Your old troubadour.
CCLXXVI. TO GEORGE SAND
Friday evening, 1st May, 1874
Things are progressing, dear master, insults are accumulating! It is
a concerto, a symphony in which each one is intent on his own
instrument. I have been cut up beginning le Figaro up to la Revue
des Deux Mondes, including la Gazette de France and le
Constitutionnel. And THEY have not finished yet! Barbey d'Aurevilly
has insulted me personally, and the good Saint-Rene Taillandier, who
declares me "unreadable," attributes ridiculous words to me. So much
for printing. As for speech, it is in accord. Saint-Victor (is it
servility towards Michel Levy) rends me at the Brabant dinner, as
does that excellent Charles Edmond, etc. On the other hand I am
admired by the professors of the Faculty of Theology at Strasbourg,
by Renan, and by the cashier at my butcher's! not to mention some
others. There is the truth.
What surprises me, is that under several of these criticisms there
is a HATRED against me, against me personally, a deliberate
slandering, the cause of which I am seeking. I do not feel hurt, but
this avalanche of foolishness saddens me. One prefers inspiring good
feelings to bad ones. As for the rest, I am not thinking any more
about Saint-Antoine. That is over with!
I shall start, this summer, another book of about the same calibre;
after that I shall return to the novel pure and simple. I have in my
head two or three to write before I die. Just now I am spending my
days at the Library, where I am accumulating notes. In a fortnight,
I shall return to my house in the fields. In July I shall go to get
rid of my congestion on the top of a Swiss mountain, obeying the
advice of Doctor Hardy, the man who called me "a hysterical woman,"
a saying that I consider profound.
The good Tourgueneff is leaving next week for Russia, his trip will
forcibly interrupt his frenzy for pictures, for our friend never
leaves the auction rooms now! He is a man with a passion, so much
the better for him!
I missed you very much at Madame Viardot's a fortnight ago. She sang
Iphigenie en Aulide. I can not tell you how beautiful it was, how
transporting, in short how sublime. What an artist that woman is!
What an artist! Such emotions console one for life.
Well! and you, dear good master, that play that they talk about, is
it finished? You are going to fall back into the theatre! I pity
you! After having put dogs on the boards at the Odeon, perhaps they
are going to ask you to put on horses! That is where we are now!
And all the household, from Maurice to Fadet, how is it?
Kiss the dear little girls for me and let them return it to you from
me.
Your old friend.
CCLXXVII. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT
Nohant, 4th May, 1874
Let them say what they like, Saint-Antoine is a masterpiece, a
magnificent book. Ridicule the critics, they are blockheads. The
present century does not like lyricism. Let us wait for the
reaction, it will come for you, and a splendid one. Rejoice in your
insults, they are great promises for the future.
I am working still on my play, I don't at all know if it is worth
anything and don't worry about it. I shall be told that when it is
finished, and if it does not seem interesting I shall lock it up. It
will have amused me for six weeks, that is the most certain thing
for us about our profession.
Plauchut is the joy of the salons! happy old man! always content
with himself and with others; that makes him as good as an angel, I
forgive him all his graces.
You were happy at hearing the Diva Paulita, we had her, with
Iphigenie, for two weeks in Nohant last autumn. Ah! yes, there is
beauty and grandeur! Try to come to see us before going to Croisset,
you would make us happy.
We all love you and all my dear world embraces you with a GREAT GOOD
HEART.
Your old troubadour always,