CCVII. TO GEORGE SAND
Sunday, January, 1872
At last I have a moment of quiet and I can write to you. But I have
so many things to chat with you about, that I hardly know where to
begin: (1) Your little letter of the 4th of January, which came the
very morning of the premiere of Aisse, moved me to tears, dear well-
beloved master. You are the only one who shows such delicacies of
feeling.
The premiere was splendid, and then, that is all. The next night the
theatre was almost empty. The press, in general, was stupid and
base. They accused me of having wanted to advertise by INSERTING an
incendiary tirade! I pass for a Red (sic). You see where we are!
The management of the Odeon has done nothing for the play! On the
contrary. The day of the premiere it was I who brought with my own
hands the properties for the first act! And on the third performance
I led the supernumeraries.
Throughout the rehearsals they advertised in the papers the revival
of Ruy Blas, etc., etc. They made me strangle la Baronne quite as
Ruy Blas will strangle Aisse. In short, Bouilhet's heir will get
very little money. Honor is saved, that is all.
I have had Dernieres Chansons printed. You will receive this volume
at the same time as Aisse and a letter of mine to the Conseil
municipal de Rouen. This little production seemed too violent to le
Nouvelliste de Rouen, which did not dare to print it; but it will
appear on Wednesday in le Temps, then at Rouen, as a pamphlet.
What a foolish life I have been leading for two and a half months!
How is it that I have not croaked with it? My longest nights have
not been over five hours. What running about! What letters! and what
anger!--repressed--unfortunately! At last, for three days I have
slept all I wanted to, and I am stupefied by it.
I was present with Dumas at the premiere of Roi Carotte. You can not
imagine such rot! It is sillier and emptier than the worst of the
fairy plays of Clairville. The public agreed with me absolutely.
The good Offenbach has had another failure at the Opera-Comique with
Fantasio. Shall one ever get to hating piffle? That would be a fine
step on the right path.
Tourgueneff has been in Paris since the first of December. Every
week we have an engagement to read Saint-Antoine and to dine
together. But something always prevents and we never meet. I am
harassed more than ever by life and am disgusted with everything,
which does not prevent me from being in better health than ever.
Explain that to me.
CCVIII. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT
Nohant, 18 January, 1872
You must not be sick, you must not be a grumbler, my dear old
troubadour. You must cough, blow your nose, get well, say that
France is mad, humanity silly, and that we are crude animals; and
you must love yourself, your kind, and your friends above all. I
have some very sad hours. I look at MY FLOWERS, these two little
ones who are always smiling, their charming mother and my wise
hardworking son whom the end of the world will find hunting,
cataloguing, doing his daily task, and gay withal AS PUNCH, in the
RARE moments when he is resting.
He said to me this morning: "Tell Flaubert to come, I will take a
vacation at once. I will play the marionettes for him, I will make
him laugh."
Life in a crowd forbids reflection. You are too much alone. Come
quickly to our house and let us love you.