LXXXVII. TO GEORGE SAND
Dieppe, Monday
But indeed, dear master, I was in Paris during that tropical heat
(trop picole, as the governor of the chateau of Versailles says),
and I perspired greatly. I went twice to Fontainebleau, and the
second time by your advice, saw the sands of Arboronne. It is so
beautiful that it made me almost dizzy.
I went also to Saint-Gratien. Now I am at Dieppe, and Wednesday I
shall be in Croisset, not to stir from there for a long time, the
novel must progress.
Yesterday I saw Dumas: we talked of you, of course, and as I shall
see him tomorrow we shall talk again of you.
I expressed myself badly if I said that my book "will blame the
patriots for everything that goes wrong." I do not recognize that I
have the right to blame anyone. I do not even think that the
novelist ought to express his own opinion on the things of this
world. He can communicate it, but I do not like him to say it. (That
is a part of my art of poetry.) I limit myself, then, to declaring
things as they appear to me, to expressing what seems to me to be
true. And the devil take the consequences; rich or poor, victors or
vanquished, I admit none of all that. I want neither love, nor hate,
nor pity, nor anger. As for sympathy, that is different; one never
has enough of that. The reactionaries, besides, must be less spared
than the others, for they seem to be more criminal.
Is it not time to make justice a part of art? The impartiality of
painting would then reach the majesty of the law,--and the precision
of science!
Well, as I have absolute confidence in your great mind, when my
third part is finished, I shall read it to you, and if there is in
my work, something that seems MEAN to you, I will remove it.
But I am convinced beforehand that you will object to nothing.
As for allusions to individuals, there is not a shadow of them.
Prince Napoleon, whom I saw at his sister's Thursday, asked for news
of you and praised Maurice. Princess Matilde told me that she
thought you "charming," which made me like her better than ever.
How will the rehearsals of Cadio prevent you from coming to see your
poor old friend this autumn? It is not impossible. I know Freville.
He is an excellent and very cultivated man.
LXXXVIII. TO GEORGE SAND
Croisset, Wednesday evening, 9 September, 1868
Is this the way to behave, dear master? Here it is nearly two months
since you have written to your old troubadour! you in Paris, in
Nohant, or elsewhere? They say that Cadio is now being rehearsed at
the Porte Saint-Martin (so you have fallen out with Chilly?) They
say that Thuillier will make her re-appearance in your play. (But I
thought she was dying). And when are they to play this Cadio? Are
you content? etc., etc.
I live absolutely like an oyster. My novel is the rock to which I
attach myself, and I don't know anything that goes on in the world.
I do not even read, or rather I have not read La Lanterne! Rochefort
bores me, between ourselves. It takes courage to venture to say even
hesitatingly, that possibly he is not the first writer of the
century. O Velches! Velches! as M. de Voltaire would sigh (or roar)!
But a propos of the said Rochefort, have they been somewhat
imbecilic? What poor people!
And Sainte-Beuve? Do you see him? As for me, I am working
furiously. I have just written a description of the forest of
Fontainebleau that made me want to hang myself from one of its
trees. As I was interrupted for three weeks, I am having terrible
trouble in getting back to work. I am like the camels, which can't
be stopped when they are in motion, nor started when they are
resting. It will take me a year to finish the book. After that I
shall abandon the bourgeois definitely. He is too difficult and on
the whole too ugly. It will be high time to do something beautiful
and that I like.
What would please me well for the moment, would be to embrace you.
When will that be? Till then, a thousand affectionate thoughts.
LXXXIX. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT, at Croisset
Paris, 10 September, 1868
Just at present, dear friend, there is a truce to my correspondence.
On all sides I am reproached, WRONGLY, for not answering letters. I
wrote you from Nohant about two weeks ago that I was going to Paris,
on business about Cadio:--and now, I am returning to Nohant tomorrow
at dawn to see my Aurore. I have written during the last week, four
acts of the play, and my task is finished until the end of the
rehearsals which will be looked after by my friend and collaborator,
Paul Meurice. All his care does not prevent the working out of the
first part from being a horrible bungle. One needs to see the
putting-on of a play in order to understand that, and if one is not
armed with humor and inner zest for the study of human nature in the
actual individuals whom the fiction is to mask, there is much to
rage about. But I don't rage any more, I laugh; I know too much of
all that to get excited about it, and I shall tell you some fine
stories about it when we meet.
However, as I am an optimist just the same, I look at the good side
of things and people; but the truth is that everything is bad and
everything is good in this world.
Poor Thuillier has not sparkling health; but she hopes to carry the
burden of the work once more. She needs to earn her living, she is
cruelly poor. I told you in my lost letter that Sylvanie [Footnote:
Madame Arnould-Plessy.] had been several days at Nohant. She is more
beautiful than ever and quite well again after a terrible illness.
Would you believe that I have not seen Sainte-Beuve? That I have had
only the time here to sleep a little, and to eat in a hurry? It is
just that. I have not heard anyone whatsoever talked about outside
of the theatre and of the players. I have had mad desires to abandon
everything and to go to surprise you for a couple of hours; but I
have not been a day without being kept at FORCED LABOR.
I shall return here the end of the month, and when they play Cadio,
I shall beg you to spend twenty-four hours here for me. Will you do
it? Yes, you are too good a troubadour to refuse me. I embrace you
with all my heart, and your mother too. I am happy that she is well.