue Jean Goujon, the streets became busy with carriages and wagons. In one place they had to stop and wait while a two-level omnibus loaded and unloaded passengers. A group of men sat in the open seats at the top of the bus while an extremely large man wearing a dusty coat and bowler cap climbed the ladder attached to the rear of the bus. The vehicle swayed and tottered as his weight shifted. The omnibuses, with their extreme height and narrow girth, seemed precariously balanced. Adèle was surprised she hadn’t heard of more accidents. The one-horse cabriolet that the Hugos occupied was small and close to the ground, with a weather-worn black leather seat that held two people or three tightly-packed small people. The driver sat on a short springed bench in front of them.

As traffic began moving again, Madame Hugo saw the blue Parisian sky with its wispy white clouds and the Seine curling away on the right, the towers of the Cathedral of Notre Dame looming ahead. Victor was unusually quiet, and Adèle grew nervous. She guessed he was upset about something, although perhaps not. His silences were hard to read.

All goes well? she asked.

Quite, answered Victor.

Where are we going?

If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise, answered Victor curtly.

The carriage turned left, moving away from the river, and eventually stopped in the Place des Vosges, formerly the Place Royale, constructed by Henri IV in the seventeenth century. Thirty-six pavillions, each with a four-arched arcade at street level and four tall windows on the first and second floors lined the place. In the center was a large park in the French style, beds of multi-colored flowers arranged in symmetrical patterns, the perimeter of the gardens lined with linden trees.

The carriage let them out under the trees. Holding hands and dodging carriages and wagons, Monsieur and Madame Hugo crossed the street. Victor positioned his wife outside number 6, Place des Vosges.

We can’t go up, he said, but I wanted you to see our new home.

Our new home? echoed Adèle, confused.

I signed the papers this morning. The entire second floor is ours.

Adèle’s mouth dropped. We haven’t fully unpacked from our last move. I thought you were happy on rue Jean Goujon. It’s such a lovely house. You said the solitude would suit you. The children have so much space.

A shadow passed across Victor’s eyes. We will be closer to society here. You will have more visits from your lady friends. I will be able to move between home and work quickly. Staring up at the second floor windows, avoiding his wife’s eyes, he continued, You will no longer accept visits from Sainte-Beuve unless I am present. Nor will you see him anywhere without me.

Adèle countered, But he’s our best friend. He’s Dédé’s godfather.

This is not an issue for discussion. I’m telling you what you will no longer do.

I don’t understand why you would think— began Adèle.

I’ve decided—that is all you need to understand, interrupted Victor.

Adèle was quiet a moment and then smiled. Place des Vosges. It looks lovely. I’m sure we’ll be very happy here.

—Adèle, you’ve switched back and forth between names. Your readers will be confused.

—Have I, Didine? Perhaps I should go back and change them. But no, sometimes the formal name is needed, and other times the nickname. I shall solve the problem with some sort of footnote.

—Your readers will not follow a footnote. You should just state clearly each child’s birth name and nickname.

—And how shall I do that without ruining the flow of the story?

—You simply write: Léopoldine is Didine, Charles is Charlot, François-Victor is Toto and Adèle is Dédé. Adèle is also the mother's name, and the father is always Victor.

—That was done without a shred of elegance, Didine. I am trying to write this story in prose of which Papa would approve.

—Papa never approved of anything you did, Dédé.

Chapter 2: Music

Dédé sat on the floor with her back against the wall listening to her sister take piano lessons in the next room. Didine was attempting a Bach Minuet—not for the first time. The music was hesitant, jerky, and rife with mistakes. The missed notes pained Dédé worse than when Mathilde brushed out her tangles. Still, she could not move from her position. She was drawn to the sounds, to the vibrations of the wall, to the silence between notes. She could hear which note should come next—even if Didine could not find it.

When the lesson was finished, Dédé remained in her position on the floor, listening to the soft steps of Didine and the piano teacher as they left the room. Then there was silence. Dédé thought again of the Bach Minuet. She played it in her head, over and over. It was a beautiful, simple piece. Quietly, she stood and opened the door to the conservatory. They were gone, as she knew they would be. With only the light of the late afternoon sun for company, Dédé walked up to the piano. She climbed upon the bench and sitting on her knees took in the layout of the instrument. Lightly, ever so lightly so as not to make a sound, she ran the skin of her fingertips over the ivory keys. They were smooth and cold. If she could just find the first note, she could play the minuet, and she would not make the mistakes Didine had made. Gently she pressed down a key. It was too high; she moved down two steps. That was right, but it needed more. She played two keys at once, but they made her flinch. The lower note was too low. She went up to a black key and tried again. Yes. And with the other hand too. She tried and was happy with the sound. That was the first chord.

Dédé took a deep breath and began to play. Her tiny hands already knew where to go. As each note approached she could hear it in her head, and she knew how many degrees of change were needed. Her fingers were so small, they could not always reach where they needed to go, and it caused pauses which frustrated Dédé. She frowned while she played, unhappy that she could not achieve the proper smoothness. When she had finished the minuet—with not a note played wrong, she heard applause from behind. Didine and her mother stood inside the door clapping, with wide smiles and shining eyes.

"Mon Dieu! exclaimed her mother. She’s a musical savant, a genius!" Didine dashed into the room and pulled her little sister off the bench, twirling her in circles. When they stopped spinnng, Dédé wrapped her legs around her sister's thin waist and face to face, they smiled at one another.

"I will send a note to Madame Clésinger toute de suite," said Maman. As she turned to leave the room, she ran into her husband.

Did you see? Did you hear? she asked him.

No, what was there to see and hear? His smile was bemused, playful.

Didine put Dédé down and moved to her father. Dédé played my practice piece, my minuet, every note perfect. Isn’t it incredible?

Papa's smile faded, and he sighed. Dédé, a musical savant? That would be a curse from the Lord for certain.

Victor, scolded Maman, tapping him on the chest. You should be proud. Your daughter has a rare gift.

And I suppose you want me to pay money for lessons to increase her rare gift?

Music is the way to a man’s heart, said Maman. It is the art form of all accomplished young ladies.

It isn’t the way to my heart—and don’t call it an art form. Music is crass showmanship.

Your opinion is unusual, and you know it, said Maman. Ladies must sing and play the piano. The more accomplished Dédé is, the more she will be invited to sing, and the more suitors she will have.

She’s four years old, complained Papa.

Please, Papa, begged Didine.

Victor smiled at his eldest, his jewel. Is this what you want, Didine?

Didine nodded enthusiastically. I’ll help her practice every day, and I’ll help her learn to read the music, and I’ll find a stool for her feet and—

Papa laughed and caressed Didine’s cheek. For you, I’ll do this. Turning to his wife, he said, I’ll pay for lessons, and when Dédé’s music attracts a husband, she can take the piano with her.

When he had left the room, Dédé asked, Where am I supposed to take the piano?

Didine and Maman laughed, and when Dédé’s face showed confusion, Maman took the child into her arms and hugged her tightly. "Never mind. Your papa has never liked music, of any kind. But let us not worry about him. I must send a letter to Madame Clésinger immediately so that she can hear you play.

—For shame, Dédé. Nothing like that ever happened.

—When one writes, my dear sister, one can exaggerate. It is much more interesting to show myself as a prodigy; the reader will understand that for me, music was like breathing, natural and necessary.

—But with this version, your readers will never know how hard you worked. You sat at that piano for hours at a time—nearly every minute that Papa was gone. Your music was not bestowed as a gift. You worked for it.

—Yawn, yawn. Too boring, Didine. It does not make a story. If my readers were to read page after page of my struggles at the piano, I would have no readers. This way, the reader knows I reached musical perfection, and I do not compromise interest.

—Perhaps you are right. I’m sorry I interrupted.

Chapter 3: Happiness

Dédé held the goose feather up to her eyes and studied the tip. Didine had given her the pen knife and shown her how to shape