this work. He helped her to take the play from her novel, and to write
the scenario. After this, when once the play was written, he touched
up the dialogue, putting in more emphasis and brilliancy. It was Dumas,
therefore, who constructed the play. We all know how careless George
Sand was with her composition. She wrote with scarcely any plan in her
mind beforehand, and let herself be carried away by events. Dumas'
idea was that the _denouement_ is a mathematical total, and that before
writing the first word of a piece the author must know the end and have
decided the action. Theatrical managers complained of the sadness of
George Sand's plays. It is to Dumas that we owe the gaiety of the Duc
d'Aleria's _role_. It is one continual flow of amusing speeches, and it
saves the piece from the danger of falling into tearful drama. George
Sand had no wit, and Dumas _fils_ was full of it. It was he who put into
the dialogue those little sayings which are so easily recognized as his.
"What do the doctors say?" is asked, and the reply comes:
"What do the doctors say? Well, they say just what they know: they say
nothing."
"My brother declares that the air of Paris is the only air he can
breathe," says another character.
"Congratulate him for me on his lungs," remarks his interlocutor.
"Her husband was a baron . . ." remarks some one.
"Who is not a baron at present?" answers another person.
A certain elderly governess is being discussed.
"Did you not know her?"
"Mademoiselle Artemise? No, monsieur."
"Have you ever seen an albatross?"
"No, never."
"Not even stuffed? Oh, you should go to the Zoo. It is a curious
creature, with its great beak ending in a hook. . . . It eats all day
long. . . . Well, Mademoiselle Artemise, etc. . . ."
The _Marquis de Villemer_ is in its place in the series of George Sand's
plays, and is quite in accordance with the general tone of her theatre.
It is like the _Mariage de Victorine_ over again. This time Victorine is
a reader, who gets herself married by a Marquis named Urbain. He is of a
gloomy disposition, so that she will not enjoy his society much, but she
will be a Marquise. Victorine and Caroline are both persons who know how
to make their way in the world. When they have a son, I should be very
much surprised if they allowed him to make a _mesalliance_.
George Sand was one of the persons f or whom Dumas _fils_ had the
greatest admiration. As a proof of this, a voluminous correspondence
between them exists. It has not yet been published, but there is a
possibility that it may be some day. I remember, when talking with Dumas
_fils_, the terms in which he always spoke of "la mere Sand," as he
called her in a familiar but filial way. He compared her to his father,
and that was great praise indeed from him. He admired in her, too, as
he admired in his father, that wealth of creative power and immense
capacity for uninterrupted work. As a proof of this admiration, we have
only to turn to the preface to _Le Fils naturel_, in which Dumas is so
furious with the inhabitants of Palaiseau. George Sand had taken up her
abode at Palaiseau, and Dumas had been trying in vain to discover her
address in the district, when he came across one of the natives, who
replied as follows: "George Sand? Wait a minute. Isn't it a lady with
papers?" "So much for the glory," concludes Dumas, "of those of us with
papers." According to him, no woman had ever had more talent or as much
genius. "She thinks like Montaigne," he says, "she dreams like Ossian
and she writes like Jean-Jacques. Leonardo sketches her phrases for her,
and Mozart sings them. Madame de Sevigne kisses her hands, and Madame de
Stael kneels down to her as she passes." We can scarcely imagine Madame
de Stael in this humble posture, but one of the charms of Dumas was his
generous nature, which spared no praise and was lavish in enthusiasm.
At the epoch at which we have now arrived, George Sand had commenced
that period of tranquillity and calm in which she was to spend the rest
of her life. She had given up politics, for, as we have seen, she was
quickly undeceived with regard to them, and cured of her illusions. When
the _coup d'etat_ of December, 1851, took place, George Sand, who had
been Ledru-Rollin's collaborator and a friend of Barbes, soon made up
her mind what to do. As the daughter of Murat's _aide-de-camp_, she
naturally had a certain sympathy with the Bonapartists. Napoleon III was
a socialist, so that it was possible to come to an understanding. When
the prince had been a prisoner at Ham, he had sent the novelist his
study entitled _L'Extinction du pauperisme_. George Sand took advantage
of her former intercourse with him to beg for his indulgrence in favour
of some of her friends. This time she was in her proper _role_, the
_role_ of a woman. The "tyrant" granted the favours she asked, and
George Sand then came to the conclusion that he was a good sort of
tyrant. She was accused of treason, but she nevertheless continued
to speak of him with gratitude. She remained on good terms with the
Imperial family, particularly with Prince Jerome, as she appreciated
his intellect. She used to talk with him on literary and philosophical
questions. She sent him two tapestry ottomans one year, which she had
worked for him. Her son Maurice went for a cruise to America on Prince
Jerome's yacht, and he was the godfather of George Sand's little
grandchildren who were baptized as Protestants.
George Sand deserves special mention for her science in the art of
growing old. It is not a science easy to master, and personally this is
one of my reasons for admiring her. She understood what a charm there is
in that time of life when the voice of the passions is no longer heard,
so that we can listen to the voice of things and examine the lesson
of life, that time when our reason makes us more indulgent, when the
sadness of earthly separations is softened by the thought that we shall
soon go ourselves to join those who have left us. We then begin to have
a foretaste of the calmness of that Great Sleep which is to console us
at the end of all our sufferings and grief. George Sand was fully aware
of the change that had taken place within her. She said, several
times over, that the age of impersonality had arrived for her. She was
delighted at having escaped from herself and at being free from egoism.
From henceforth she could give herself up to the sentiments which, in
pedantic and barbarous jargon, are called altruistic sentiments. By this
we mean motherly and grandmotherly affection, devotion to her family,
and enthusiasm for all that is beautiful and noble. She was delighted
when she was told of a generous deed, and charmed by a book in which she
discovered talent. It seemed to her as though she were in some way joint
author of it.
"My heart goes out to all that I see dawning or growing . . ." she
wrote, at this time. "When we see or read anything beautiful, does it
not seem as though it belongs to us in a way, that it is neither
yours nor mine, but that it belongs to all who drink from it and are
strengthened by it?"(50)
(50) _Correspondance:_ To Octave Feuillet, February 27, 1859.
This is a noble sentiment, and less rare than is generally believed.
The public little thinks that it is one of the great joys of the
writer, when he has reached a certain age, to admire the works of his
fellow-writers. George Sand encouraged her young _confreres_, Dumas
_fils_, Feuillet and Flaubert, at the beginning of their career, and
helped them with her advice.
We have plenty of information about her at this epoch. Her intimate
friends, inquisitive people and persons passing through Paris,
have described their visits to her over and over again. We have the
impressions noted down by the Goncourt brothers in their _Journal_. We
all know how much to trust to this diary. Whenever the Goncourts give
us an idea, an opinion, or a doctrine, it is as well to be wary in
accepting it. They were not very intelligent. I do not wish, in saying
this, to detract from them, but merely to define them. On the other
hand, what they saw, they saw thoroughly, and they noted the general
look, the attitude or gesture with great care.
We give their impressions of George Sand. In March, 1862, they went to
call on her. She was then living in Paris, in the Rue Racine. They give
an account of this visit in their diary.
"_March_ 30, 1862.
"On the fourth floor, No. 2, Rue Racine. A little gentleman, very
much like every one else, opened the door to us. He smiled, and said:
'Messieurs de Goncourt!' and then, opening another door, showed us into
a very large room, a kind of studio.
"There was a window at the far end, and the light was getting dim, for
it was about five o'clock. We could see a grey shadow against the pale
light. It was a woman, who did not attempt to rise, but who remained
impassive to our bow and our words. This seated shadow, looking so
drowsy, was Madame Sand, and the man who opened the door was the
engraver Manceau. Madame Sand is like an automatic machine. She talks in
a monotonous, mechanical voice which she neither raises nor lowers,
and which is never animated. In her whole attitude there is a sort of
gravity and placidness, something of the half-asleep air of a person
ruminating. She has very slow gestures, the gestures of a somnambulist.
With a mechanical movement she strikes a wax match, which gives a
flicker, and lights the cigar she is holding between her lips.
"Madame Sand was extremely pleasant; she praised us a great deal, but
with a childishness of ideas, a platitude of expression and a mournful
good-naturedness that was as chilling as the bare wall of a room.
Manceau endeavoured to enliven the dialogue. We talked of her theatre
at Nohant, where they act for her and for her maid until four in the
morning. . . . We then talked of her prodigious faculty for work. She
told us that there was nothing meritorious in that, as she had always
worked so easily. She writes every night from one o'clock until four in
the morning, and she writes again for about two hours during the day.
Manceau explains everything, rather like an exhibitor of phenomena. 'It
is all the same to her,' he told us, 'if she is disturbed. Suppose you
turn on a tap at your house, and some one comes in the room. You simply
turn the tap off. It is like that with Madame Sand.'"
The Goncourt brothers were extremely clever in detracting from the
merits of the people about whom they spoke. They tell us that George
Sand had "a childishness in her ideas and a platitude of expression."
They were unkind without endeavouring to be so. They ran down people
instinctively. They were eminently literary men. They were also artistic
writers, and had even invented "artistic writing," but they had very
little in common with George Sand's attitude of mind. To her the theory
of art for the sake of art had always seemed a very hollow theory. She
wrote as well as she could, but she never dreamed of the profession of
writing having anything in common with an acrobatic display.
In September, 1863, the Goncourt brothers again speak of George Sand,
telling us about her life at Nohant, or rather putting the account they
give into the mouth of Theophile Gautier. He had just returned from
Nohant, and he was asked if it was amusing at George Sand's.
"Just as amusing as a monastery of the Moravian brotherhood," he
replies. "I arrived there in the evening, and the house is a long way
from the station. My trunk was put into a thicket, and on arriving
I entered by the farm in the midst of all the dogs, which gave me a
fright. . . ."
As a matter of fact, Gautier's arrival at Nohant had been quite a
dramatic poem, half tragic and half comic. Absolute freedom was the rule
of Nohant. Every one there read, wrote, or went to sleep according
to his own will and pleasure. Gautier arrived in that frame of mind
peculiar to the Parisian of former days. He considered that he had given
a proof of heroism in venturing outside the walls of Paris. He therefore
expected a hearty welcome. He was very much annoyed at his reception,
and was about to start back again immediately, when George Sand was
informed of his arrival. She was extremely vexed at what had happened,
and exclaimed, "But had not any one told him how stupid I am!"
The Goncourt brothers asked Gautier what life at Nohant was like.
"Luncheon is at ten," he replied, "and when the finger was on the hour,
we all took our seats. Madame Sand arrived, looking like a somnambulist,
and remained half asleep all through the meal. After luncheon we went
into the garden and played at _cochonnet_. This roused her, and she
would then sit down and begin to talk."
It would have been more exact to say that she listened, as she was not
a great talker herself. She had a horror of a certain kind of
conversation, of that futile, paradoxical and spasmodic kind which is
the speciality of "brilliant talkers." Sparkling conversation of this
sort disconcerted her and made her feel ill at ease. She did not
like the topic to be the literary profession either. This exasperated
Gautier, who would not admit of there being anything else in the world
but literature.
"At three o'clock," he continued, "Madame Sand went away to write until
six. We then dined, but we had to dine quickly, so that Marie Caillot
would have time to dine. Marie Caillot is the servant, a sort of little
Fadette whom Madame Sand had discovered in the neighbourhood for playing
her pieces. This Marie Caillot used to come into the drawing-room in the
evening. After dinner Madame Sand would play patience, without uttering
a word, until midnight. . . . At midnight she began to write again until
four o'clock. . . . You know what happened once. Something monstrous.
She finished a novel at one o'clock in the morning, and began another
during the night. . . . To make copy is a function with Madame Sand."
The marionette theatre was one of the Nohant amusements. One of the joys
of the family, and also one of the delights of _dilettanti_,(51) was the
painting of the scenery, the manufacturing of costumes, the working out
of scenarios, dressing dolls and making them talk.
(51) "The individual named George Sand is very well. He is
enjoying the wonderful winter which reigns in Berry; he
gathers flowers, points out any interesting botanical
anomalies, sews dresses and mantles for his daughter-in-law,
and costumes for the marionettes, cuts out stage scenery,
dresses dolls and reads music. . .."--_Correspondance:_ To
Flaubert, January 17, 1869.
In one of her novels, published in 1857, George Sand introduces to us
a certain Christian Waldo, who has a marionette show. He explains
the attraction of this kind of theatre and the fascination of these
_burattini_, which were living beings to him. Those among us who, some
fifteen years ago, were infatuated by a similar show, are not surprised
at Waldo's words. The marionettes to which we refer were to be seen in
the Passage Vivienne. Sacred plays in verse were given, and the managers
were Monsieur Richepin and Monsieur Bouchor. For such plays we preferred
actors made of wood to actors of flesh and blood, as there is always a
certain desecration otherwise in acting such pieces.
George Sand rarely left Nohant now except for her little flat in Paris.
In the spring of 1855, she went to Rome for a short time, but did not
enjoy this visit much. She sums up her impressions in the following
words: "Rome is a regular see-saw." The ruins did not interest her much.
"After spending several days in visiting urns, tombs, crypts and
columns, one feels the need of getting out of all this a little and of
seeing Nature."
Nature, however, did not compensate her sufficiently for her
disappointment in the ruins.
"The Roman Campagna, which has been so much vaunted, is certainly
singularly immense, but it is so bare, flat and deserted, so monotonous
and sad, miles and miles of meadow-land in every direction, that the
little brain one has left, after seeing the city, is almost overpowered
by it all."
This journey inspired her with one of the weakest of her novels, _La
Daniella_. It is the diary of a painter named Jean Valreg, who married
a laundry-girl. In 1861, after an illness, she went to Tamaris, in the
south of France. This name is the title of one of her novels. She does
not care for this place either. She considers that there is too much
wind, too much dust, and that there are too many olive-trees in the
south of France.
I am convinced that at an earlier time in her life she would, have been
won over by the fascination of Rome. She had comprehended the charm of
Venice so admirably. At an earlier date, too, she would not have
been indifferent to the beauties of Provence, as she had delighted in
meridional Nature when in Majorca.
The years were over, though, for her to enjoy the variety of outside
shows with all their phantasmagoria. A time comes in life, and it had
already come for her, when we discover that Nature, which has seemed so
varied, is the same everywhere, that we have quite near us all that we
have been so far away to seek, a little of this earth, a little water
and a little sky. We find, too, that we have neither the time nor the
inclination to go away in search of all this when our hours are counted
and we feel the end near. The essential thing then is to reserve for
ourselves a little space for our meditations, between the agitations of
life and that moment which alone decides everything for us.
X
THE GENIUS OF THE WRITER
CORRESPONDENCE WITH FLAUBERT--LAST NOVELS
With that maternal instinct which was so strong within her, George Sand
could not do without having a child to scold, direct and take to task.
The one to whom she was to devote the last ten years of her life, who
needed her beneficent affection more than any of those she had adopted,
was a kind of giant with hair turned back from his forehead and a thick
moustache like a Norman of the heroic ages. He was just such a man as
we can imagine the pirates in Duc Rollo's boats. This descendant of the
Vikings had been born in times of peace, and his sole occupation was to
endeavour to form harmonious phrases by avoiding assonances.
I do not think there have been two individuals more different from each
other than George Sand and Gustave Flaubert. He was an artist, and she
in many respects was _bourgeoise_. He saw all things at their worst;
she saw them better than they were. Flaubert wrote to her in surprise
as follows: "In spite of your large sphinx eyes, you have seen the world
through gold colour."
She loved the lower classes; he thought them detestable, and qualified
universal suffrage as "a disgrace to the human mind." She preached
concord, the union of classes, whilst he gave his opinion as follows:
"I believe that the poor hate the rich, and that the rich are afraid of
the poor. It will be like this eternally."
It was always thus. On every subject the opinion of the one was sure to
be the direct opposite of the opinion of the other. This was just what
had attracted them.
"I should not be interested in myself," George Sand said, "if I had the
honour of meeting myself." She was interested in Flaubert, as she had
divined that he was her antithesis.
"The man who is Just passing," says Fantasio, "is charming. There are
all sorts of ideas in his mind which would be quite new to me."
George Sand wanted to know something of these ideas which were new to
her. She admired Flaubert on account of all sorts of qualities which
she did not possess herself. She liked him, too, as she felt that he was
unhappy.
She went to see him during the summer of 1866. They visited the historic
streets and old parts of Rouen together. She was both charmed and
surprised. She could not believe her eyes, as she had never imagined
that all that existed, and so near Paris, too. She stayed in that house
at Croisset in which Flaubert's whole life was spent. It was a house
with wide windows and a view over the Seine. The hoarse, monotonous
sound of the chain towing the heavy boats along could be heard
distinctly within the rooms. Flaubert lived there with his mother and
niece. To George Sand everything there seemed to breathe of tranquillity
and comfort, but at the same time she brought away with her an
impression of sadness. She attributed this to the vicinity of the Seine,
coming and going as it does according to the bar.
"The willows of the islets are always being covered and uncovered," she
writes; "it all looks very cold and sad."(52)
(52) _Correspondance:_ To Maurice Sand, August 10, 1866.
She was not really duped, though, by her own explanation. She knew
perfectly well that what makes a house sad or gay, warm or icy-cold is
not the outlook on to the surrounding country, but the soul of those who
inhabit it and who have fashioned it in their own image. She had just
been staying in the house of the misanthropist.
When Moliere put the misanthropist on the stage with his
wretched-looking face, he gave him some of the features which remind
us so strongly of Flaubert. The most ordinary and everyday events were
always enough to put Alceste into a rage. It was just the same with
Flaubert. Everyday things which we are philosophical enough to accept
took his breath away. He was angry, and he wanted to be angry. He was
irritated with every one and with everything, and he cultivated this
irritation. He kept himself in a continual state of exasperation,
and this was his normal state. In his letters he described himself as
"worried with life," "disgusted with everything," "always agitated and
always indignant." He spells _hhhindignant_ with several h's. He signs
his letters, "The Reverend Father Cruchard of the Barnabite Order,
director of the Ladies of Disenchantment." Added to all this, although
there may have been a certain amount of pose in his attitude, he was
sincere. He "roared" in his own study, when he was quite alone and
there was no one to be affected by his roaring. He was organized in a
remarkable way for suffering. He was both romantic and realistic, a keen
observer and an imaginative man. He borrowed some of the most pitiful
traits from reality, and recomposed them into a regular nightmare. We
agree with Flaubert that injustice and nonsense do exist in life. But he
gives us Nonsense itself, the seven-headed and ten-horned beast of the
Apocalypse. He sees this beast everywhere, it haunts him and blocks up
every avenue for him, so that he cannot see the sublime beauties of the
creation nor the splendour of human intelligence.
In reply to all his wild harangues, George Sand gives wise answers,
smiling as she gives them, and using her common sense with which to
protect herself against the trickery of words. What has he to complain
of, this grown-up child who is too naive and who expects too much? By
what extraordinary misfortune has he such an exceptionally unhappy lot?
He is fairly well off and he has great talent. How many people would
envy him! He complains of life, such as it is for every one, and of the
present conditions of life, which had never been better for any one at
any epoch. What is the use of getting irritated with life, since we do
not wish to die? Humanity seemed despicable to him, and he hated it.
Was he not a part of this humanity himself? Instead of cursing our
fellow-men for a whole crowd of imperfections inherent to their nature,
would it not be more just to pity them for such imperfections? As to
stupidity and nonsense, if he objected to them, it would be better to
pay no attention to them, instead of watching out for them all the time.
Beside all this, is there not more reason than we imagine for every one
of us to be indulgent towards the stupidity of other people?
"That poor stupidity of which we hear so much," exclaimed George Sand.
"I do not dislike it, as I look on it with maternal eyes." The human
race is absurd, undoubtedly, but we must own that we contribute
ourselves to this absurdity.
There is something morbid in Flaubert's case, and with equal clearness
of vision George Sand points out to him the cause of it and the remedy.
The morbidness is caused in the first place by his loneliness, and by
the fact that he has severed all bonds which united him to the rest
of the universe. Woe be to those who are alone! The remedy is the next
consideration. Is there not, somewhere in the world, a woman whom he
could love and who would make him suffer? Is there not a child somewhere
whose father he could imagine himself to be, and to whom he could devote
himself? Such is the law of life. Existence is intolerable to us as long
as we only ask for our own personal satisfaction, but it becomes dear to
us from the day when we make a present of it to another human being.
There was the same antagonism in their literary opinions. Flaubert
was an artist, the theorist of the doctrine of art for art, such
as Theophile Gautier, the Goncourt brothers and the Parnassians
comprehended it, at about the same epoch. It is singularly interesting
to hear him formulate each article of this doctrine, and to hear George
Sand's fervent protestations in reply. Flaubert considers that an author
should not put himself into his work, that he should not write his books
with his heart, and George Sand answers:
"I do not understand at all, then. Oh no, it is all incomprehensible to
me."