XCVI. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT
Nohant, 15 October, 1868
Here I am "ter hum" where, after having hugged my children and my
grandchildren, I slept thirty-six hours at one stretch. You must
believe that I was tired and did not notice it. I am waking from
that animal-hibernation and you are the first person to whom I want
to write. I did not thank you enough for coming to Paris for my
sake, you who go about so little: and I did not see you enough
either; when I knew that you had supped with Plauchut, [Footnote:
Edmond Plauchut, a writer and a friend of George Sand.] I was angry
at having stayed to take care of my sickly Thuillier, to whom I was
of no use, and who was not particularly pleased about it. Artists
are spoiled children and the best are great egoists. You say that I
like them too well; I like them as I like the woods and the fields,
everything, every one that I know a little and that I study
continually. I make my life in the midst of all that, and as I like
my life I like all that nourishes it and renews it. They do me a lot
of ill turns which I see, but which I no longer feel. I know that
there are thorns in the hedges, but that does not prevent me from
putting out my hands and finding flowers there. If all are not
beautiful, all are interesting. The day you took me to the Abbey of
Saint-Georges I found the scrofularia borealis, a very rare plant in
France. I was enchanted; there was much...in the neighborhood where
I gathered it. Such is life!
And if one does not take life like that, one cannot take it in any
way, and then how can one endure it? I find it amusing and
interesting, and since I accept EVERYTHING, I am so much happier and
more enthusiastic when I meet the beautiful and the good. If I did
not have a great knowledge of the species, I should not have quickly
understood you, or known you or loved you. I can have an enormous
indulgence, perhaps banal, for I have had to practice it so much;
but appreciation is quite another thing, and I do not think that it
is entirely worn out in your old troubadour's mind.
I found my children still very good and very tender, my two little
grandchildren still pretty and sweet. This morning I dreamed, and I
woke up saying this strange sentence: "There is always a youthful
great first part in the drama of life. First part in mine: Aurore."
The fact is that it is impossible not to idolize that little one.
She is so perfect in intelligence and goodness, that she seems to me
like a dream.
You also, without knowing it, YOU ARE A DREAM ... like that.
Plauchut saw you once, and he adored you. That proves that he is not
stupid. When he left me in Paris, he told me to remember him to you.
I left Cadio in doubt between good and average receipts. The cabal
against the new management relaxed after the second day. The press
was half favorable, half hostile. The good weather is against it.
The hateful performance of Roger is also against it. So that we
don't know yet if we shall make money or not. As for me, when money
comes, I say, "So much the better," without excitement, and if it
does not come, I say, "So much the worse," without any chagrin.
Money not being the aim, ought not to be the preoccupation. It is,
moreover, not the real proof of success, since so many vapid or poor
things make money.
Here I am with another play already underway, so as to keep my hand
in. I have a novel also on the stocks, on the STROLLING PLAYERS. I
have studied them a good deal this time without learning anything
new. I already had the plot. It is not complicated and is very
logical.
I embrace you tenderly as well as your little mother. Give me some
sign of life. Does the novel get on?