CCXX. TO GEORGE SAND
Croisset
Here I am, back again here, dear master, and not very happy; my
mother worries me. Her decline increases from day to day, and almost
from hour to hour. She wanted me to come home although the painters
have not finished their work, and we are very inconveniently housed.
At the end of next week, she will have a companion who will relieve
me in this foolish business of housekeeping.
As for me, I have quite decided not to make the presses groan for
many years, solely not to have "business" to look after, to avoid
all connection with publishers, editors and papers, and above all
not to hear of money.
My incapacity, in that direction, has developed to frightful
proportions. Why should the sight of a bill put me in a rage? It
verges on madness. Aisse has not made money. Dernieres Chansons has
almost gotten me into a lawsuit. The story of la Fontaine is not
ended. I am tired, profoundly tired, of everything.
If only I do not make a failure also of Saint-Antoine. I am going to
start working on it again in a week, when I have finished with Kant
and Hegel. These two great men are helping to stupefy me, and when I
leave them I fall with eagerness upon my old and thrice great
Spinoza. What genius, how fine a work the Ethics is!
CCXXI. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT, at Croissset
9 April, 1872
I am with you all day and all night, and at every instant, my poor
dear friend. I am thinking of all the sorrow that you are in the
midst of. I would like to be near you. The misfortune of being tied
here distresses me. I would like a word so as to know if you have
the courage that you need. The end of that noble and dear life has
been sad and long; for from the day that she became feeble, she
declined and you could not distract her and console her. Now, alas!
the incessant and cruel task is ended, as the things of this world
end, anguish after struggle! What a bitter achievement of rest! and
you are going to miss this anxiety, I am sure of that. I know the
sort of dismay that follows the combat with death.
In short, my poor child, I can only open a maternal heart to you
which will replace nothing, but which is suffering with yours, and
very keenly in each one of your troubles.