XVII. TO GEORGE SAND
Croisset, 1866
I a mysterious being, dear master, nonsense! I think that I am
sickeningly platitudinous, and I am sometimes exceedingly bored with
the bourgeois which I have under my skin. Sainte-Beuve, between
ourselves, does not know me at all, no matter what he says. I even
swear to you (by the smile of your grandchild) that I know few men
less vicious than I am. I have dreamed much and have done very
little. What deceives the superficial observer is the lack of
harmony between my sentiments and my ideas. If you want my
confession, I shall make it freely to you. The sense of the
grotesque has restrained me from an inclination towards a disorderly
life. I maintain that cynicism borders on chastity. We shall have
much to say about it to each other (if your heart prompts you) the
first time we see each other.
Here is the program that I propose to you. My house will be full and
uncomfortable for a month. But towards the end of October or the
beginning of November (after Bouilhet's play) nothing will prevent
you, I hope, from returning here with me, not for a day, as you say,
but for a week at least. You shall have "your little table and
everything necessary for writing." Is it agreed?
As for the fairy play, thanks for your kind offers of service. I
shall get hold of the thing for you (it was done in collaboration
with Bouilhet). But I think it is a trifle weak and I am torn
between the desire of gaining a few piasters and the shame of
showing such a piece of folly.
I think that you are a little severe towards Brittany, not towards
the Bretons who seem to me repulsive animals. A propos of Celtic
archaeology, I published in L'Artiste in 1858, a rather good hoax on
the shaking stones, but I have not the number here and I don't
remember the month.
I read, straight through, the 10 volumes of Histoire de ma vie, of
which I knew about two thirds but only fragmentarily. What struck me
most was the life in the convent. I have a quantity of observations
to make to you which occurred to me.
XVIII. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT
Nohant, 28 September, 1866
It is agreed, dear comrade and good friend. I shall do my best to be
in Paris for the performance of your friend's play, and I shall do
my fraternal duty there as usual; after which we shall go to your
house and I shall stay there a week, but on condition that you will
not put yourself out of your room. To be an inconvenience distresses
me and I don't need so much bother in order to sleep. I sleep
everywhere, in the ashes, or under a kitchen bench, like a stable
dog. Everything shines with spotlessness at your house, so one is
comfortable everywhere. I shall pick a quarrel with your mother and
we shall laugh and joke, you and I, much and more yet. If it's good
weather, I shall make you go out walking, if it rains continually,
we shall roast our bones before the fire while telling our heart
pangs. The great river will run black or grey under the window
saying always, QUICK! QUICK! and carrying away our thoughts, and our
days, and our nights, without stopping to notice such small things.
I have packed and sent by EXPRESS a good proof of Couture's picture,
signed by the engraver, my poor friend, Manceau. It is the best that
I have and I have only just found it. I have sent with it a
photograph of a drawing by Marchal which was also like me; but one
changes from year to year. Age gives unceasingly another character
to the face of people who think and study, that is why their
portraits do not look like one another nor like them for long. I
dream so much and I live so little, that sometimes I am only three
years old. But, the next day I am three hundred, if the dream has
been sombre. Isn't it the same with you? Doesn't it seem at moments,
that you are beginning life without even knowing what it is, and at
other times don't you feel over you the weight of several thousand
centuries, of which you have a vague remembrance and a sorrowful
impression? Whence do we come and whither do we go? All is possible
since all is unknown.
Embrace your beautiful, good mother for me. I shall give myself a
treat, being with you two. Now try to find that hoax on the Celtic
stones; that would interest me very much. When you saw them, had
they opened the galgal of Lockmariaker and cleared away the ground
near Plouharnel?
Those people used to write, because there are stones covered with
hieroglyphics, and they used to work in gold very well, because very
beautifully made torques [Footnote: Gallic necklaces.] have been
found.
My children, who are, like myself, great admirers of you, send you
their compliments, and I kiss your forehead, since Sainte-Beuve
lied.