XCVII. TO GEORGE SAND
Saturday evening
I am remorseful for not having answered at length your last letter,
my dear master. You told me of the "ill turns" that people did you.
Did you think that I did not know it? I confess to you even
(between ourselves), that I was hurt on account of them more because
of my good taste, than because of my affection for you. I did not
think that several of your friends were warm enough towards you. "My
God! my God! how mean literary men are!" A bit out of the
correspondence of the first Napoleon. What a nice bit, eh? Doesn't
it seem to you that they belittle him too much?
The infinite stupidity of the masses makes me indulgent to
individualities, however odious they may be. I have just gulped down
the first six volumes of Buchez and Roux. The clearest thing I got
out of them is an immense disgust for the French. My Heavens! Have
we always been bunglers in this fair land of ours? Not a liberal
idea which has not been unpopular, not a just thing that has not
caused scandal, not a great man who has not been mobbed or knifed!
"The history of the human mind is the history of human folly!" as
says M. de Voltaire.
And I am convinced more and more of this truth: the doctrine of
grace has so thoroughly permeated us that the sense of justice has
disappeared. What terrified me so in the history of '48 has quite
naturally its origins in the Revolution, which had not liberated
itself from the middle ages, no matter what they say. I have re-
discovered in Marat entire fragments of Proudhon (sic) and I wager
that they would be found again in the preachers of the League.
What is the measure that the most advanced proposed after Varennes?
Dictatorship and military dictatorship. They close the churches, but
they raise temples, etc.
I assure you that I am becoming stupid with the Revolution. It is a
gulf which draws me in.
However, I work at my novel like a lot of oxen. I hope on New Year's
Day not to have over a hundred pages more to write, that is to say,
still six good months of work. I shall go to Paris as late as
possible. My winter is to pass in complete solitude, good way of
making life run along rapidly.
XCVIII. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT, in Paris
Nohant, 20 November, 1868
You say to me, "When shall we see each other?" About the 15th of
December, we are baptizing here our two little girls as Protestants.
It is Maurice's idea; he was married before the pastor, and does not
want the persecution and influence of the Catholic church about his
children. Our friend Napoleon is the godfather of Aurore, and I am
the godmother. My nephew is the godfather of the other. All that
takes place just among ourselves, in the family. You must come,
Maurice wants you to, and if you say no, you will disappoint him
greatly. You shall bring your novel, and in a free moment, you shall
read it to me; it will do you good to read it to one who listens
well. One gets a perspective and judges one's work better. I know
that. Say yes to your old troubadour, he will be EXCEEDINGLY
GRATEFUL to you for it.