there, but evidently something which made a deep impression morally,
something very serious. A few years later, referring to this stay at
Ormesson, George Sand wrote to one of her friends: "You pass by a wall
and come to a house. . . . If you are allowed to enter you will find a
delightful English garden, at the bottom of which is a spring of water
hidden under a kind of grotto. It is all very stiff and uninteresting,
but it is very lonely. I spent several months there, and it was there
that I lost my health, my confidence in the future, my gaiety and my
happiness. It was there that I felt, and very deeply too, my first
approach of trouble. . . ."(3)
(3) Extract from the unpublished letters of George Sand to
Dr. Emile Regnault.
They left Ormesson for Paris, and Paris for Nohant, and after that, by
way of trying to shake off the dulness that was oppressing them, they
had recourse to the classical mode of diversion--a voyage.
They set off on the 5th of July, 1825, for that famous expedition to the
Pyrenees, which was to be so important a landmark in Aurore Dudevant's
history. On crossing the Pyrenees, the scenery, so new to her--or
rather the memory of which had been lying dormant in her mind since
her childhood--filled her with wild enthusiasm. This intense emotion
contributed to develop within her that sense of the picturesque which,
later on, was to add so considerably to her talent as a writer. She had
hitherto been living in the country of plains, the Ile-de-France and
Berry. The contrast made her realize all the beauties of nature, and,
on her return, she probably understood her own familiar scenery, and
enjoyed it all the more. She had hitherto appreciated it vaguely.
Lamartine learnt to love the severe scenery of Milly better on returning
to it after the softness of Italy.
The Pyrenees served, too, for Baronne Dudevant as the setting for an
episode which was unique in her sentimental life.
In the _Histoire de ma vie_ there is an enigmatical page in which George
Sand has intentionally measured and veiled every expression. She speaks
of her moral solitude, which, at that time, was profound and absolute,
and she adds: "It would have been mortal to a tender mind and to a girl
in the flower of her youth, if it had not been filled with a dream which
had taken the importance of a great passion, not in my life, as I had
sacrificed my life to duty, but in my thoughts. I was in continual
correspondence with an absent person to whom I told all my thoughts, all
my dreams, who knew all my humble virtues, and who heard all my platonic
enthusiasm. This person was excellent in reality, but I attributed to
him more than all the perfections possible to human nature. I only saw
this man for a few days, and sometimes only for a few hours, in the
course of a year. He was as romantic, in his intercourse with me, as I
was. Consequently he did not cause me any scruples, either of religion
or of conscience. This man was the stay and consolation of my exile,
as regards the world of reality." It was this dream, as intense as any
passion, that we must study here. We must make the acquaintance of this
excellent and romantic man.
Aurelien de Seze was a young magistrate, a few years older than Aurore.
He was twenty-six years of age and she was twenty-one. He was the
great-nephew of the counsel who pleaded for Louis XVI. There was,
therefore, in his family a tradition of moral nobility, and the young
man had inherited this. He had met Aurore at Bordeaux and again at
Cauterets. They had visited the grottoes of Lourdes together. Aurelien
had appreciated the young wife's charm, although she had not attempted
to attract his attention, as she was not coquettish. She appreciated in
him--all that was so lacking in Casimir--culture of mind, seriousness of
character, discreet manners which people took at first for coldness, and
a somewhat dignified elegance. He was scrupulously honest, a magistrate
of the old school, sure of his principles and master of himself. It was,
probably, just that which appealed to the young wife, who was a true
woman and who had always wished to be dominated. When they met again at
Breda, they had an explanation. This was the "violent grief" of which
George Sand speaks. She was consoled by a friend, Zoe Leroy, who found
a way of calming this stormy soul. She came through this crisis crushed
with emotion and fatigue, but calm and joyful. They had vowed to love
each other, but to remain without reproach, and their vow was faithfully
kept.
Aurore, therefore, had nothing with which to reproach herself, but with
her innate need of being frank, she considered it her duty to write a
letter to her husband, informing him of everything. This was the
famous letter of November 8, 1825. Later on, in 1836, when her case for
separation from her husband was being heard, a few fragments of it were
read by her husband's advocate with the idea of incriminating her. By
way of reply to this, George Sand's advocate read the entire letter in
all its eloquence and generosity. It was greeted by bursts of applause
from the audience.
All this is very satisfactory. It is exactly the situation of the
Princess of Cleves in Madame de Lafayette's novel. The Princess of
Cleves acknowledges to her husband the love she cannot help feeling for
Monsieur de Nemours, and asks for his help and advice as her natural
protector. This fine proceeding is usually admired, although it cost
the life of the Prince of Cleves, who died broken-hearted. Personally, I
admire it too, although at times I wonder whether we ought not rather
to see in it an unconscious suggestion of perversity. This confession of
love to the person who is being, as it were, robbed of that love, is in
itself a kind of secret pleasure. By speaking of the love, it becomes
more real, we bring it out to light instead of letting it die away in
those hidden depths within us, in which so many of the vague sentiments
which we have not cared to define, even to ourselves, die away. Many
women have preferred this more silent way, in which they alone have been
the sufferers. But such women are not the heroines of novels. No one has
appreciated their sacrifice, and they themselves could scarcely tell all
that it has cost them.
Aurelien de Seze had taken upon himself the _role_ of confidant to this
soul that he had allotted to himself. He took his _role_ very seriously,
as was his custom in all things. He became the young wife's director in
all matters of conscience. The letters which he wrote to her have
been preserved, and we know them by the extracts and the analysis that
Monsieur Rocheblave has given us and by his incisive commentaries of
them.(4) They are letters of guidance, spiritual letters. The laic
confessor endeavours, before all things, to calm the impatience of this
soul which is more and more ardent and more and more troubled every day.
He battles with her about her mania of philosophizing, her wish to sift
everything and to get to the bottom of everything. Strong in his own
calmness, he kept repeating to her in a hundred different ways the
words: "Be calm!" The advice was good; the only difficulty was the
following of the advice.
(4) "George Sand avant George Sand," by S. Rocheblave
(_Revue de Paris_, December 15, 1894).
Gradually the professor lost his hold on his pupil, for it seems as
though Aurore were the first to tire. Aurelien finally began to doubt
the efficacy of his preaching. The usual fate of sentiments outside
the common order of things is that they last the length of time that a
crisis of enthusiasm lasts. The best thing that can happen then is that
their nature should not change, that they should not deteriorate, as is
so often the case. When they remain intact to the end, they leave behind
them, in the soul, a trail of light, a trail of cold, pure light.
The decline of this platonic _liaison_ with Aurelien de Seze dates from
1828. Some grave events were taking place at Nohant about this time. For
the last few years Casimir had fallen into the vices of certain country
squires, or so-called gentlemen farmers. He had taken to drink, in
company with Hippolyte Chatiron, and it seems that the intoxication
peculiar to the natives of Berry takes a heavy and not a gay form. He
had also taken to other bad habits, away from home at first, and
later on under the conjugal roof. He was particularly partial to
the maid-servants, and, the day following the birth of her daughter,
Solange, Aurore had an unpleasant surprise with regard to her husband.
From that day forth, what had hitherto been only a vague wish on her
part became a fixed idea with her, and she began to form plans. A
certain incident served as a pretext. When putting some papers in order,
Aurore came upon her husband's will. It was a mere diatribe, in which
the future "deceased" gave utterance to all his past grievances against
his _idiotic_ wife. Her mind was made up irrevocably from this moment.
She would have her freedom again; she would go to Paris and spend three
months out of six there. She had a young tutor from the south of France,
named Boucoiran, educating her children. This Boucoiran needed to be
taken to task constantly, and Baronne Dudevant did not spare him.(5)
(5) An instance of her disposition for lecturing will be
seen in the following curious letter sent by George Sand to
her friend and neighbour, Adolphe Duplomb. This letter has
never been published before, and we owe our thanks for it to
Monsieur Charles Duplomb.
_Nohant, July_ 23,1830.
"Are you so very much afraid of me, my poor Hydrogene? You
expect a good lecture and you will not expect in vain. Have
patience, though. Before giving you the dressing you
deserve, I want to tell you that I have not forgotten you,
and that I was very vexed on returning from Paris, to find
my great simpleton of a son gone. I am so used to seeing
your solemn face that I quite miss it. You have a great many
faults, but after all, you are a good sort, and in time you
will get reasonable. Try to remember occasionally, my dear
Plombeus, that you have friends. If I were your only
friend, that would be a great deal, as I am to be depended
on, and am always at my post as a friend, although I may not
be very tender. I am not very polite either, as I speak the
truth plainly. That is my characteristic, though. I am a
firm friend nevertheless, and to be depended on. Do not
forget what I have said now, as I shall not often repeat
this. Remember, too, that happiness in this world depends
on the interest and esteem that we inspire. I do not say
this to every one, as it would be impossible, but just to a
certain number of friends. It is impossible to find one's
happiness entirely in one's self, without being an egoist,
and I do not think so badly of you that I imagine you to be
one. A man whom no one cares for is wretched, and the man
who has friends is afraid of grieving them by behaving
badly. As Polyte says, all this is for the sake of letting
you know that you must do your best to behave well, if you
want to prove to me that you are not ungrateful for my
interest in you. You ought to get rid of the bad habit of
boasting that you have adopted through frequenting young men
as foolish as yourself. Do whatever your position and your
health allow you to do, provided that you do not compromise
the honour or the reputation of any one else. I do not see
that a young man is called upon to be as chaste as a nun.
But keep your good or bad luck in your love affairs to
yourself. Silly talk is always repeated, and it may chance
to get to the ears of sensible people who will disapprove.
Try, too, not to make so many plans, but to carry out just
one or two of them. You know that is why I quarrel with you
always. I should like to see more constancy in you. You
tell Hippolyte that you are very willing and courageous. As
to physical courage, of the kind that consists in enduring
illness and in not fearing death, I dare say you have that,
but I doubt very much whether you have the courage necessary
for sustained work, unless you have very much altered.
Everything fresh delights you, but after a little time you
only see the inconveniences of your position. You will
scarcely find anything without something that is annoying
and troublesome, but if you cannot learn to put up with
things you will never be a man.
"This is the end of my sermon. I expect you have had enough
of it, especially as you are not accustomed to reading my
bad handwriting. I shall be glad to hear from you, but do
not consider your letter as a State affair, and do not
torment yourself to arrange well-turned phrases. I do not
care for such phrases at all. A letter is always good enough
when the writer expresses himself naturally, and says what
he thinks. Fine pages are all very well for the
schoolmaster, but I do not appreciate them at all. Promise
me to be reasonable, and to think of my sermons now and
then. That is all I ask. You may be very sure that if it
were not for my friendship for you I should not take the
trouble to lecture you. I should be afraid of annoying you
if it were not for that. As it is, I am sure that you are
not displeased to have my lectures, and that you understand
the feeling which dictates them.
"Adieu, my dear Adolphe. Write to me often and tell me
always about your affairs. Take care of yourself, and try
to keep well; but if you should feel ill come back to your
native place. There will always be milk and syrup for you,
and you know that I am not a bad nurse. Every one wishes to
be remembered to you, and I send you my holy blessing.
"AURORE D----"
She considered him idle, and reproached him with his lack of dignity and
with making himself too familiar with his inferiors. She could not admit
this familiarity, although she was certainly a friend of the people
and of the peasants. Between sympathy and familiarity there was a
distinction, and Aurore took care not to forget this. There was always
something of the _grande dame_ in her. Boucoiran was devoted, though,
and she counted on him for looking after her children, for keeping
her strictly _au courant_, and letting her know in case of illness.
Perfectly easy on this score, she could live in Paris on an income of
sixty pounds by adding to it what she could earn.
Casimir made no objections. All that happened later on in this
existence, which was from henceforth so stormy, happened with his
knowledge and with his consent. He was a poor sort of man.
Let us consider now, for a moment, Baronne Dudevant's impressions after
such a marriage. We will not speak of her sadness nor of her disgust. In
a union of this kind, how could the sacred and beneficial character
of marriage have appeared to her? A husband should be a companion.
She never knew the charm of true intimacy, nor the delight of thoughts
shared with another. A husband is the counsellor, the friend. When she
needed counsel, she was obliged to go elsewhere for it, and it was from
another man that guidance and encouragement came. A husband should be
the head and, I do not hesitate to say, the master. Life is a ceaseless
struggle, and the man who has taken upon himself the task of defending a
family from all the dangers which threaten its dissolution, from all the
enemies which prowl around it, can only succeed in his task of protector
if he be invested with just authority. Aurore had been treated brutally:
that is not the same thing as being dominated. The sensation which never
left her was that of an immense moral solitude. She could no longer
dream in the Nohant avenues, for the old trees had been lopped, and the
mystery chased away. She shut herself up in her grandmother's little
boudoir, adjoining her children's room, so that she could hear them
breathing, and whilst Casimir and Hippolyte were getting abominably
intoxicated, she sat there thinking things over, and gradually becoming
so irritated that she felt the rebellion within her gathering force. The
matrimonial bond was a heavy yoke to her. A Christian wife would
have submitted to it and accepted it, but the Christianity of Baronne
Dudevant was nothing but religiosity. The trials of life show up the
insufficiency of religious sentiment which is not accompanied by faith.
Marriage, without love, friendship, confidence and respect, was for
Aurore merely a prison. She endeavoured to escape from it, and when she
succeeded she uttered a sigh of relief at her deliverance.
Such, then, is the chapter of marriage in Baronne Dudevant's psychology.
It is a fine example of failure. The woman who had married badly now
remained an individual, instead of harmonizing and blending in a general
whole. This ill-assorted union merely accentuated and strengthened
George Sand's individualism.
Aurore Dudevant arrived in Paris the first week of the year 1831. The
woman who was rebellious to marriage was now in a city which had just
had a revolution.
The extraordinary effervescence of Paris in 1831 can readily be
imagined. There was tempest in the air, and this tempest was bound to
break out here or there, either immediately or in the near future, in an
insurrection. Every one was feverishly anxious to destroy everything, in
order to create all things anew. In everything, in art, ideas and even
in costume, there was the same explosion of indiscipline, the same
triumph of capriciousness. Every day some fresh system of government was
born, some new method of philosophy, an infallible receipt for bringing
about universal happiness, an unheard-of idea for manufacturing
masterpieces, some invention for dressing up and having a perpetual
carnival in the streets. The insurrection was permanent and masquerade
a normal state. Besides all this, there was a magnificent burst of youth
and genius. Victor Hugo, proud of having fought the battle of _Hernani_,
was then thinking of _Notre-Dame_ and climbing up to it. Musset had just
given his _Contes d'Espagne el d'Italie_. Stendhal had published _Le
Rouge et le Noir_, and Balzac _La Peau de Chagrin_. The painters of the
day were Delacroix and Delaroche. Paganini was about to give his
first concert at the Opera. Such was Paris in all its impatience and
impertinence, in its confusion and its splendour immediately after the
Revolution.
The young wife, who had snapped her bonds asunder, breathed voluptuously
in this atmosphere. She was like a provincial woman enjoying Paris to
the full. She belonged to the romantic school, and was imbued with the
principle that an artist must see everything, know everything, and have
experienced himself all that he puts into his books. She found a little
group of her friends from Berry in Paris, among others Felix Pyat,
Charles Duvernet, Alphonse Fleury, Sandeau and de Latouche. This was
the band she frequented, young men apprenticed either to literature,
the law, or medicine. With them she lived a student's life. In order to
facilitate her various evolutions, she adopted masculine dress. In her
_Histoite de ma vie_ she says: "Fashion helped me in my disguise, for
men were wearing long, square frock-coats styled a _la proprietaire_.
They came down to the heels, and fitted the figure so little that my
brother, when putting his on, said to me one day at Nohant: 'It is a
nice cut, isn't it? The tailor takes his measures from a sentry-box, and
the coat then fits a whole regiment.' I had 'a sentry-box coat' made, of
rough grey cloth, with trousers and waistcoat to match. With a grey
hat and a huge cravat of woollen material, I looked exactly like a
first-year student. . . ."
Dressed in this style, she explored the streets, museums, cathedrals,
libraries, painters' studios, clubs and theatres. She heard Frederick
Lemaitre one day, and the next day Malibran. One evening it was one of
Dumas' pieces, and the next night _Moise_ at the Opera. She took her
meals at a little restaurant, and she lived in an attic. She was not
even sure of being able to pay her tailor, so she had all the joys
possible. "Ah, how delightful, to live an artist's life! Our device is
liberty!" she wrote.(6) She lived in a perpetual state of delight,
and, in February, wrote to her son Maurice as follows: "Every one is at
loggerheads, we are crushed to death in the streets, the churches are
being destroyed, and we hear the drum being beaten all night."(7) In
March she wrote to Charles Duvernet: "Do you know that fine things are
happening here? It really is amusing to see. We are living just as gaily
among bayonets and riots as if everything were at peace. All this amuses
me."(8)
(6) _Correspondance_: To Boucoiran, March 4, 1831.
(7) _Ibid_. To Maurice Dudevant, February 15, 1831.
(8) _Ibid_. To Charles Duvernet, March 6, 1831.
She was amused at everything and she enjoyed everything. With her keen
sensitiveness, she revelled in the charm of Paris, and she thoroughly
appreciated its scenery.
"Paris," she wrote, "with its vaporous evenings, its pink clouds above
the roofs, and the beautiful willows of such a delicate green around
the bronze statue of our old Henry, and then, too, the dear little
slate-coloured pigeons that make their nests in the old masks of the
Pont Neuf . . ."(9)
(9) Unpublished letters of Dr. Emile Regnault.
She loved the Paris sky, so strange-looking, so rich in colouring, so
variable.(10)
(10) _Ibid_.
She became unjust with regard to Berry. "As for that part of the world
which I used to love so dearly and where I used to dream my dreams," she
wrote, "I was there at the age of fifteen, when I was very foolish, and
at the age of seventeen, when I was dreamy and disturbed in my mind. It
has lost its charm for me now."(11)
(11) _Ibid_.
She loved it again later on, certainly, but just at this time she was
over-excited with the joy of her newly-found liberty. It was that really
which made her so joyful and which intoxicated her. "I do not want
society, excitement, theatres, or dress; what I want is freedom,"
she wrote to her mother. In another letter she says: "I am absolutely
independent. I go to La Chatre, to Rome. I start out at ten o'clock or
at midnight. I please myself entirely in all this."(12)
(12) _Correspondance_: To her mother, May 31, 1831.
She was free, and she fancied she was happy. Her happiness at that epoch
meant Jules Sandeau.
In a letter, written in the humoristic style in which she delighted, she
gives us portraits of some of her comrades of that time. She tells us of
Duvernet, of Alphonse Fleury, surnamed "the Gaulois," and of Sandeau.
"Oh, fair-haired Charles!" she writes, "young man of melancholy
thoughts, with a character as gloomy as a stormy day. . . . And you,
gigantic Fleury, with your immense hands and your alarming beard. . . .
And you, dear Sandeau, agreeable and light, like the humming bird of
fragrant savannahs!"(13)
(13) _Correspondance_: December 1, 1830.
The "dear Sandeau, agreeable and light, like the humming bird of
fragrant savannahs," was to be Baronne Dudevant's Latin Quarter
_liaison_. Her biographers usually pass over this _liaison_ quickly,
as information about it was not forthcoming. Important documents exist,
though, in the form of fifty letters written by George Sand to Dr. Emile
Regnault, then a medical student and the intimate friend and confidant
of Jules Sandeau, who kept nothing back from him. His son, Dr. Paul
Regnault, has kindly allowed me to see this correspondence and to
reproduce some fragments of it. It is extremely curious, by turn lyrical
and playful, full of effusions, ideas, plans of work, impressions of
nature, and confidences about her love affairs. Taken altogether it
reflects, as nearly as possible, the state of the young woman's mind at
this time.