than anything else. But for the hope of being some day more useful to
them with the scribe’s pen than with the housewife’s needle, I should
not part from them so long.
AURORE DUDEVANT: _Letter to M. Charles Duvernet_, March, 1831, in
‘Letters of George Sand.’
[Sidenote: Life in Paris with Solange.]
* * * * *
I am living here like a hermit. My apartment is so nice and warm;
it is so light and quiet that I never care to leave it. But, on the
other hand, I am all day long bothered with visitors, who are not all
very entertaining. It is one of the drawbacks of my calling, and I am
obliged to put up with them; but in the evening I shut myself up with
my pen and ink, Solange, my piano, and my fire. In their midst I spend
some very pleasant hours. The only sounds I hear are the notes of a
harp, proceeding I know not whence, and the plashing of a jet of water
which plays in the garden under my windows. It is most poetic. Do not
laugh about it.... I must tell you that I am coining money. I receive
proposals from all directions. I shall sell my next novel for 4,000
francs.
GEORGE SAND: _Letter to M. Jules Boucoiran_, December, 1832, in
‘Letters of George Sand.’
* * * * *
[Sidenote: In Venice after De-Musset’s departure.]
She had taken apartments for herself in the interior of the city, in a
little, low-built house, along the narrow, green, and yet limpid canal,
close to the Ponte dei Barcaroli. “There,” she tells us, “alone all the
afternoon, never going out except in the evening for a breath of air,
working at night as well, to the song of the tame nightingales that
people all Venetian balconies, I wrote _Andre_, _Jacques_, _Mattea_,
and the first _Lettres d’ un Voyageur_.”
BERTHA THOMAS: ‘George Sand.’
* * * * *
[Sidenote: At LaChatre.]
As regards my suit, I am still _in statu quo_. My husband has appealed
against the decision of the court. I am still at La Châtre, staying
with some friends, who spoil me like a child five years old. I live
in a suburb composed of terraces, built on a rocky slope; below is
an admirably pretty valley. A garden of four square yards, full of
roses, and a terrace just spacious enough to move in, do duty for a
drawing-room, a study and a gallery. My bedroom is large enough; it
is furnished with a bed adorned with curtains of red cotton stuff--a
regular peasant’s bed, hard and flat, two straw-bottomed chairs, and
a deal table. My window opens six feet above the terrace. Through the
hedging of the orchard I come and go at night, without having to open
any door, and thus to disturb anybody, whenever inclined for a stroll
in my four square yards of flowers. I sometimes go alone for a ride
at dusk. I return home at midnight. My cloak, my bark hat, and the
melancholy trot of my steed, cause the people to take me in the dark
for a peddler or for a farmer’s boy.
GEORGE SAND: _Letter to the Countess d’ Agoult_, May, 1836, in ‘Letters
of George Sand.’
* * * * *
[Sidenote: At Majorca with Chopin.]
We were delighted to meet in an old Carthusian convent a Spanish family
whom political reasons had compelled to seek a hiding-place there,
and who possessed a tolerably decent suite of peasant furniture. The
refugees intended to pass over to France; we, therefore, bought the
furniture for three times its value, and installed ourselves in the
convent of Valdemosa: a poetical name, a poetical abode--charming
scenery, grand and wild, with the sea bordering on the horizon,
formidable heights around us, eagles pursuing their prey even into the
orange groves of our garden, a path planted with cypresses and winding
its way from the top of the mountain to the bottom of the ravine; under
our feet torrents, overhung by myrtles and palms.... We were unable
to procure servants, because we were not _Christians_; and besides,
nobody cared to wait upon a consumptive person.... We scarcely ever
met a soul; nothing disturbed our occupations. After waiting for two
months, and having to pay a duty of 300 francs, Chopin at last obtained
his piano, and the vaults of the convent cells were enlivened by its
melody. Maurice visibly improved every day in health and strength; as
for me, I used to perform the duties of a tutor seven hours a day....
During one-half of the night I worked for myself. Chopin composed some
of his masterpieces, and we were in hopes of swallowing our vexations
by the aid of these compensating influences. But, owing to the elevated
position of the convent, the climate eventually became unbearable. We
were living in the midst of clouds, and for fifty days we were unable
to descend to the valley. The roads had been changed into torrents, and
we could no longer see the sun.
All that would have seemed very well to me if poor Chopin could have
endured it.... While battering our rocks, the wind and the sea sang
in a sublime tone. The immense and deserted cloisters were cracking
overhead. Had I written there that part of _Lélia_ which is enacted in
a monastery, I could have made it better and more real. But my poor
friend’s chest was daily growing worse. Fine weather did not return. A
chambermaid whom I had brought with me from France, and who until then
had resigned herself, thanks to a large salary, to do our cooking and
keep our rooms tidy, was beginning to consider her work too fatiguing.
The moment had arrived when, having wielded the broom and boiled the
saucepan myself, I too must have given way to fatigue; for, besides my
tutor’s work, my literary pursuits, the continuous care demanded by
the state of my patient, and the mortal anxiety he caused me, I was
eaten up with rheumatism. In Majorca the use of chimneys is unknown. By
paying an exorbitant price we succeeded in getting somebody to build
a grotesque stove for us, a sort of iron caldron which gave us the
headache and parched our chests. In spite of that, the humidity of the
convent was such that our clothing grew mouldy on our backs.... We at
last decided to go away, at whatever cost, although Chopin had not even
strength enough to drag himself along.... We were obliged to travel
three leagues along outlandish paths in a _birlocho_, that is to say, a
wheelbarrow!
GEORGE SAND: _Letter to M. François Rollinat_, March, 1839, in ‘Letters
of George Sand.’
* * * * *
[Sidenote: “Madame Sand” at Nohant.]
It seems to me but the other day that I saw her, yet it was in the
August of 1846, more than thirty years ago. I saw her in her own
Berry, at Nohant, where her childhood and youth were passed, where she
returned to live after she became famous, where she died and has now
her grave.... The château of Nohant, in which Madame Sand lived, is a
plain house by the roadside, with a walled garden. Down in the meadows,
not far off, flows the Indre, bordered by trees....
The mid-day breakfast at Nohant was not yet over when I reached the
house, and I found a large party assembled. I entered with some
trepidation, ... but the simplicity of Madame Sand’s manner put me at
ease in a moment. She named some of those present; amongst them were
her son and daughter, the Maurice and Solange so familiar to us from
her books, and Chopin with his wonderful eyes. There was at that time
nothing astonishing in Madame Sand’s appearance. She was not in man’s
clothes; she wore a sort of costume not impossible, I should think
(although on these matters I speak with hesitation), to members of the
fair sex at this hour amongst ourselves, as an out-of-door dress for
the country or for Scotland. She made me sit by her and poured out for
me the insipid and depressing beverage, _boisson fade et mélancolique_,
as Balzac called it, for which English people are thought abroad
to be always thirsting,--tea. She conversed of the country through
which I had been wandering, of the Berry peasants and their mode of
life, of Switzerland, whither I was going; she touched politely, by
a few questions and remarks, upon England and things and persons
English--upon Oxford and Cambridge, Byron, Bulwer. As she spoke her
eyes, head, bearing, were all of them striking; but the main impression
she made was an impression of what I have already mentioned,--of
_simplicity_, frank, cordial simplicity. After breakfast she led the
way into the garden, asked me a few kind questions about myself and
my plans, gathered a flower or two and gave them to me, shook hands
heartily at the gate, and I saw her no more.
MATTHEW ARNOLD: _George Sand_. ‘Mixed Essays,’ etc. New York; Macmillan
& Co. 1883.
* * * * *
[Sidenote: Margaret Fuller’s account of her in 1847.]
[Sidenote: Appearance.]
I went to see her at her house, Place d’ Orleans. I found it a
handsome, modern residence.... The servant who admitted me was in the
picturesque costume of a peasant, and, as Mme. Sand afterward told
me, her god-daughter, whom she had brought from her province. She
announced me as “_Madame Salere_,” and returned into the ante-room to
tell me “_Madame says she does not know you_.” I began to think I was
doomed to a rebuff, among the crowd who deserve it. However, to make
assurance sure, I said, “Ask if she has not received a letter from
me.” As I spoke, Madame S. opened the door, and stood looking at me an
instant. Our eyes met. I never shall forget her look at that moment.
The doorway made a frame for her figure; she is large, but well-formed.
She was dressed in a robe of dark violet silk, with a black mantle on
her shoulders, her beautiful hair dressed with the greatest taste, her
whole appearance and attitude, in its simple and lady-like dignity,
presenting an almost ludicrous contrast to the vulgar caricature idea
of George Sand. Her face is a very little like the portraits, but much
finer; the upper part of the forehead and eyes are beautiful, the
lower, strong and masculine, expressive of a hardy temperament and
strong passions, but not in the least coarse; the complexion olive,
and the air of the whole head Spanish.... All these details I saw at a
glance; but what fixed my attention was the expression of _goodness_,
nobleness, and power, that pervaded the whole--the truly human
heart and nature that shone in the eyes. As our eyes met, she said,
“_C’est vous_,” and held out her hand. I took it, and went into her
little study.... I stayed a good part of the day, and was very glad
afterward, for I did not see her again, uninterrupted. Another day I
was there, and saw her in her circle. Her daughter and another lady was
present, and a number of gentlemen. Her position there was that of an
intellectual woman and good friend,--the same as my own, in the circle
of my acquaintance, as distinguished from my intimates. Her daughter is
just about to be married. It is said, there is no congeniality between
her and her mother; but for her son she seems to have much love, and he
loves and admires her extremely. I understand he has a good and free
character, without conspicuous talent.
[Sidenote: Her conversation.]
Her way of talking is just like her writing--lively, picturesque, with
an undertone of deep feeling, and the same skill in striking the nail
on the head every now and then with a blow.
We did not talk at all of personal or private matters. I saw, as one
sees in her writings, the want of an independent, interior life, but
I did not feel it as a fault, there is so much in her of her kind.
I heartily enjoyed the sense of so rich, so prolific, so ardent a
genius.... I never liked a woman better.
I forgot to mention, that while talking, she _does_ smoke all the time
her little cigarette.
MARGARET FULLER: _Letter_, 1847, in ‘Memoirs of Margaret Fuller
Ossoli,’ by R. W. Emerson, W. H. Channing, and J. F. Clark. Boston:
Roberts Bros., 1874.
* * * * *
[Sidenote: Sensation caused by her ‘Villemer’ in dramatic form.]
_Villemer_ still goes splendidly. The principal journals, without
exception, are even louder in their praise than their humbler
contemporaries.... The Odéon is taking 4,000 francs for seats booked in
advance, and from 500 to 600 at the door every night. There is a string
of carriages all day long, bringing people who come to book places,
and another at night, besides a crowd at the doors.... The players are
always recalled after each act. It is a splendid success, and, as it is
supported only by the paying public, it is so unanimous and hearty that
the actors say they have never seen anything like it.... Travellers who
arrive in Paris, and who pass during the evening in front of the Odéon,
pull up in a fright and ask if there is a revolution, if the republic
is proclaimed.
GEORGE SAND: _Letter to her son_, March, 1864, in ‘Letters of George
Sand.’
* * * * *
[Sidenote: Account of her earnings in 1869.]
If you wish to know my pecuniary position, it is easy to set forth.
My accounts are not involved. I have earned about a million with my
writings; I have not put by a single _sou_. I gave away every thing
except 20,000 francs, which, two years ago, I invested, in order not
to cause too much expense to my children if I should fall ill; and yet
I am not sure that I shall be able to keep that little capital; for I
may meet with people who may want it more urgently than I, and, should
I be well enough to earn a little more, I will have to part with my
savings.... If you should speak of my resources, you can say, with
perfect truth, that I always lived from day to day from the fruits of
my labor, and that I consider as ensuring most happiness that way of
arranging my life. I thus have no pecuniary anxiety, and I do not fear
robbers.
GEORGE SAND: _Letter to M. Louis Ulbach_, November, 1869, in ‘Letters
of George Sand.’
* * * * *
[Sidenote: Appearance in later life.]
[Sidenote: Gray eyes.]
At one of the great horticultural shows in Paris, ... moving about
among the fruits and flowers, we saw a woman of the medium size,
plainly and rather peculiarly dressed, and accompanied by a pale young
man who resembled her so strongly that we at once pronounced them
mother and son. The woman was in the autumn of life, the young man in
the early summer. On her face the woman wore marks of care and time, a
tired, disappointed look, such as they wear who, after hard climbing,
have reached a height of fame, and find it uncompensating. There were
remnants of beauty in the face, but they were only remnants. There were
deep, gray eyes under brows too heavy for a woman, a head crowned with
a considerable wealth of carelessly arranged hair just threaded with
gray, and picturesquely draped with lace. There was the little stoop
of the shoulders, that comes of the habit of thinking hard and writing
steadily. Wherever this woman and her companion went, the spectators
turned to look at them. The face and figure are clear-cut in my memory
to-day, and there is nothing commonplace in it. You would have known
that this was a distinguished person. It was a face with a soul behind
it. The movements were those of a person accustomed to be looked at
and accustomed to homage. One looked at this woman--almost an aged
woman--and felt the magnetism of genius. We asked of a by-stander who
it was, and were told that it was George Sand and her son.
PAUL VEVAY: Quoted in ‘The Record of the Year.’ Published by G. W.
Carleton, September, 1876.
* * * * *
[Sidenote: Her own account of her character.]
I am but a good old woman, to whom people have attributed a ferocity of
character altogether fantastical. I have also been accused of having
proved unable to love with passion. It seems to me I have lived a life
of tenderness, and that ought to have satisfied people.
Now, thank God, nothing except affection is expected from me; and those
who are good enough to love me, in spite of the want of lustre in my
life and the dulness of my wit, do not complain of me.
My disposition has remained inclined to gaiety; though devoid of
initiative for amusing others, I am efficient in helping them to enjoy
themselves.
I must possess some great defects, but, like every body else, mine do
not strike me. I am also ignorant of the existence of any quality or
virtue in me. I much pondered over _truth_, and when one is so engaged
the sentiment of _self_ vanishes more and more daily.
GEORGE SAND: _Letter to M. Louis Ulbach_, November, 1869, in ‘Letters
of George Sand.’
* * * * *
[Sidenote: Her life at Nohant.]
[Sidenote: Not silent in her own circle.]
M. Plauchut, a literary friend and a visitor at Nohant, during the last
decade of her lifetime, gives a picture of the order of her day; it is
simplicity itself. Nine o’clock, in summer and in winter alike, was her
hour of waking. Letters and newspapers would occupy her until noon,
when she came down to join the family _déjeûner_. Afterwards she would
stroll for an hour in the garden and the wood, visiting and tending
her favorite plants and flowers. At two o’clock she would come indoors
to give a lesson to her grandchildren, in the library, or work there on
her own account, undistracted by the romps around her. Dinner at six
was followed by a short evening walk, after which she played with the
children, or set them dancing indoors. She liked to sit at the piano,
playing over to herself bits of music by her favorite Mozart, or old
Spanish and Berrichon airs. After a game of dominoes or cards, she
would still sit up so late, occupying herself with water-color painting
or otherwise, that sometimes her son was obliged to take away the
lights. These long evenings, the same writer bears witness, sometimes
afforded rare opportunities of hearing Madame Sand talk of the events
and the men of her time. In the absolute quiet of the country, among
a small circle of responsive minds, she, so silent otherwise, became
expansive. “Those who have never heard George Sand at such hours,” he
concludes, “have never known her. She spoke well, with great elevation
of ideas, charming eloquence, and a spirit of infinite indulgence.”
When, at length, she retired, it was to write on until the morning
hours, according to her old habit, only relinquished when her health
made this imperative.
BERTHA THOMAS: ‘George Sand.’
* * * * *
[Sidenote: Not brilliant in general conversation.]
[Sidenote: Her cigarette.]
George Sand had none of the brilliancy and repartee in general
conversation one would have expected, and as the years went on she
became more silent and reserved. Her greatest happiness was to sit in
her arm-chair, smoking cigarettes. Often, when her friends thought
she was absorbed in her own meditations, she would put in a word that
proved she had been listening to everything. The word spoken, she would
relapse again into silence.
[Sidenote: Manner of working.]
It was only when she sat down to her desk that she became eloquent,
and the expressions that halted on her lips rushed abundantly from her
pen. Her characters grew beneath her hand, and she went on writing,
with that perfect style which is like the rhythmic cadence of a great
river--“large, calm, and regular.” George Sand worked all night long,
after all her guests were in bed, sometimes remaining up until five
o’clock in the morning. She generally sat down to the old bureau in the
hall at Nohant, with pen, ink, and foolscap paper sewn together, and
began, without notes or a settled scheme of any kind.
---- ----: _George Sand_. ‘Temple Bar.’
* * * * *
[Sidenote: Vigor at sixty-eight.]
To-day, _my sixty-eighth birthday_, I will write to you. My health is
perfect, in spite of a whooping cough, which, however, does not longer
disturb my rest, since I daily plunge myself in a foaming, icy-cold
little torrent, winding its way among the pebbles, the flowers, and the
grass, under a delightful shade.... I walk all the way to the river,
and, quite hot with perspiration, plunge myself in the icy-cold water.
The doctor says I am mad; I let him talk and cure myself, whilst his
patients nurse themselves and _croak_. I am like the grass in the
fields--water and sun are all I require.
GEORGE SAND: _Letter to M. Gustave Flaubert_, 5th July, 1872, in
‘Letters of George Sand.’
* * * * *
[Sidenote: Still later.]
I am still discharging the duties of assiduous and patient teacher, and
I have little time left for _professional writing_, seeing that I spend
the evening with my family, and can now no longer work after midnight;
yet my being pinched for time acts like a stimulant upon me, and causes
me to find much pleasure in hard work; it is to me like secretly
relishing some forbidden fruit.
GEORGE SAND: _Letter to M. Gustave Flaubert_, December, 1875, in
‘Letters of George Sand.’
* * * * *
[Sidenote: George Sand’s creed.]
There is for me but one creed and one refuge: faith in God and our own
immortality. My secret is not new, but there is no other.
GEORGE SAND: _Letter to Mlle. Leroyer de Chantepie_, August, 1836, in
‘Letters of George Sand.’
* * * * *
I see future and eternal life before me as a certainty; as a light in
the glimmer of which every thing is only dimly seen; but that light is
there, and that is all I wish for. I know full well that my Jeanne [her
granddaughter] is not dead.... I know well that I shall meet her again,
and that she will recognize me, even though she should not recollect or
I either. She was part of my own self and that fact will always remain.
GEORGE SAND: _Letter to M. Edouard Charton_, February, 1855, in
‘Letters of George Sand.’
* * * * *
[Sidenote: Her last words.]
Up to her last hour she preserved consciousness and lucidity. The
words, “_Ne touchez pas à la verdure_,” among the last that fell from
her lips, were understood by her children, who knew her wish that the
trees should be undisturbed under which, in the village cemetery, she
was soon to find a resting-place.
BERTHA THOMAS: ‘George Sand.’
* * * * *
We have seen a photograph done of George Sand, shortly before she
died. The face is massive, but lit up by the wonderful eyes, through
which the soul still shines. An expression of tenderness and gentle
philosophy hovers round the lips, and we feel almost as though they
would break into a smile as we gaze. She became, latterly, like one of
those grand old trees of her own “Vallée Noir,” lopped and maimed by
the storms and struggles of life, but ever to the last putting forth
tender shoots and expanding into fresh foliage, through which the
soft winds of heaven whisper, making music in the ears of those weary
wayfarers who pause to rest beneath their shade.
---- ----: ‘George Sand.’ _Temple Bar._
* * * * *
[Sidenote: Two notable opinions of George Sand’s works.]
Though I never saw any of her works which I admired throughout (even
‘Consuelo,’ which is the best, or the best that I have read, appears to
me to couple strange extravagance with wondrous excellence), yet she
has a grasp of mind, which, if I cannot fully comprehend, I can very
deeply respect; she is sagacious and profound.... It is poetry, as I
comprehend the word, which elevates that masculine George Sand, and
makes out of something coarse, something godlike.
CHARLOTTE BRONTË: _Letters to G. H. Lewes_, 1848, in Mrs. Gaskell’s
‘Life of Charlotte Brontë’. London: Smith, Elder & Co., 1857.
* * * * *
George Sand is the greatest female genius the world ever saw--at least,
since Sappho, who broke off a fragment of her soul to be guessed by,
as creation did by its fossils. And George Sand, it is remarkable,
precisely like her prototype, has suffered her senses to leaven her
soul--to permeate it through and through, and make a sensual soul
of it. She is a wonderful woman, and, I hope, rising into a purer
atmosphere by the very strength of her wing.
ELIZABETH BARRETT: ‘Letters of Elizabeth Barrett Browning to R. H.
Horne.’ New York: James Miller, 1877.
FOOTNOTES:
[3] Dates of publication in book form; see Catalogue Général de la
Librairie Française.
ELIZABETH BARRETT (BROWNING).
1809-1861.
ELIZABETH BARRETT (BROWNING).
Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, the daughter of a wealthy West India
merchant, was born at Hope End, near Ledbury, in 1809. The delicate,
precocious child began rhyming at eight years old, and was encouraged
by her proud and indulgent father. In 1826, at seventeen, she published
her _Essay on Mind_, an imitation of Pope. She was an omnivorous
reader, and early became a hard student of Greek. When she was
twenty-four or five her family removed from Hope End to Sidmouth;
thence to London. In 1835 she published a translation from Æschylos,
_Prometheus Bound, and Other Poems_. The _Prometheus_ was subsequently
re-written.