de Franceuil, was the son of an illegitimate daughter of Marshal Saxe.
His wife, Sophie Delaborde, was “a child of the people.” The death
of Captain Dupin, in 1808, left little Aurore “a bone of contention”
between her plebeian mother and her patrician grandmother. Most of her
youth was passed with the latter, at Nohant, in Berri. Her education
was irregularly carried on under an old tutor named Deschatres. At
thirteen, she was sent to the Convent des Anglaises, at Paris. Here a
strong religious enthusiasm took possession of her; and she desired to
become a nun. But, her grandmother having removed her from the convent,
her lonely study of the works of philosophers and metaphysicians
wrought a change, and she “became a Protestant without knowing it.” In
1821 the grandmother died. Aurore lived unhappily with her mother, a
woman of violent temper (to whom she was nevertheless deeply attached),
and this fact may have influenced her in accepting the hand of M.
Casimir Dudevant, to whom she was married in 1822. The disparity in age
was not great, M. Dudevant being twenty-seven; but the marriage proved
a most uncongenial one. In 1823, Aurore’s beloved son, Maurice, was
born; in 1828, her daughter, Solange. In 1831 she made an arrangement
with her husband by which she was free to spend every alternate three
months, in Paris, working with her pen. He allowed her 3,000 francs a
year. The education of the children was carefully provided for in their
compact. And now Aurore’s career really began. In 1832 she published,
under the pseudonym, “George Sand,” her first novel, _Indiana_. This
created a sensation and established her fame. It was followed during
her long life by _Valentine_, 1832,[3] _Lélia_, 1833, _Jacques_, 1834,
_Le Secrétaire intime_, 1834, _André_, 1835, _Leone Leoni_, 1835,
_Simon_, 1836, _Mauprat_, 1837, _La Dernière Aldini_, 1837, _Les
Maîtres Mosaïstes_, 1837, _Spiridion_, 1840, _Le Compagnon du Tour de
France_, 1840, _Horace_, 1842, _Consuelo_, 1842-1843, _La Comtesse de
Rudolstadt_, 1843-4, _Jeanne_, 1844, _Le Meunier d’ Angibault_, 1845,
_La Mare au Diable_, 1846, _La Péché d’ M. Antoine_, 1847, _Lucrezia
Floriani_, 1847, _La Petite Fadette_, 1849, _François le Champi_, 1850,
_Le Château des Désertes_, 1851, _Les Maîtres Sonneurs_, 1853, _Les
Beaux Messieurs de Bois Doré_, 1858, _Elle et Lui_, 1859, _L’ Homme de
Neige_, 1859, _Constance Verrier_, 1860, _Jean de la Roche_, 1860, _Le
Marquis de Villemer_, 1861, _Valvèdre_, 1861, _La Ville Noire_, 1861,
_Mlle. La Quintinie_, 1863, _La Confession d’ une Jeune Fille_, 1865,
_Cadio_, 1868, _Malgré tout_, 1870, _Pierre qui roule_, 1870, _Nanon_,
1872, _Contes d’ une Grand’ mère_, 1873, and numerous other novels and
tales; _Cosima_, 1840, _Claudie_, 1851, _Le Mariage de Victorine_,
1851, _Le Pressoir_, 1853, _Maître Favilla_, 1855, and other plays;
_Letters d’ un Voyageur_ (written 1834-6), _Un Hiver à Majorque_,
1842, _Histoire de ma Vie_, 1854-5, _Journal d’ un Voyageur pendant le
Siège_, 1872, _Impressions et Souvenirs_, 1873, and other records of
experience.
In 1836, M. and Mme. Dudevant finally separated, and the latter was
known henceforward as Mme. Sand. She had from this time full control
of her children, to whom she was devoted. Her intimacy with Alfred de
Musset, broken off after their journey to Italy, in 1834, is well known
and variously commented upon. Chopin was also her ardent admirer.
She took to the end a deep interest in public affairs. The last years
of her life were passed quietly at Nohant, where she died, June 8, 1876.
The brief remarks on George Sand, by Charlotte Brontë and Mrs.
Browning, have interest, as the words of sister authors who (as well as
George Eliot), are sometimes classed with her.
“The immense vibration of George Sand’s voice upon the ear of Europe,”
says Mr. Arnold, “will not soon die away. Her passions and her errors
have been abundantly talked of. She left them behind her, and men’s
memory of her will leave them behind also. There will remain of her to
mankind the sense of benefit and stimulus from the passage upon earth
of that large and frank nature, of that large and pure utterance....
There will remain an admiring and ever-widening report of that great
and ingenuous soul, simple, affectionate, without vanity, without
pedantry, human, equitable, patient, kind.”
* * * * *
[Sidenote: Reminiscences of her childhood.]
While I was yet very young, my mother commenced the cultivation of my
intellectual faculties; my mind was neither particularly sluggish nor
particularly active; left to itself it might have developed but slowly.
I was rather backward in talking, but having once begun to speak I
learned words very rapidly, and, when but four years old, I could read
fluently. I was brought up with my cousin Clotilde. Our respective
mothers taught us our prayers, and I recollect that I used to repeat
mine by heart without a mistake, and also without having any idea of
their meaning, except as regards the following words, which we were
made to repeat when our little heads were laid upon the same pillow:
“_Mon Dieu, je vous donne mon cœur!_” (My God, I give my heart to
Thee!) I do not know why I understood those words better than the rest,
for they are highly metaphysical; but certainly I did understand them,
and it was the only part of my prayers that conveyed to me any idea
either of God or myself....
My mother used to sing to me a rhyme on Christmas Eve; but as that only
occurred once a year, I do not recollect it. What I have not forgotten
is the absolute belief which I had in the descent down the chimney
of Old Father Christmas, a good old man with a snowy beard, who,
during the night, as the clock struck twelve, was to come and place
in my little shoe a present which I should find upon awaking. Twelve
o’clock at night! that mysterious hour unknown to children, and which
is represented to them as the impossible limit to which they can keep
awake! What incredible efforts did I not make to resist my tendency to
sleep before the appearance of the little old man! I felt anxious yet
afraid to see him! But I could never keep awake long enough, and the
following morning my first anxiety was to go and examine my shoe in the
fire-place. What emotion did I not feel at sight of the white paper
parcel! for Father Christmas was extremely clean in his ways, and never
failed to carefully wrap up his offering. I used to jump out of bed and
run barefooted to seize my treasure. It was never a very magnificent
affair, for we were not wealthy! It used to be a little cake, an
orange, or simply a nice rosy apple. But, nevertheless, it seemed so
precious to me that I scarcely dared to eat it.
GEORGE SAND: ‘_Histoire de ma Vie_,’ quoted by Raphaël Ledos de
Beaufort, in ‘Letters of George Sand.’
* * * * *
[Sidenote: Early education.]
[Sidenote: Imaginativeness.]
[Sidenote: Activity.]
There seems to have been little or no method about her early education.
The study of her own language was neglected, and the time spent less
profitably, she considered, in acquiring a smattering of Latin. She
took to some studies with avidity, while others remained wholly
distasteful to her. For mere head-work she cared little. Arithmetic
she detested; versification no less. The dry _technique_ in music was
a stumbling block of which she was impatient. History and literature
she enjoyed in whatever they offered that was romantic, heroic, or
poetically suggestive. In her Nohant surroundings there was nothing to
check, and much to stimulate, this dominant imaginative faculty....
Such a visionary life might have been most dangerous and mentally
enervating had her organization been less robust, and the tendency to
reverie not been matched by lively external perception and plentiful
physical activity. As it was, if at one moment she was in a cloud-land
of her own, or poring over the stories of the Iliad, the classic
mythologies, or Tasso’s _Gerusalemme_, the next would see her scouring
the fields, ... playing practical jokes on the tutor, and extemporizing
wild out-of-door games and dances with her village companions.
[Sidenote: A curious development.]
Of serious religious education she received none at all.... Her mother
was pious in a primitive way, though holding aloof from priestly
influences. The grandmother [was] a disciple of Jean-Jacques Rousseau
and of Voltaire.... On both sides what was offered her to worship was
too indefinite to satisfy her strong religious instincts.... She filled
in the blank with her imagination, which was forthwith called upon to
picture a being who should represent all perfections, human and divine;
something that her heart could love, as well as her intelligence
approve.
[Sidenote: “Corambé.”]
This ideal figure, for whom she devised the name Corambé, was to
combine all the spiritual qualities of the Christian ideal with the
earthly grace and beauty of the mythological deities of Greece. It is
hardly too much to say that the Christianity which had been expressly
left out in her teaching she invented for herself. She erected a
woodland altar in the recesses of a thicket to this imaginary object
of her adoration, and it is a characteristic trait that the sacrifices
she chose to offer there were the release of birds and butterflies that
had been taken prisoners--as a symbolical oblation most welcome to a
divinity whose essential attributes were infinite mercy and love.
BERTHA THOMAS: ‘George Sand.’ (Famous Women Series.) Boston: Roberts
Brothers, 1883.
* * * * *
[Sidenote: Unhappy married life.]
Her husband seems to have gradually neglected her, to satisfy his
tastes as a sportsman. An excellent shot, a daring horseman, an
indefatigable huntsman, he often left her at two and three in the
morning to indulge in his favorite sport--hunting.
The young wife, delicate in health and ardent in her affection, deeply
resented the frequent absence of her husband. She at first meekly
remonstrated with M. Dudevant, who would then stay at home for a few
days, soon again to disappear. Months and years thus elapsed. When not
out hunting, M. Dudevant indulged in feasting with his friends, eating
enormously and drinking more, ... and almost forsaking his wife for the
pleasures of the field and the table.
RAPHAËL LEDOS DE BEAUFORT: _Biographical Sketch_, in ‘Letters of George
Sand.’
* * * * *
[Sidenote: The crisis.]
I must inform you that in spite of my inertia, indifference,
unsteadiness of purpose, the facility with which I forgive and
forget sorrows and injury, I have just taken a _rash and extreme
resolution_.... You are acquainted with my home life, you are able to
judge whether it is tolerable. You, scores of times, wondered how I
could display so much courage and equanimity when my pride was being
constantly crushed. But there is a limit to everything.... There has
been no scandal. While looking for something in my husband’s desk, I
simply found a parcel addressed to me. That parcel had a kind of solemn
appearance which struck me. It bore the inscription: _To be opened only
at my death._
I could not find the patience to wait until I became a widow. With
health like mine I cannot expect to survive anyone. At any rate, I
supposed my husband dead, and felt rather anxious to know what he might
think of me while still alive. The parcel being directed to me, I had a
right to open it without being thought indiscreet, and, as my husband
is in the full enjoyment of health, I could read his will without
emotion.
Good heavens! what a will! Curses for me and nothing else! He had
collected therein all his impulses of temper and ill-humor against me,
all his reflections respecting my _perverseness_, all his feelings of
contempt for my character. And that is what he had left me as a token
of his affection! I fancied that I was dreaming, I who, until now, was
obstinately shutting my eyes and refusing to see that I was scorned.
The perusal of that will has at last aroused me from my slumber. I
said to myself that to live with a man who feels neither esteem for
nor confidence in his wife, would be equivalent to trying to revive a
corpse. My mind was made up, and, I dare say so, _irrevocably_.
AURORE DUDEVANT: _Letter to M. Jules Boucoiran_, December, 1830.
‘Letters of George Sand,’ translated by Raphaël Ledos de Beaufort.
London: Ward & Downey, 1886.
* * * * *
[Sidenote: Her life in Paris.]
The beginning of her life in Paris was one of considerable poverty
and privation. She lived _au cinquième_ in a lodging which cost her a
yearly rent of £12; she had no servant, and got in her food from an
eating-house close by for the sum of two francs a day. Her washing and
needlework she did herself. Notwithstanding this rigid economy, it was
impossible to keep within the limits of her husband’s allowance of
£120 a year, especially as far as her dress was concerned. After some
hesitation, therefore, she took the resolution, which caused so much
scandal then and afterwards, of adopting male attire.
[Sidenote: Adoption of male attire.]
“My thin boots wore out in a few days,” she tells us in the
autobiography. “I forgot to hold up my dress, and covered my petticoats
with mud. My bonnets were spoilt one after another by the rain. I
generally returned from the expeditions I took, dirty, weary, and
cold. Whereas my young men acquaintances--some of whom had been the
companions of my childhood in Berri--had none of these inconveniences
to submit to. I therefore had a long gray cloth coat made, with a
waistcoat and trousers to match. When the costume was completed by a
gray felt hat and a loose woollen cravat, no one could have guessed
that I was not a young student in my first year. My boots were my
particular delight. I should like to have gone to bed with them. On
their little iron heels I wandered from one end of Paris to the other;
no one took any notice of me, or suspected my disguise.”
---- ----: ‘George Sand.’ _Temple Bar_, April, 1885.
* * * * *
[Sidenote: Literature at first a resource.]
My husband has set down my private expenses at 3,000 francs. You
know that that is little for me, who like to give and cannot bear to
receive. I therefore only purpose increasing my income from some other
source. I have no ambition to be known, and shall not be. I shall not
attract either the envy or the hatred of any one. Most writers, I know,
lead lives of anguish and struggle; but those whose sole ambition is to
earn a livelihood live in peaceable obscurity. It would ... be very odd
if a paltry talent like mine could not withhold itself from the public
gaze.
AURORE DUDEVANT: _Letter to M. Jules Boucoiran_, February, 1831, in
‘Letters of George Sand.’
* * * * *
[Sidenote: But soon a passion.]
I am more than ever intent upon following a literary career. In spite
of the repugnance which I sometimes experience, despite the days of
idleness and fatigue which cause me to break off my work, in spite of
the life, more than quiet, which I lead here, I feel that henceforth my
existence has an aim. I have a purpose in view, a task before me, and,
if I may use the word, a _passion_. For the profession of writing is
nothing else but a violent, indestructible passion. When it has once
entered people’s heads it never leaves them.
AURORE DUDEVANT: _Letter to M. Jules Boucoiran_, March, 1831, in
‘Letters of George Sand.’
* * * * *
[Sidenote: Bohemian experiences.]
[Sidenote: Balzac’s oddities.]
On the Quai St. Michel--a portion of the Seine embankment facing the
towers of Notre Dame, the Sainte Chapelle, and other picturesque
monuments of ancient Paris--she had now definitely installed herself
in modest lodgings on the fifth story. Accepted and treated as a
comrade by a little knot of fellow _literati_ and colleagues on
the _Figaro_, two of whom--Jules Sandeau and Félix Pyat--were from
Berri, like herself; and with Delatouche, also a Berrichon, for their
head-master, she served thus singularly her brief apprenticeship to
literature and experience, sharing with the rest both their studies
and their relaxations, dining with them at cheap restaurants,
frequenting clubs, studios, and theatres of every degree; the youthful
effervescence of her student-friends venting itself in such collegians’
pranks as parading deserted quarters of the town by moonlight, in the
small hours, chanting lugubrious strains to astonish the shop-keepers.
The only great celebrity whose acquaintance she had made was Balzac,
himself the prince of eccentrics. Although he did not encourage Madame
Dudevant’s literary ambition, he showed himself kindly disposed towards
her and her young friends, and she gives some amusing instances that
came under her notice of his oddities. Thus once, after a little
Bohemian dinner at his lodgings in the Rue Cassini, he insisted on
putting on a new and magnificent dressing-gown, of which he was
exceedingly vain, to display to his guests, of whom Madame Dudevant was
one; and not satisfied therewith, must needs go forth, thus accoutred,
to light them on their walk home. All the way he continued to hold
forth to them about four Arab horses, which he had not got yet, but
meant to get soon, and of which, though he never got them at all, he
firmly believed himself to have been possessed for some time.
BERTHA THOMAS: ‘George Sand.’ (Famous Women Series.) Boston: Roberts
Bros., 1883.
* * * * *
[Sidenote: “An artist’s life.”]
I must live. For that purpose I am doing the meanest of work. I write
articles for the _Figaro_. If you only knew what it is! But they pay
seven francs for a column; besides which it enables me to eat and drink
and even go to the play.... It affords me the opportunity of making
most useful and amusing observations. When intending to write, people
must see and know everything and laugh at everything. Ah, upon my word,
there is nothing like an artist’s life. Our motto is _liberty_.
That is, however, a rather exaggerated boast. We do not precisely enjoy
_liberty_ at the _Figaro_. M. de Latouche, our worthy director (ah!
you ought to know the fellow), is always hanging over us, cutting,
pruning, right or wrong, imposing upon us his whims, his aberrations,
his fancies, and we have to write as he bids; for, after all, that is
his affair. We are but his working tools.
AURORE DUDEVANT: _Letter to M. Jules Boucoiran_, March, 1831, in
‘Letters of George Sand.’
* * * * *
[Sidenote: Origin of her pseudonym.]
The two young friends [Mme. Dudevant and Jules Sandeau] wrote a novel
entitled ‘Rose et Blanche, ou la Comédienne et la Religieuse,’ which
they sold for 400 francs.... But it was indispensable that the name
of the author should be appended to the work. Madame Dudevant could
not put her name to it for fear of a scandal; as for Sandeau, he was
afraid of incurring the reproaches of his family, which objected to his
pursuing a literary career. The name Sandeau was curtailed, and ‘Rose
et Blanche’ appeared under the signature of _Jules Sand_.
Shortly before the departure of Madame Dudevant for Nohant, where she
was about to spend three months, it was arranged between herself and
Sandeau that they should each contribute a portion of a novel, whose
title was to be ‘Indiana.’
On her return to Paris our heroine called upon Sandeau in order to
submit to him what she had done, and found that he had not yet written
a single line of his allotted share of the work.
He began to read the work of his collaborator, but had not proceeded
beyond a few lines when he gave vent to enthusiastic expressions.
“You have written a masterpiece!”
“So much the better; let us go off at once to the publisher’s.”
“Wait a moment; you wrote that work alone--you alone must sign it.”
“Never! we will continue to sign _Jules Sand_.”
“Not at all,” replied Sandeau; “I am too honest to rob you of your
glory. My conscience would never fail to reproach me with such an
action.”
The young man was firm in his decision; and, in spite of the protests
of M. de Latouche, declined to alter it.
At last an idea struck the director of the _Figaro_. “You wrote ‘Rose
et Blanche,’ and gave the name of its author as _Jules Sand_; Sand
is, therefore, your common property. Madame needs only to select
another Christian name. Now, madame, to-day is St. George’s Day. Call
yourself _George Sand_, and the difficulty is solved.” Madame Dudevant
assented, and thus assumed a name upon which her genius conferred more
imperishable titles of nobility than had been bestowed upon her either
by birth or marriage.
RAPHAËL LEDOS DE BEAUFORT: _Biographical Sketch_, in ‘Letters of George
Sand.’
* * * * *
[Sidenote: Another account.]
‘Rose et Blanche,’ though little noticed by the public, brought a
publisher to the door, one Ernest Dupuy, with an order for another
novel by the same authors. ‘Indiana’ was ready-written, and came in
response to the demand. But as Sandeau had had no hand whatever in this
composition, the signature had of course to be varied. The publisher
wishing to connect the new novel with its predecessor, it was decided
to alter the prefix only. She fixed on George, as representative
of Berri, the land of husbandmen; and George Sand thus became the
pseudonym of the author of ‘Indiana,’ a pseudonym whose origin
imaginative critics have sought far afield.... Its assumption was to
inaugurate a new era in her life.
BERTHA THOMAS: ‘George Sand.’
* * * * *
[Sidenote: Appearance at this time.]
George Sand was twenty-seven years of age at this time. Without being
beautiful she was striking and sympathetic-looking. Sainte-Beuve thus
describes his first interview with her: “I saw, as I entered the room,
a young woman with expressive eyes and a fine open brow, surrounded by
black hair, cut rather short. She was quiet and composed in manner,
speaking little herself, but listening attentively to all I had to
say.”... Her features were large but regular, her eyes magnificent, and
her face distinguished by an expression of strength and calm that was
very remarkable.
---- ----: ‘George Sand.’ _Temple Bar._
* * * * *
[Sidenote: Her characteristics.]
[Sidenote: Love of liberty.]
You strongly suspect me of a love of pleasure, of a thirst for
amusement and diversion, of which I am far from being possessed. I
do not crave for society, the bustling of cities, theatres, dresses,
or jewelry; you alone are mistaken respecting me; what I long for is
liberty. Being alone in the streets, and saying to myself: “I shall
dine at four or at seven, if I please. I shall pass through the
Luxembourg Gardens instead of through the Champs Elysées on my way to
the Tuileries, if I feel so inclined;” that is what amuses me a great
deal more than the insipidity of men or the stiffness of drawing-rooms.
AURORE DUDEVANT: _Letter to her mother_, May, 1831, in ‘Letters of
George Sand.’
* * * * *
[Sidenote: Of work.]
Love of work is a great boon. I bless the memory of my grandmother for
having compelled me to acquire the habit of it. That habit has become a
faculty, which itself is for me a necessity. I have now reached such a
point that I can, without injuring my health, work for thirteen hours
in succession, although the average is from seven to eight hours a day,
whether the work be difficult or easy. Work brings me plenty of money,
and takes up much time which, had I nothing to do, would be devoted to
melancholy and depression of spirits, the natural consequences of my
bilious temperament.
GEORGE SAND: _Letter to M. Hippolyte Chatiron_, March, 1834, in
‘Letters of George Sand.’
* * * * *
[Sidenote: Of the country.]
I am passionately fond of the country; I have, like yourself, all
household tastes, home tastes; I love dogs, cats and children above all
things.
GEORGE SAND: _Letter to M. Jules Janin_, February, 1857, in ‘Letters of
George Sand.’
* * * * *
[Sidenote: Maternal affection.]
Make haste then, and tell me that my family is ... in good health; and,
above all, my little Maurice, the little rogue, whom, however, I love
more than anything in this world, and but for whom there would be no
happiness for me. Does he sleep and eat well? Is he cheerful? Is he
quite well? Do not be too indulgent to him, and yet, as much as you
can, make him fond of his studies. I know full well that that is no
easy task. When I am with him to wipe his eyes, and see him fall asleep
in his cot, I do not much mind; but afar, my weakness as a mother is
roused, and I am only grieved when I think that he is perhaps crying
over his lesson-book.
AURORE DUDEVANT: _Letter to M. Jules Boucoiran_, November, 1829, in
‘Letters of George Sand.’
* * * * *