GEORGE SAND
Some Aspects of Her Life and Writings
by Rene Doumic
Translated by Alys Hallard
First published in 1910. This volume is dedicated to Madame L. Landouzy
with gratitude and affection
This book is not intended as a study of George Sand. It is merely a
series of chapters touching on various aspects of her life and writings.
My work will not be lost if the perusal of these pages should inspire
one of the historians of our literature with the idea of devoting to the
great novelist, to her genius and her influence, a work of this kind.
CONTENTS
I AURORE DUPIN
II BARONNE DUDEVANT
III A FEMINIST OF 1832
IV THE ROMANTIC ESCAPADE
V THE FRIEND OF MICHEL (DE BOURGES)
VI A CASE OF MATERNAL AFFECTION IN LOVE
VII THE HUMANITARIAN DREAM
VIII 1848
IX THE 'BONNE DAME' OF NOHANT
X THE GENIUS OF THE WRITER
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
GEORGE SAND (From a photogravure by N. Desmardyl, after a Painting
by A. Charpentier)
GEORGE SAND (From an engraving by L. Calamatia)
JULES SANDEAU (From an etching by M. Desboutins)
ALFRED DE MUSSET (From a lithograph)
FACSIMILE OF AN AUTOGRAPH LETTER OF GEORGE SAND (Written from
Venice to Hipp. Chatiron)
GEORGE SAND (From a lithograph)
F. CHOPIN (From a photograph)
PIERRE LEROUX (From a lithograph by A. Collette)
GEORGE SAND (From a lithograph)
GEORGE SAND
I
AURORE DUPIN
PSYCHOLOGY OF A DAUGHTER OF ROUSSEAU
In the whole of French literary history, there is, perhaps, no subject
of such inexhaustible and modern interest as that of George Sand. Of
what use is literary history? It is not only a kind of museum, in which
a few masterpieces are preserved for the pleasure of beholders. It is
this certainly, but it is still more than this. Fine books are, before
anything else, living works. They not only have lived, but they continue
to live. They live within us, underneath those ideas which form our
conscience and those sentiments which inspire our actions. There is
nothing of greater importance for any society than to make an inventory
of the ideas and the sentiments which are composing its moral atmosphere
every instant that it exists. For every individual this work is the very
condition of his dignity. The question is, should we have these ideas
and these sentiments, if, in the times before us, there had not been
some exceptional individuals who seized them, as it were, in the air and
made them viable and durable? These exceptional individuals were capable
of thinking more vigorously, of feeling more deeply, and of expressing
themselves more forcibly than we are. They bequeathed these ideas
and sentiments to us. Literary history is, then, above and beyond all
things, the perpetual examination of the conscience of humanity.
There is no need for me to repeat what every one knows, the fact that
our epoch is extremely complex, agitated and disturbed. In the midst of
this labyrinth in which we are feeling our way with such difficulty, who
does not look back regretfully to the days when life was more simple,
when it was possible to walk towards a goal, mysterious and unknown
though it might be, by straight paths and royal routes?
George Sand wrote for nearly half a century. For fifty times three
hundred and sixty-five days, she never let a day pass by without
covering more pages than other writers in a month. Her first books
shocked people, her early opinions were greeted with storms. From that
time forth she rushed head-long into everything new, she welcomed
every chimera and passed it on to us with more force and passion in it.
Vibrating with every breath, electrified by every storm, she looked up
at every cloud behind which she fancied she saw a star shining. The work
of another novelist has been called a repertory of human documents. But
what a repertory of ideas her work was! She has said what she had to say
on nearly every subject; on love, the family, social institutions and on
the various forms of government. And with all this she was a woman.
Her case is almost unique in the history of letters. It is intensely
interesting to study the influence of this woman of genius on the
evolution of modern thought.
I shall endeavour to approach my subject conscientiously and with all
due respect. I shall study biography where it is indispensable for the
complete understanding of works. I shall give a sketch of the original
individuals I meet on my path, portraying these only at their point
of contact with the life of our authoress, and it seems to me that
a gallery in which we see Sandeau, Sainte-Beuve, Musset, Michel (of
Bourges), Liszt, Chopin, Lamennais, Pierre Leroux, Dumas _fils_,
Flaubert and many, many others is an incomparable portrait gallery. I
shall not attack persons, but I shall discuss ideas and, when necessary,
dispute them energetically. We shall, I hope, during our voyage, see
many perspectives open out before us.
I have, of course, made use of all the works devoted to George Sand
which were of any value for my study, and among others of the two
volumes published, under the name of Wladimir Karenine,(1) by a woman
belonging to Russian aristocratic society. For the period before
1840, this is the most complete work that has been written. M. Samuel
Rocheblave, a clever University professor and the man who knows more
than any one about the life and works of George Sand, has been my guide
and has helped me greatly with his wise advice. Private collections
of documents have also been placed at my service most generously. I am
therefore able to supply some hitherto unpublished writings. George Sand
published, in all, about a hundred volumes of novels and stories, four
volumes of autobiography, and six of correspondence. In spite of all
this we are still asked for fresh documents.
(1) WLADIMIR KARENINE: _George Sand, Sa vie et ses
oeuvres._ 2 Vols. Ollendorf.
It is interesting, as a preliminary study, to note the natural gifts,
and the first impressions of Aurore Dupin as a child and young girl, and
to see how these predetermined the woman and the writer known to us as
George Sand.
Lucile-Amandine-Aurore Dupin, legitimate daughter of Maurice Dupin and
of Sophie-Victoire Delaborde, was born in Paris, at 15 Rue Meslay, in
the neighbourhood of the Temple, on the 1st of July, 1804. I would call
attention at once to the special phenomenon which explains the problem
of her destiny: I mean by this her heredity, or rather the radical and
violent contrast of her maternal and paternal heredity.
By her father she was an aristocrat and related to the reigning houses.
Her ancestor was the King of Poland, Augustus II, the lover of the
beautiful Countess Aurora von Koenigsmarck. George Sand's grandfather
was Maurice de Saxe. He may have been an adventurer and a _condottiere_,
but France owes to him Fontenoy, that brilliant page of her history.
All this takes us back to the eighteenth century with its brilliant,
gallant, frivolous, artistic and profligate episodes. Maurice de Saxe
adored the theatre, either for itself or for the sake of the women
connected with it. On his campaign, he took with him a theatrical
company which gave a representation the evening before a battle. In this
company was a young artiste named Mlle. de Verrieres whose father was
a certain M. Rinteau. Maurice de Saxe admired the young actress and a
daughter was born of this _liaison_, who was later on recognized by
her father and named Marie-Aurore de Saxe. This was George Sand's
grandmother. At the age of fifteen the young girl married Comte de Horn,
a bastard son of Louis XV. This husband was obliging enough to his wife,
who was only his wife in name, to die as soon as possible. She then
returned to her mother "the Opera lady." An elderly nobleman, Dupin de
Francueil, who had been the lover of the other Mlle. Verrieres, now
fell in love with her and married her. Their son, Maurice Dupin, was
the father of our novelist. The astonishing part of this series
of adventures is that Marie-Aurore should have been the eminently
respectable woman that she was. On her mother's side, though, Aurore
Dupin belonged to the people. She was the daughter of Sophie-Victoire
Delaborde milliner, the grandchild of a certain bird-seller on the
Quai des Oiseaux, who used to keep a public-house, and she was the
great-granddaughter of Mere Cloquart.
This double heredity was personified in the two women who shared George
Sand's childish affection. We must therefore study the portraits of
these two women.
The grandmother was, if not a typical _grande dame_, at least a typical
elegant woman of the latter half of the eighteenth century. She was very
well educated and refined, thanks to living with the two sisters, Mlles.
Verrieres, who were accustomed to the best society. She was a good
musician and sang delightfully. When she married Dupin de Francueil, her
husband was sixty-two, just double her age. But, as she used to say
to her granddaughter, "no one was ever old in those days. It was the
Revolution that brought old age into the world."
Dupin was a very agreeable man. When younger he had been _too_
agreeable, but now he was just sufficiently so to make his wife very
happy. He was very lavish in his expenditure and lived like a prince,
so that he left Marie-Aurore ruined and poor with about three thousand a
year. She was imbued with the ideas of the philosophers and an enemy of
the Queen's _coterie_. She was by no means alarmed at the Revolution and
was very soon taken prisoner. She was arrested on the 26th of November,
1793, and incarcerated in the _Couvent des Anglaises_, Rue des
Fosse's-Saint-Victor, which had been converted into a detention house.
On leaving prison she settled down at Nohant, an estate she had recently
bought. It was there that her granddaughter remembered her in her early
days. She describes her as tall, slender, fair and always very calm. At
Nohant she had only her maids and her books for company. When in Paris,
she delighted in the society of people of her own station and of her
time, people who had the ideas and airs of former days. She continued,
in this new century, the shades of thought and the manners and Customs
of the old _regime._
As a set-off to this woman of race and of culture, Aurore's mother
represented the ordinary type of the woman of the people. She was small,
dark, fiery and violent. She, too, the bird-seller's daughter, had been
imprisoned by the Revolution, and strangely enough in the _Couvent des
Anglaises_ at about the same time as Maurice de Saxe's granddaughter.
It was in this way that the fusion of classes was understood under the
Terror. She was employed as a _figurante_ in a small theatre. This was
merely a commencement for her career. At the time when Maurice Dupin met
her, she was the mistress of an old general. She already had one child
of doubtful parentage. Maurice Dupin, too, had a natural son, named
Hippolyte, so that they could not reproach each other. When Maurice
Dupin married Sophie-Victoire, a month before the birth of Aurore, he
had some difficulty in obtaining his mother's consent. She finally
gave in, as she was of an indulgent nature. It is possible that
Sophie-Victoire's conduct was irreproachable during her husband's
lifetime, but, after his death, she returned to her former ways. She was
nevertheless of religious habits and would not, upon any account, have
missed attending Mass. She was quick-tempered, jealous and noisy and,
when anything annoyed her, extremely hot-headed. At such times she would
shout and storm, so that the only way to silence her was to shout still
more loudly. She never bore any malice, though, and wished no harm
to those she had insulted. She was of course sentimental, but more
passionate than tender, and she quickly forgot those whom she had loved
most fondly. There seemed to be gaps in her memory and also in her
conscience. She was ignorant, knowing nothing either of literature or of
the usages of society. Her _salon_ was the landing of her flat and her
acquaintances were the neighbours who happened to live next door to her.
It is easy to imagine what she thought of the aristocrats who visited
her mother-in-law. She was amusing when she joked and made parodies
on the women she styled "the old Countesses." She had a great deal of
natural wit, a liveliness peculiar to the native of the faubourgs, all
the impudence of the street arab, and a veritable talent of mimicry.
She was a good housewife, active, industrious and most clever in turning
everything to account. With a mere nothing she could improvise a dress
or a hat and give it a certain style. She was always most skilful with
her fingers, a typical Parisian work-girl, a daughter of the street and
a child of the people. In our times she would be styled "a midinette."
Such are the two women who shared the affection of Aurore Dupin. Fate
had brought them together, but had made them so unlike that they were
bound to dislike each other. The childhood of little Aurore served as
the lists for their contentions. Their rivalry was the dominating note
in the sentimental education of the child.
As long as Maurice Dupin lived, Aurore was always with her parents in
their little Parisian dwelling. Maurice Dupin was a brilliant officer,
and very brave and jovial. In 1808, Aurore went to him in Madrid, where
he was Murat's _aide-de-camp_. She lived in the palace of the Prince
of Peace, that vast palace which Murat filled with the splendour of his
costumes and the groans caused by his suffering. Like Victor Hugo,
who went to the same place at about the same time and under similar
conditions, Aurore may have brought back with her:
_de ses courses lointaines_
_Comme un vaguefaisceau de lueurs incertaines._
This does not seem probable, though. The return was painful, as they
came back worried and ill, and were glad to take refuge at Nohant.
They were just beginning to organize their life when Maurice Dupin died
suddenly, from an accident when riding, leaving his mother and his wife
together.
From this time forth, Aurore was more often with her grandmother at
Nohant than with her mother in Paris. Her grandmother undertook the care
of her education. Her half-brother, Hippolyte Chatiron, and she received
lessons from M. Deschartres, who had educated Maurice Dupin. He was
steward and tutor combined, a very authoritative man, arrogant and a
great pedant. He was affectionate, though, and extremely devoted. He
was both detestable and touching at the same time, and had a warm heart
hidden under a rough exterior. Nohant was in the heart of Berry, and
this meant the country and Nature. For Aurore Dupin Nature proved to be
an incomparable educator.
There was only one marked trait in the child's character up to this
date, and that was a great tendency to reverie. For long hours she would
remain alone, motionless, gazing into space. People were anxious about
her when they saw her looking so _stupid_, but her mother invariably
said: "Do not be alarmed. She is always ruminating about something."
Country life, while providing her with fresh air and plenty of exercise,
so that her health was magnificent, gave fresh food and another turn to
her reveries. Ten years earlier Alphonse de Lamartine had been sent
to the country at Milly, and allowed to frequent the little peasant
children of the place. Aurore Dupin's existence was now very much the
same as that of Lamartine. Nohant is situated in the centre of the Black
Valley. The ground is dark and rich; there are narrow, shady paths. It
is not a hilly country, and there are wide, peaceful horizons. At all
hours of the day and at all seasons of the year, Aurore wandered along
the Berry roads with her little playfellows, the farmers' children.
There was Marie who tended the flock, Solange who collected leaves, and
Liset and Plaisir who minded the pigs. She always knew in what meadow or
in what place she would find them. She played with them amongst the hay,
climbed the trees and dabbled in the water. She minded the flock with
them, and in winter, when the herdsmen talked together, assembled round
their fire, she listened to their wonderful stories. These credulous
country children had "seen with their own eyes" Georgeon, the evil
spirit of the Black Valley. They had also seen will-o'-the-wisps,
ghosts, the "white greyhound" and the "Big Beast"! In the evenings, she
sat up listening to the stories told by the hemp-weaver. Her fresh
young soul was thus impregnated at an early age with the poetry of the
country. And it was all the poetry of the country, that which comes from
things, such as the freshness of the air and the perfume of the flowers,
but also that which is to be found in the simplicity of sentiments and
in that candour and surprise face to face with those sights of Nature
which have remained the same and have been just as incomprehensible ever
since the beginning of the world.
The antagonism of the two mothers increased, though. We will not go into
detail with regard to the various episodes, but will only consider the
consequences.
The first consequence was that the intelligence of the child became more
keen through this duality. Placed as she was, in these two different
worlds, between two persons with minds so unlike, and, obliged as she
was to go from one to the other, she learnt to understand and appreciate
them both, contrasts though they were. She had soon reckoned each of
them up, and she saw their weaknesses, their faults, their merits and
their advantages.
A second consequence was to increase her sensitiveness. Each time that
she left her mother, the separation was heartrending. When she was
absent from her, she suffered on account of this absence, and still more
because she fancied that she would be forgotten. She loved her mother,
just as she was, and the idea that any one was hostile or despised her
caused the child much silent suffering. It was as though she had an
ever-open wound.
Another consequence, and by no means the least important one, was to
determine in a certain sense the immense power of sympathy within her.
For a long time she only felt a sort of awe, when with her reserved and
ceremonious grandmother. She felt nearer to her mother, as there was
no need to be on ceremony with her. She took a dislike to all those who
represented authority, rules and the tyranny of custom. She considered
her mother and herself as oppressed individuals. A love for the people
sprang up in the heart of the daughter of Sophie-Victoire. She belonged
to them through her mother, and she was drawn to them now through the
humiliations she underwent. In this little enemy of reverences and of
society people, we see the dawn of that instinct which, later on, was to
cause her to revolt openly. George Sand was quite right in saying,
later on, that it was of no use seeking any intellectual reason as the
explanation of her social preferences. Everything in her was due to
sentiment. Her socialism was entirely the outcome of her suffering and
torments as a child.
Things had to come to a crisis, and the crisis was atrocious. George
Sand gives an account of the tragic scene in her _Histoire de ma vie_.
Her grandmother had already had one attack of paralysis. She was anxious
about Aurore's future, and wished to keep her from the influence of her
mother. She therefore decided to employ violent means to this end. She
sent for the child to her bedside, and, almost beside herself, in a
choking voice, she revealed to her all that she ought to have concealed.
She told her of Sophie-Victoire's past, she uttered the fatal word
and spoke of the child's mother as a lost woman. With Aurore's extreme
sensitiveness, it was horrible to receive such confidences at the age of
thirteen. Thirty years later, George Sand describes the anguish of the
terrible minute. "It was a nightmare," she says. "I felt choked, and it
was as though every word would kill me. The perspiration came out on my
face. I wanted to interrupt her, to get up and rush away. I did not want
to hear the frightful accusation. I could not move, though; I seemed to
be nailed on my knees, and my head seemed to be bowed down by that voice
that I heard above me, a voice which seemed to wither me like a storm
wind."
It seems extraordinary that a woman, who was in reality so kind-hearted
and so wise, should have allowed herself to be carried away like this.
Passion has these sudden and unexpected outbursts, and we see here a
most significant proof of the atmosphere of passion in which the child
had lived, and which gradually insinuated itself within her.
Under these circumstances, Aurore's departure for the convent was a
deliverance. Until just recently, there has always been a convent in
vogue in France in which it has been considered necessary for girls in
good society to be educated. In 1817, _the Couvent des Anglaises_ was in
vogue, the very convent which had served as a prison for the mother
and grandmother of Aurore. The three years she spent there in that "big
feminine family, where every one was as kind as God," she considered the
most peaceful and happy time of her life. The pages she devotes to them
in her _Histoire de ma vie_ have all the freshness of an oasis.
She describes most lovingly this little world, apart, exclusive and
self-sufficing, in which life was so intense.
The house consisted of a number of constructions, and was situated
in the neighbourhood given up to convents. There were courtyards and
gardens enough to make it seem like a small village. There was also
a labyrinth of passages above and underground, just as in one of
Anne Radcliffe's novels. There were old walls overgrown with vine and
jasmine. The cock could be heard at midnight, just as in the heart of
the country, and there was a bell with a silvery tone like a woman's
voice. From her little cell, Aurore looked over the tops of the great
chestnut trees on to Paris, so that the air so necessary for the lungs
of a child accustomed to wanderings in the country was not lacking
in her convent home. The pupils had divided themselves into three
categories: the _diables_, the good girls, who were the specially
pious ones, and the silly ones. Aurore took her place at once among
the _diables_. The great exploit of these convent girls consisted in
descending into the cellars, during recreation, and in sounding the
walls, in order to "deliver the victim." There was supposed to be an
unfortunate victim imprisoned and tortured by the good, kindhearted
Sisters. Alas! all the _diables_ sworn to the task in the _Couvent des
Anglaises_ never succeeded in finding the victim, so that she must be
there still.
Very soon, though, a sudden change-took place in Aurore's soul. It
would have been strange had it been otherwise. With so extraordinarily
sensitive an organization, the new and totally different surroundings
could not fail to make an impression. The cloister, the cemetery, the
long services, the words of the ritual, murmured in the dimly-lighted
chapel, and the piety that seems to hover in the air in houses where
many prayers have been offered up--all this acted on the young girl. One
evening in August, she had gone into the church, which was dimly lighted
by the sanctuary lamp. Through the open window came the perfume of
honeysuckle and the songs of the birds. There was a charm, a mystery
and a solemn calm about everything, such as she had never before
experienced. "I do not know what was taking place within me," she said,
when describing this, later on, "but I breathed an atmosphere that was
indescribably delicious, and I seemed to be breathing it in my very
soul. Suddenly, I felt a shock through all my being, a dizziness came
over me, and I seemed to be enveloped in a white light. I thought I
heard a voice murmuring in my ear: _'Tolle Lege.'_ I turned round, and
saw that I was quite alone. . . ."
Our modern _psychiatres_ would say that she had had an hallucination of
hearing, together with olfactory trouble. I prefer saying that she
had received the visit of grace. Tears of joy bathed her face and she
remained there, sobbing for a long time.
The convent had therefore opened to Aurore another world of sentiment,
that of Christian emotion. Her soul was naturally religious, and the
dryness of a philosophical education had not been sufficient for it. The
convent had now brought her the aliment for which she had instinctively
longed. Later on, when her faith, which had never been very enlightened,
left her, the sentiment remained. This religiosity, of Christian form,
was essential to George Sand.
The convent also rendered her another eminent service. In the _Histoire
de ma vie_, George Sand retraces from memory the portraits of several of
the Sisters. She tells us of Madame Marie-Xavier, and of her despair
at having taken the vows; of Sister Anne-Joseph, who was as kind as an
angel and as silly as a goose; of the gentle Marie-Alicia, whose
serene soul looked out of her blue eyes, a mirror of purity, and of the
mystical Sister Helene, who had left home in spite of her family, in
spite of the supplications and the sobs of her mother and sisters, and
who had passed over the body of a child on her way to God. It is like
this always. The costumes are the same, the hands are clasped in the
same manner, the white bands and the faces look equally pale, but
underneath this apparent uniformity what contrasts! It is the inner life
which marks the differences so vigorously, and shows up the originality
of each one. Aurore gradually discovered the diversity of all these
souls and the beauty of each one. She thought of becoming a nun, but
her confessor did not advise this, and he was certainly wise. Her
grandmother, who had a philosopher's opinion of priests, blamed their
fanaticism, and took her little granddaughter away from the convent.
Perhaps she felt the need of affection for the few months she had still
to live. At any rate, she certainly had this affection. One of the first
results of the larger perspicacity which Aurore had acquired at the
convent was to make her understand her grandmother at last. She was able
now to grasp the complex nature of her relative and to see the delicacy
hidden under an appearance of great reserve. She knew now all that
she owed to her grandmother, but unfortunately it was one of those
discoveries which are made too late.
The eighteen months which Aurore now passed at Nohant, until the death
of her grandmother, are very important as regards her psychological
biography. She was seventeen years old, and a girl who was eager to live
and very emotional. She had first been a child of Nature. Her convent
life had taken her away from Nature and accustomed her to falling back
on her own thoughts. Nature now took her back once more, and her beloved
Nohant feted her return.
"The trees were in flower," she says, "the nightingales were singing,
and, in the distance, I could hear the classic, solemn sound of the
labourers. My old friends, the big dogs, who had growled at me the
evening before, recognized me again and were profuse in their caresses.
. . ."
She wanted to see everything again. The things themselves had not
changed, but her way of looking at them now was different. During her
long, solitary walks every morning, she enjoyed seeing the various
landscapes, sometimes melancholy-looking and sometimes delightful. She
enjoyed, too, the picturesqueness of the various things she met, the
flocks of cattle, the birds taking their flight, and even the sound of
the horses' feet splashing in the water. She enjoyed everything, in
a kind of voluptuous reverie which was no longer instinctive, but
conscious and a trifle morbid.
Added to all this, her reading at this epoch was without any order or
method. She read everything voraciously, mixing all the philosophers
up together. She read Locke, Condillac, Montesquieu, Bossuet, Pascal,
Montaigne, but she kept Rousseau apart from the others. She devoured
the books of the moralists and poets, La Bruyere, Pope, Milton, Dante,
Virgil, Shakespeare. All this reading was too much for her and excited
her brain. She had reserved Chateaubriand's _Rene_, and, on reading
that, she was overcome by the sadness which emanates from these
distressing pages. She was disgusted with life, and attempted to commit
suicide. She tried to drown herself, and only owed her life to the
healthy-mindedness of the good mare Colette, as the horse evidently had
not the same reasons as its young mistress for wishing to put an end to
its days.
All this time Aurore was entirely free to please herself. Deschartres,
who had always treated her as a boy, encouraged her independence. It
was at his instigation that she dressed in masculine attire to go out
shooting. People began to talk about her "eccentricities" at Landerneau,
and the gossip continued as far as La Chatre. Added to this,
Aurore began to study osteology with a young man who lived in the
neighbourhood, and it was said that this young man, Stephane Ajasson de
Grandsaigne, gave her lessons in her own room. This was the climax.
We have a curious testimony as regards the state of the young girl's
mind at this epoch. A review, entitled _Le Voile de pourpre_, published
recently, in its first number, a letter from Aurore to her mother, dated
November 18, 1821. Her mother had evidently written to her on hearing
the gossip about her, and had probably enlarged upon it.
"You reproach me, mother, with neither having timidity, modesty,
nor charm," she writes, "or at least you suppose that I have these
qualities, but that I refrain from showing them, and you are quite
certain that I have no outward decency nor decorum. You ought to know me
before judging me in this way. You would then be able to form an opinion
about my conduct. Grandmother is here, and, ill though she is, she
watches over me carefully and lovingly, and she would not fail to
correct me if she considered that I had the manners of a dragoon or of a
hussar."
She considered that she had no need of any one to guide or protect her,
and no need of leading-strings.
"I am seventeen," she says, "and I know my way about."
If this Monsieur de Grandsaigne had ventured to take any liberty with
her, she was old enough to take care of herself.
Her mother had blamed her for learning Latin and osteology. "Why should
a woman be ignorant?" she asks. "Can she not be well educated without
this spoiling her and without being pedantic? Supposing that I should
have sons in the future, and that I had profited sufficiently by my
studies to be able to teach them, would not a mother's lessons be as
good as a tutor's?"
She was already challenging public opinion, starting a campaign against
false prejudices, showing a tendency to generalize, and to make the
cause of one woman the cause of all women.
We must now bear in mind the various traits we have discovered, one
after another, in Aurore's character. We must remember to what parentage
she owed her intellectuality and her sentimentality. It will then
be more easy to understand the terms she uses when describing her
fascination for Rousseau's writings.
"The language of Jean-Jacques and the form of his deductions impressed
me as music might have done when heard in brilliant sunshine. I compared
him to Mozart, and I understood everything."
She understood him, for she recognized herself in him. She sympathized
with that predominance of feeling and imagination, that exaggeration of
sentiment, that preference for life according to Nature, that emotion
on beholding the various sights of the country, that distrust of people,
those effusions of religious sentimentality, those solitary reveries,
and that melancholy which made death seem desirable to him. All this
was to Aurore Dupin the gospel according to Rousseau. The whole of her
psychology is to be found here.
She was an exceptional being undoubtedly; but in order to be a genial
exception one must have within oneself, and then personify with great
intensity all the inspirations which, at a certain moment, are dispersed
in the atmosphere. Ever since the great agitation which had shaken
the moral world by Rousseau's preaching, there had been various vague
currents and a whole crowd of confused aspirations floating about.
It was this enormous wave that entered a feminine soul. Unconsciously
Aurore Dupin welcomed the new ideal, and it was this ideal which was
to operate within her. The question was, what would she do with it,
in presence of life with all its everyday and social realities. This
question is the object of our study. In the solution of it lies the
interest, the drama and the lesson of George Sand's destiny.
II
BARONNE DUDEVANT MARRIAGE AND FREEDOM--THE ARRIVAL IN PARIS--JULES
SANDEAU
We must now endeavour to discover what the future George Sand's
experiences of marriage were, and the result of these experiences on the
formation of her ideas.
"You will lose your best friend in me," were the last words of the
grandmother to her granddaughter on her death-bed. The old lady spoke
truly, and Aurore was very soon to prove this. By a clause in her will,
Madame Dupin de Francueil left the guardianship of Aurore to a cousin,
Rene de Villeneuve. It was scarcely likely, though, that Sophie-Victoire
should consent to her own rights being frustrated by this illegal
clause, particularly as this man belonged to the world of the "old
Countesses." She took her daughter with her to Paris. Unfortunately for
her, Aurore's eyes were now open, and she was cultured enough to have
been in entire sympathy with her exquisite grandmother. It was no longer
possible for her to have the old passionate affection and indulgence for
her mother, especially as she felt that she had hitherto been deserted
by her. She saw her mother now just as she was, a light woman belonging
to the people, a woman who could not resign herself to growing old. If
only Sophie-Victoire had been of a tranquil disposition! She was most
restless, on the contrary, wanting to change her abode and change her
restaurant every day. She would quarrel with people one day, make it up
the next; wear a different-shaped hat every day, and change the colour
of her hair continually. She was always in a state of agitation. She
loved police news and thrilling stories; read the _Sherlock Holmes_ of
those days until the middle of the night. She dreamed of such stories,
and the following day went on living in an atmosphere of crime. When
she had an attack of indigestion, she always imagined that she had been
poisoned. When a visitor arrived, she thought it must be a burglar.
She was most sarcastic about Aurore's "fine education" and her literary
aspirations. Her hatred of the dead grandmother was as strong as ever.
She was constantly insulting her memory, and in her fits of anger said
unheard-of things. Aurore's silence was her only reply to these storms,
and this exasperated her mother. She declared that she would correct her
daughter's "sly ways." Aurore began to wonder with terror whether her
mother's mind were not beginning to give way. The situation finally
became intolerable.
Sophie-Victoire took her daughter to spend two or three days with some
friends of hers, and then left her there. They lived in the country at
Plessis-Picard, near Melun. Aurore was delighted to find a vast park
with thickets in which there were roebucks bounding about. She loved
the deep glades and the water with the green reflections of old willow
trees. Monsieur James Duplessis and his wife, Angele, were excellent
people, and they adopted Aurore for the time being. They already had
five daughters, so that one more did not make much difference. They
frequented a few families in the neighbourhood, and there was plenty of
gaiety among the young people. The Duplessis took Aurore sometimes to
Paris and to the theatre.
"One evening," we are told in the _Histoire de ma vie_, "we were having
some ices at Tortoni's after the theatre, when suddenly my mother Angele
said to her husband, 'Why, there's Casimir!' A young man, slender and
rather elegant, with a gay expression and a military look, came and
shook hands, and answered all the questions he was asked about his
father, Colonel Dudevant, who was evidently very much respected and
loved by the family."
This was the first meeting, the first appearance of Casimir in the
story, and this was how he entered into the life of Aurore.
He was invited to Plessis, he joined the young people good-humouredly in
their games, was friendly with Aurore, and, without posing as a suitor,
asked for her hand in marriage. There was no reason for her to refuse
him. He was twenty-seven years of age, had served two years in the army,
and had studied law in Paris. He was a natural son, of course, but he
had been recognized by his father, Colonel Dudevant. The Dudevant family
was greatly respected. They had a _chateau_ at Guillery in Gascony.
Casimir had been well brought up and had good manners. Aurore might as
well marry him as any other young man. It would even be preferable to
marry him rather than another young man. He was already her friend, and
he would then be her husband. That would not make much difference.
The marriage almost fell through, thanks to Sophie-Victoire. She did
not consider Casimir good-looking enough. She was not thinking of her
daughter, but of herself. She had made up her mind to have a handsome
son-in-law with whom she could go out. She liked handsome men, and
particularly military men. Finally she consented to the marriage, but, a
fortnight before the ceremony, she arrived at Plessis, like a veritable
thunderbolt. An extraordinary idea had occurred to her. She vowed that
she had discovered that Casimir had been a waiter at a _cafe_. She had
no doubt dreamt this, but she held to her text, and was indignant at the
idea of her daughter marrying a waiter! . . .
Things had arrived at this crisis when Casimir's mother, Madame
Dudevant, who had all the manners of a _grande dame_, decided to pay
Sophie-Victoire an official visit. The latter was greatly flattered,
for she liked plenty of attention paid to her. It was in this way that
Aurore Dupin became Baronne Dudevant.
She was just eighteen years of age. It is interesting to read her
description of herself at this time. In her _Voyage en Auvergne_, which
was her first writing, dated 1827, she traces the following portrait,
which certainly is not exaggerated.
"When I was sixteen," she says, "and left the convent, every one could
see that I was a pretty girl. I was fresh-looking, though dark. I was
like those wild flowers which grow without any art or culture, but with
gay, lively colouring. I had plenty of hair, which was almost black. On
looking at myself in the glass, though, I can truthfully say that I was
not very well pleased with myself. I was dark, my features were well
cut, but not finished. People said that it was the expression of my face
that made it interesting. I think this was true. I was gay but dreamy,
and my most natural expression was a meditative one. People said, too,
that in this absent-minded expression there was a fixed look which
resembled that of the serpent when fascinating his prey. That, at any
rate, was the far-fetched comparison of my provincial adorers."
They were not very far wrong, these provincial adorers. The portraits
of Aurore at this date show us a charming face of a young girl,
as fresh-looking as a child. She has rather long features, with a
delicately-shaped chin. She is not exactly pretty, but fascinating, with
those great dark eyes, which were her prominent feature, eyes which,
when fixed on any one, took complete possession of them--dreamy,
passionate eyes, sombre because the soul reflected in them had profound
depths.
It is difficult to define that soul, for it was so complex. To judge by
appearances, it was a very peaceful soul, and perhaps, too, it was in
reality peaceful. George Sand, who knew herself thoroughly, frequently
spoke of her laziness and of her apathy, traits peculiar to the natives
of Berry. Superficial observers looked no further, and her mother used
to call her "St. Tranquillity." The nuns, though, of her convent had
more perspicacity. They said, when speaking of her: "Still waters run
deep." Under the smooth surface they fancied that storms were gathering.
Aurore had within her something of her mother and of her grandmother,
and their opposite natures were blended in her. She had the calmness of
Marie-Aurore, but she also had the impetuousness of Sophie-Victoire,
and undoubtedly, too, something of the free and easy good humour of her
father, the break-neck young officer. It certainly is not surprising to
find a love of adventure in a descendant of Maurice de Saxe.
Beside all these inner contrasts, the observer was particularly struck
by her sudden changes of humour, by the way in which, after a fit of
melancholy sadness, she suddenly gave way to the most exuberant gaiety,
followed by long fits of depression and nervous exhaustion. Personally,
I do not believe much in the influence of the physical over the moral
nature, but I am fully convinced of the action of the moral over
the physical nature. In certain cases and in presence of extremely
accentuated conditions, physiological explanations must be taken into
account. All these fits of melancholy and weeping, this prostration,
these high spirits and the long walks, in order to sober down, denote
the exigencies of an abnormal temperament. When once the crisis was
passed, it must not be supposed that, as with many other people, nothing
remained of it all. This was by no means the case, as in a nature so
extraordinarily organized for storing up sensations nothing was lost,
nothing evaporated, and everything increased. The still water seemed
to be slumbering. Its violence, though held in check, was increasing in
force, and when once let loose, it would carry all before it.
Such was the woman whom Casimir Dudevant was to marry. The fascination
was great; the honour rather to be feared, for all depended on his skill
in guiding this powerful energy.
The question is whether he loved her. It has been said that it was a
marriage of interest, as Aurore's fortune amounted to twenty thousand
pounds, and he was by no means rich. This may have been so, but there is
no reason why money should destroy one's sentiments, and the fact that
Aurore had money was not likely to prevent Casimir from appreciating
the charms of a pretty girl. It seems, therefore, very probable that he
loved his young wife, at any rate as much as this Casimir was capable of
loving his wife.
The next question is whether she loved him. It has been said that she
did, simply because she declared that she did not. When, later on, after
her separation, she spoke of her marriage, all her later grievances were
probably in her mind. There are her earlier letters, though, which some
people consider a proof that she cared for Casimir, and there are also a
few words jotted down in her notebook. When her husband was absent, she
was anxious about him and feared that he had met with an accident.
It would be strange indeed if a girl of eighteen did not feel some
affection for the man who had been the first to make love to her, a man
whom she had married of her own free-will. It is rare for a woman to
feel no kind of attachment for her husband, but is that attachment love?
When a young wife complains of her husband, we hear in her reproaches
the protest of her offended dignity, of her humbled pride. When a woman
loves her husband, though, she does not reproach him, guilty though he
may be, with having humiliated and wounded her. What she has against him
then, is that he has broken her heart by his lack of love for her. This
note and this accent can never be mistaken, and never once do we find
it with Aurore. We may therefore conclude that she had never loved her
husband.
Casimir did not know how to win her affection. He did not even realize
that he needed to win it. He was very much like all men. The idea never
occurs to them that, when once they are married, they have to win their
wife.
He was very much like all men. . . . That is the most faithful portrait
that can be traced of Casimir at this epoch. He had not as yet the vices
which developed in him later on. He had nothing to distinguish him from
the average man. He was selfish, without being disagreeable, rather
idle, rather incapable, rather vain and rather foolish. He was just
an ordinary man. The wife he had married, though, was not an ordinary
woman. That was their misfortune. As Emile Faguet has very wittily put
it, "Monsieur Dudevant, about whom she complained so much, seems to have
had no other fault than that of being merely an ordinary man, which, of
course, is unendurable to a superior woman. The situation was perhaps
equally unendurable for the man." This is quite right, for Casimir was
very soon considerably disconcerted. He was incapable of understanding
her psychology, and, as it seemed impossible to him that a woman was
not his inferior, he came to the logical conclusion that his wife was
"idiotic." This was precisely his expression, and at every opportunity
he endeavoured to crush her by his own superiority. All this seems to
throw some light on his character and also on the situation. Here was
a man who had married the future George Sand, and he complained, in all
good faith, that his wife was "idiotic"!
Certainly, on comparing the _Correspondance_ with the _Histoire de ma
vie_, the difference of tone is most striking. The letters in
which Baronne Dudevant tells, day by day, of her home life are too
enthusiastic for the letters of an unhappy wife. There are receptions at
Nohant, lively dinners, singing and dancing. All this is, at any rate,
the surface, but gradually the misunderstandings are more pronounced,
and the gulf widens.
There may have been a misunderstanding at the very beginning of their
married life, and Aurore may have had a surprise of the nature of the
one to which Jane de Simerose confesses in _L'Ami des femmes_. In an
unpublished letter written much later on, in the year 1843, from George
Sand to her half-brother Hippolyte Chatiron on the occasion of his
daughter's engagement, the following lines occur: "See that your
son-in-law is not brutal to your daughter the first night of their
marriage. . . . Men have no idea that this amusement of theirs is a
martyrdom for us. Tell him to sacrifice his own pleasure a little, and
to wait until he has taught his wife gradually to understand things
and to be willing. There is nothing so frightful as the horror, the
suffering and the disgust of a poor girl who knows nothing and who is
suddenly violated by a brute. We bring girls up as much as possible like
saints, and then we hand them over like fillies. If your son-in-law
is an intelligent man and if he really loves your daughter, he will
understand his _role_, and will not take it amiss that you should speak
to him beforehand."(2)
(2) Communicated by M. S. Rocheblave.
Is George Sand recalling here any hidden and painful memories? Casimir
had, at bottom, a certain brutality, which, later on, was very evident.
The question is whether he had shown proofs of it at a time when it
would have been wiser to have refrained.
However that may be, the fundamental disagreement of their natures was
not long in making itself felt between the husband and wife. He was
matter-of-fact, and she was romantic; he only believed in facts, and
she in ideas; he was of the earth, earthy, whilst she aspired to the
impossible. They had nothing to say to each other, and when two people
have nothing to say, and love does not fill up the silences, what
torture the daily _tete-a-tete_ must be. Before they had been married
two years, they were bored to death. They blamed Nohant, but the fault
was in themselves. Nohant seemed unbearable to them, simply because they
were there alone with each other. They went to Plessis, perhaps in the
hope that the remembrance of the days of their engagement might have
some effect on them. It was there, in 1824, that the famous scene of the
blow took place. They were playing at a regular children's game in the
park, and throwing sand at each other. Casimir lost his patience and
struck his wife. It was certainly impolite, but Aurore did not appear
to have been very indignant with her husband at the time. Her grievances
were quite of another kind, less tangible and much more deeply felt.