XXI. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT, at Croisset
Nohant, Monday evening, 1 October, 1866
Dear friend,
Your letter was forwarded to me from Paris. It isn't lost. I think
too much of them to let any be lost. You don't speak to me of the
floods, therefore I think that the Seine did not commit any follies
at your place and that the tulip tree did not get its roots wet. I
feared lest you were anxious and wondered if your bank was high
enough to protect you. Here we have nothing of that sort to be
afraid of; our streams are very wicked, but we are far from them.
You are happy in having such clear memories of other existences.
Much imagination and learning--those are your memories; but if one
does not recall anything distinct, one has a very lively feeling of
one's own renewal in eternity. I have a very amusing brother who
often used to say "at the time when I was a dog. ..." He thought
that he had become man very recently. I think that I was vegetable
or mineral. I am not always very sure of completely existing, and
sometimes I think I feel a great fatigue accumulated from having
lived too much. Anyhow, I do not know, and I could not, like you,
say, "I possess the past."
But then you believe that one does not really die, since one LIVES
AGAIN? If you dare to say that to the Smart Set, you have courage
and that is good. I have the courage which makes me pass for an
imbecile, but I don't risk anything; I am imbecile under so many
other counts.
I shall be enchanted to have your written impression of Brittany, I
did not see enough to talk about. But I sought a general impression
and that has served me for reconstructing one or two pictures which
I need. I shall read you that also, but it is still an unformed
mass.
Why did your trip remain unpublished? You are very coy. You don't
find what you do worth being described. That is a mistake. All that
issues from a master is instructive, and one should not fear to show
one's sketches and drawings. They are still far above the reader,
and so many things are brought down to his level that the poor devil
remains common. One ought to love common people more than oneself,
are they not the real unfortunates of the world? Isn't it the people
without taste and without ideals who get bored, don't enjoy anything
and are useless? One has to allow oneself to be abused, laughed at,
and misunderstood by them, that is inevitable. But don't abandon
them, and always throw them good bread, whether or not they prefer
filth; when they are sated with dirt they will eat the bread; but if
there is none, they will eat filth in secula seculorum.
I have heard you say, "I write for ten or twelve people only." One
says in conversation, many things which are the result of the
impression of the moment; but you are not alone in saying that. It
was the opinion of the Lundi or the thesis of that day. I protested
inwardly. The twelve persons for whom you write, who appreciate you,
are as good as you are or surpass you. You never had any need of
reading the eleven others to be yourself. But, one writes for all
the world, for all who need to be initiated; when one is not
understood, one is resigned and recommences. When one is understood,
one rejoices and continues. There lies the whole secret of our
persevering labors and of our love of art. What is art without the
hearts and minds on which one pours it? A sun which would not
project rays and would give life to no one.
After reflecting on it, isn't that your opinion? If you are
convinced of that, you will never know disgust and lassitude, and if
the present is sterile and ungrateful, if one loses all influence,
all hold on the public, even in serving it to the best of one's
ability, there yet remains recourse to the future, which supports
courage and effaces all the wounds of pride. A hundred times in
life, the good that one does seems not to serve any immediate use;
but it keeps up just the same the tradition of wishing well and
doing well, without which all would perish.
Is it only since '89 that people have been floundering? Didn't they
have to flounder in order to arrive at '48 when they floundered much
more, but so as to arrive at what should be? You must tell me how
you mean that and I will read Turgot to please you. I don't promise
to go as far as Holbach, ALTHOUGH HE HAS SOME GOOD POINTS, THE
RUFFIAN!
Summon me at the time of Bouilhet's play. I shall be here, working
hard, but ready to run, and loving you with all my heart. Now that I
am no longer a woman, if the good God was just, I should become a
man; I should have the physical strength and would say to you: "Come
let's go to Carthage or elsewhere." But there, one who has neither
sex nor strength, progresses towards childhood, and it is quite
otherwhere that one is renewed; WHERE? I shall know that before you
do, and, if I can, I shall come back in a dream to tell you.
XXII. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT
Nohant, 19 October
Dear friend, they write me from the Odeon that Bouilhet's play is on
the 27th. I must be in Paris the 26th. Business calls me in any
event. I shall dine at Magny's on that day, and the next, and the
day after that. Now you know where to find me, for I think that you
will come for the first performance. Yours always, with a full
heart,