I had read the hoax of le Figaro and had laughed at it. It turns out
to have assumed grotesque proportions. As for me, they gave me a
grandson instead of two granddaughters, and a Catholic baptism
instead of a Protestant. That does not make any difference. One
really has to lie a little to divert oneself.
CI. TO GEORGE SAND
Saint Sylvester's night, one o'clock, 1869
Why should I not begin the year of 1869 in wishing to you and to
yours "Happy New Year and many of them"? It is rococo, but it
pleases me. Now, let us talk.
No, I don't get into a heat, for I have never been better. They
thought me, in Paris, "fresh as a young girl," and those people who
don't know my life attributed that appearance of health to the air
of the country. That is what conventional ideas are. Every one has
his system. For my part, when I am not hungry, the only thing I can
eat is dry bread. And the most indigestible food, such as apples in
sour cider, and bacon, are what cure me of the stomach-ache. And so
on. A man who has no common sense ought not to try to live according
to common-sense rules.
As for my frenzy for work, I will compare it to an attack of herpes.
I scratch myself while I cry. It is both a pleasure and a torture at
the same time. And I am doing nothing that I want to! For one does
not choose one's subjects, they force themselves on one. Shall I
ever find mine? Will an idea fall from Heaven suitable to my
temperament? Can I write a book to which I shall give myself heart
and soul? It seems to me in my moments of vanity, that I am
beginning to catch a glimpse of what a novel ought to be. But I
still have three or four of them to write before that one (which is,
moreover, very vague), and at the rate I am going, if I write these
three or four, that will be the most I can do. I am like M.
Prudhomme, who thinks that the most beautiful church would be one
which had at the same time the spire of Strasbourg, the colonnade of
Saint Peter's, the portico of the Parthenon, etc. I have
contradictory ideals. Thence embarrassment, hesitation, impotence.
As to whether the "claustration" to which I condemn myself may be a
"state of joy," no. But what can I do? To get drunk with ink is more
worth while than to get drunk with brandy. The muse, cross-grained
as she is, gives less trouble than a woman. I cannot harmonize the
one with the other. I must choose. My choice was made a long time
ago. There remains the matter of the senses. They have always been
my servants. Even at the time of my earliest youth, I did exactly as
I wanted with them. I have reached my fiftieth year, and it is not
their ardor that troubles me.
This regime is not amusing, I agree to that. There are moments of
empty and horrible boredom. But they become more and more rare in
proportion as one grows older. In short, LIVING seems to me a
business for which I was not made, and yet...!
I stayed in Paris for three days, which I made use of in hunting up
information, and in doing errands about my book. I was so worn out
last Friday, that I went to bed at seven o'clock in the evening.
Such are my mad orgies at the capital.
I found the Goncourts in a frenzied (sic) admiration over a book
entitled Histoire de ma vie by George Sand. Which proves more good
taste than learning on their part. They even wanted to write to you
to express all their admiration. (In return I found ***** stupid. He
compares Feydeau to Chateaubriand, admires very much the Lepreux de
la cite d'Aoste, finds Don Quichotte tedious, etc.).
Do you notice how rare literary sense is? The knowledge of language,
archeology, history, etc., all that should be useful however! Well!
well! not at all! The so-called enlightened people are becoming more
and more incompetent in the matter of art. Even what art means
escapes them. The glosses for them are more important than the text.
They pay more attention to the crutches than to the legs themselves.
CII. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT
1st January, 1869
It is one o'clock, I have just embraced my children. I am tired from
having spent the night in making a complete costume for a large doll
for Aurore; but I don't want to turn in without embracing you also,
my great friend, and my dear, big child. May '69 be easy for you,
and may it see the end of your novel. May you keep well and be
always yourself! I don't know anything better, and I love you.