_Paris, Jan. 18, 1847,_ and _Naples, March 17, 1847._--You wished to
hear of George Sand, or, as they say in Paris, "Madame Sand." I find
that all we had heard of her was true in the outline; I had supposed
it might be exaggerated. She had every reason to leave her husband,--a
stupid, brutal man, who insulted and neglected her. He afterwards gave
up their child to her for a sum of money. But the love for which she
left him lasted not well, and she has had a series of lovers, and I
am told has one now, with whom she lives on the footing of combined
means, independent friendship! But she takes rank in society like a
man, for the weight of her thoughts, and has just given her daughter
in marriage. Her son is a grown-up young man, an artist. Many women
visit her, and esteem it an honor. Even an American here, and with
the feelings of our country on such subjects, Mrs. ----, thinks of her
with high esteem. She has broken with La Mennais, of whom she was once
a disciple.
I observed to Dr. François, who is an intimate of hers, and loves and
admires her, that it did not seem a good sign that she breaks with her
friends. He said it was not so with her early friends; that she has
chosen to buy a chateau in the region where she passed her childhood,
and that the people there love and have always loved her dearly. She
is now at the chateau, and, I begin to fear, will not come to town
before I go. Since I came, I have read two charming stories recently
written by her. Another longer one she has just sold to _La Presse_
for fifteen thousand francs. She does not receive nearly as much
for her writings as Balzac, Dumas, or Sue. She has a much greater
influence than they, but a less circulation.
She stays at the chateau, because the poor people there were suffering
so much, and she could help them. She has subscribed _twenty thousand
francs_ for their relief, in the scarcity of the winter. It is a great
deal to earn by one's pen: a novel of several volumes sold for only
fifteen thousand francs, as I mentioned before. * * *
At last, however, she came; and I went to see her at her house,
Place d'Orleans. I found it a handsome modern residence. She had not
answered my letter, written about a week before, and I felt a little
anxious lest she should not receive me; for she is too much the mark
of impertinent curiosity, as well as too busy, to be easily accessible
to strangers. I am by no means timid, but I have suffered, for the
first time in France, some of the torments of _mauvaise honte_, enough
to see what they must be to many.
It is the custom to go and call on those to whom you bring letters,
and push yourself upon their notice; thus you must go quite ignorant
whether they are disposed to be cordial. My name is always murdered
by the foreign servants who announce me. I speak very bad French;
only lately have I had sufficient command of it to infuse some of my
natural spirit in my discourse. This has been a great trial to me,
who am eloquent and free in my own tongue, to be forced to feel my
thoughts struggling in vain for utterance.
The servant who admitted me was in the picturesque costume of a
peasant, and, as Madame Sand afterward told me, her god-daughter,
whom she had brought from her province. She announced me as "_Madame
Salere,_" and returned into the ante-room to tell me. "_Madame says
she does not know you_" I began to think I was doomed to a rebuff,
among the crowd who deserve it. However, to make assurance sure, I
said, "Ask if she has not received a letter from me." As I spoke,
Madame S. opened the door, and stood looking at me an instant. Our
eyes met. I never shall forget her look at that moment. The doorway
made a frame for her figure; she is large, but well-formed. She was
dressed in a robe of dark violet silk, with a black mantle on her
shoulders, her beautiful hair dressed with the greatest taste, her
whole appearance and attitude, in its simple and lady-like dignity,
presenting an almost ludicrous contrast to the vulgar caricature idea
of George Sand. Her face is a very little like the portraits, but
much finer; the upper part of the forehead and eyes are beautiful,
the lower, strong and masculine, expressive of a hardy temperament and
strong passions, but not in the least coarse; the complexion olive,
and the air of the whole head Spanish, (as, indeed, she was born at
Madrid, and is only on one side of French blood.) All these details
I saw at a glance; but what fixed my attention was the expression of
_goodness_, nobleness, and power, that pervaded the whole,--the truly
human heart and nature that shone in the eyes. As our eyes met, she
said, "_C'est vous_" and held out her hand. I took it, and went into
her little study; we sat down a moment, then I said, "_Il me fait de
bien de vous voir_" and I am sure I said it with my whole heart, for
it made me very happy to see such a woman, so large and so developed
a character, and everything that _is_ good in it so _really_ good. I
loved, shall always love her.
She looked away, and said, "_Ah! vous m'avez écrit une lettre
charmante_" This was all the preliminary of our talk, which then went
on as if we had always known one another. She told me, before I went
away, that she was going that very day to write to me; that when
the servant announced me she did not recognize the name, but after
a minute it struck her that it might be _La dame Americaine,_ as
the foreigners very commonly call me, for they find my name hard
to remember. She was very much pressed for time, as she was then
preparing copy for the printer, and, having just returned, there were
many applications to see her, but she wanted me to stay then, saying,
"It is better to throw things aside, and seize the present moment." I
staid a good part of the day, and was very glad afterwards, for I did
not see her again uninterrupted. Another day I was there, and saw
her in her circle. Her daughter and another lady were present, and a
number of gentlemen. Her position there was of an intellectual woman
and good friend,--the same as my own in the circle of my acquaintance
as distinguished from my intimates. Her daughter is just about to
be married. It is said, there is no congeniality between her and her
mother; but for her son she seems to have much love, and he loves and
admires her extremely. I understand he has a good and free character,
without conspicuous talent.
Her way of talking is just like her writing,--lively, picturesque,
with an undertone of deep feeling, and the same skill in striking the
nail on the head every now and then with a blow.
We did not talk at all of personal or private matters. I saw, as one
sees in her writings, the want of an independent, interior life, but
I did not feel it as a fault, there is so much in her of her kind.
I heartily enjoyed the sense of so rich, so prolific, so ardent a
genius. I liked the woman in her, too, very much; I never liked a
woman better.
For the rest I do not care to write about it much, for I cannot, in
the room and time I have to spend, express my thoughts as I would; but
as near as I can express the sum total, it is this. S---- and others
who admire her, are anxious to make a fancy picture of her, and
represent her as a Helena (in the Seven Chords of the Lyre); all whose
mistakes are the fault of the present state of society. But to me the
truth seems to be this. She has that purity in her soul, for she
knows well how to love and prize its beauty; but she herself is
quite another sort of person. She needs no defence, but only to be
understood, for she has bravely acted out her nature, and always with
good intentions. She might have loved one man permanently, if she
could have found one contemporary with her who could interest and
command her throughout her range; but there was hardly a possibility
of that, for such a person. Thus she has naturally changed the
objects of her affection, and several times. Also, there may have been
something of the Bacchante in her life, and of the love of night and
storm, and the free raptures amid which roamed on the mountain-tops
the followers of Cybele, the great goddess, the great mother. But she
was never coarse, never gross, and I am sure her generous heart has
not failed to draw some rich drops from every kind of wine-press. When
she has done with an intimacy, she likes to break it off suddenly, and
this has happened often, both with men and women. Many calumnies upon
her are traceable to this cause.
I forgot to mention, that, while talking, she _does_ smoke all the
time her little cigarette. This is now a common practice among ladies
abroad, but I believe originated with her.
For the rest, she holds her place in the literary and social world
of France like a man, and seems full of energy and courage in it. I
suppose she has suffered much, but she has also enjoyed and done much,
and her expression is one of calmness and happiness. I was sorry to
see her _exploitant_ her talent so carelessly. She does too much, and
this cannot last forever; but "Teverino" and the "Mare au Diable,"
which she has lately published, are as original, as masterly in truth,
and as free in invention, as anything she has done.
Afterwards I saw Chopin, not with her, although he lives with her, and
has for the last twelve years. I went to see him in his room with one
of his friends. He is always ill, and as frail as a snow-drop, but an
exquisite genius. He played to me, and I liked his talking scarcely
less. Madame S. loved Liszt before him; she has thus been intimate
with the two opposite sides of the musical world. Mickiewicz says,
"Chopin talks with spirit, and gives us the Ariel view of the
universe. Liszt is the eloquent _tribune_ to the world of men, a
little vulgar and showy certainly, but I like the tribune best." It is
said here, that Madame S. has long had only a friendship for Chopin,
who, perhaps, on his side prefers to be a lover, and a jealous lover;
but she does not leave him, because he needs her care so much, when
sick and suffering. About all this, I do not know; you cannot know
much about anything in France, except what you see with your two eyes.
Lying is ingrained in "_la grande nation_" as they so plainly show no
less in literature than life.