In the last act of another opera by Monsieur Scribe (Jenny Bell), we see a delightful young girl, obedient to her father’s will, marrying a fat old imbecile of a goldsmith and virtuously pretending to be a loose woman in order to put off a young man whom she loves and who in turn loves her dearly. This ending seemed shocking to me, and put me in a temper. Yes, when I see examples of such stupid devotion, of such insolent paternal demands, of such infamous cruelty, of such fine passions being snuffed out, of hearts being so brutally broken, I’d like to be able to put all reasonable people, all virtuous heroines, all enlightened fathers in a sack weighted with a hundred thousand kilos of good sense and throw them into the sea, to the accompaniment of my most virulent curses.

… … … … … … … … … …

You think I’m joking! Well, you’re wrong. I was furious just now; I’m primed with such hatred for the father Capulets and the Count Parises who have or would like to have their own Juliets that the smallest dramatic spark sets me alight and causes an explosion. The grotesque virtue of Jenny Bell really exasperated me. Besides, there are so many father Capulets and Count Parises, and so few Juliets! Great love and great art are so alike! The beautiful is so beautiful! Epic passions are so rare! The daytime sunshine is so weak! Life is so short, death so certain! You hundredfold cretins, who devise these self-denials, these battles against sublime instincts, these marriages of convenience between women and monkeys, between art and base industry, between poetry and commerce, curses on you! Damnation take you! Why can’t you just argue amongst yourselves, hearing nothing but your own rasping voices and seeing nothing but your own livid faces in icy perpetuity!