'1839.--When I first knew George Sand, I thought I found tried
the experiment I wanted. I did not value Bettine so much;
she had not pride enough for me; only now when I am sure of
myself, would I pour out my soul at the feet of another. In
the assured soul it is kingly prodigality; in one which cannot
forbear, it is mere babyhood. I love _abandon_ only when
natures are capable of the extreme reverse. I knew Bettine
would end in nothing, when I read her book. I knew she could
not outlive her love.
'But in _Les Sept Cordes de la Lyre_, which I read first, I
saw the knowledge of the passions, and of social institutions,
with the celestial choice which rose above them. I loved
Hélene, who could so well hear the terrene voices, yet keep
her eye fixed on the stars. That would be my wish, also, to
know all, then choose; I ever revered her, for I was not sure
that I could have resisted the call of the Now, could have
left the spirit, and gone to God. And, at a more ambitious
age, I could not have refused the philosopher. But I hoped
from her steadfastness, and I thought I heard the last tones
of a purified life:--Gretchen, in the golden cloud, raised
above all past delusions, worthy to redeem and upbear the wise
man, who stumbled into the pit of error while searching for
truth.
'Still, in _André_, and in _Jacques_, I traced the same high
morality of one who had tried the liberty of circumstance
only to learn to appreciate the liberty of law, to know that
license is the foe of freedom. And, though the sophistry of
passion in these books disgusted me, flowers of purest hue
seemed to grow upon the dank and dirty ground. I thought she
had cast aside the slough of her past life, and began a new
existence beneath the sun of a true Ideal.
'But here (in the _Lettres d'un Voyageur_) what do I see? An
unfortunate bewailing her loneliness, bewailing her mistakes,
writing for money! She has genius, and a manly grasp of mind,
but not a manly heart! Will there never be a being to combine
a mail's mind and woman's heart, and who yet finds life too
rich to weep over? Never?
'When I read in _Leone Lioni_ the account of the jeweller's
daughter's life with her mother, passed in dress and in
learning to be looked at when dressed, _avec un front
impassible_, it reminded me exceedingly of ----, and her
mother. What a heroine she would be for Sand! She has the same
fearless softness with Juliet, and a sportive _naïveté_, a
mixture of bird and kitten, unknown to the dupe of Lioni.
'If I were a man, and wished a wife, as many do, merely as an
ornament, or silken toy, I would take ---- as soon as any I
know. Her fantastic, impassioned, and mutable nature would
yield an inexhaustible amusement. She is capable of the most
romantic actions;--wild as the falcon, and voluptuous as the
tuberose,--yet she has not in her the elements of romance,
like a deeper and less susceptible nature. My cold and
reasoning E., with her one love lying, perhaps, never to be
unfolded, beneath such sheaths of pride and reserve, would
make a far better heroine.
'Both these characters are natural, while S. and T. are
_naturally factitious_, because so imitative, and her mother
differs from Juliet and her mother, by the impulse a single
strong character gave them. Even at this distance of time,
there is a slight but perceptible taste of iron in the water.
'George Sand disappoints me, as almost all beings have,
especially since I have been brought close to her person
by the _Lettres d'un Voyageur_. Her remarks on Lavater seem
really shallow, and hasty, _à la mode du genre feménin_. No
self-ruling Aspasia she, but a frail woman mourning over a
lot. Any peculiarity in her destiny seems accidental. She is
forced to this and that, to earn her bread forsooth!
'Yet her style,--with what a deeply smouldering fire it
burns!--not vehement, but intense, like Jean Jacques.'