CHAPTER XIV

LAVINIA

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

MEMOIR

SHE AND HE

LAVINIA

A CORNER AT THE OPERA BALL.

PORTRAIT OF GEORGE SAND.

LAURENT PAINTS PALMER'S PORTRAIT.

THEIR FIRST SUPPER.

A FANTASTIC VISION.

THE SEPARATION.

LIONEL SURPRISES LAVINIA.

[Illustration: GEORGE SAND.

_After the Crayon Portrait by Couture, in the Musée

Carnavalet, Paris._]

GEORGE SAND

MEMOIR

There is a natural desire to know something of the parentage and birth

of renowned authors, and to learn something that may throw light on the

formative influences which have operated in producing the works that

have rendered them famous. In the case of George Sand, whose nature

offers contrasts as striking as were the social conditions of her

parents, this desire is particularly strong; therefore, although the

limits prescribed to this sketch prevent either an exhaustive review of

her life being undertaken, or a psychological study being entered upon,

such details may be given as will prove useful and not without interest

to readers of this famous writer.

Amandine Lucille Aurore Dupin, who adopted the literary name of _George

Sand_, was born in Paris on July 5, 1804. Her father, Maurice Dupin de

Francueil, was of aristocratic birth, being the son of Monsieur Dupin de

Francueil and Marie Aurore de Saxe, daughter of Marshal Saxe, a natural

son of Augustus II, Elector of Saxony, who was allied to the Bourbons by

the marriage of his sister to the Dauphin, the father of Louis XVI.

Marie Aurore de Saxe, previous to her marriage with Monsieur Dupin de

Francueil, had been the wife of Comte de Horn, a natural son of Louis

XV. The author's mother, Antoinette Victoire Sophie Delaborde, was the

daughter of a bird-fancier in Paris.

These facts concerning her parentage show the association of the

aristocratic with the plebeian in the blood of the author.

Her grandfather was a provincial gentleman of moderate fortune, who died

within a few years of his marriage to Comtesse de Horn, who had imbibed

all the aristocratic prejudices of her family. Her father, Maurice Dupin

(his father had abandoned the suffix De Francueil), was the object of

Madame Dupin's tenderest affection and warmest hopes; but, although of a

most amiable disposition, he was somewhat reckless and, as his marriage

proved, independent in his views. The disturbed condition of France

under the Directory left him little choice as to a profession, so he

entered the army. He became a lieutenant as the reward of his services

at the battle of Marengo in 1800. It was during his sojourn in Italy

that he made the acquaintance of Antoinette Delaborde, whose devoted

care and nursing during a severe illness resulted in his becoming deeply

attached to her. The lieutenant was only twenty-six years old, and his

mistress was four years his senior. The _liaison_ was suspected by

Madame Dupin, and evoked great opposition on her part; but, in spite of

her wounded sentiments, and notwithstanding the fact that Mademoiselle

Delaborde was already the mother of two children, the lovers were

married in June, 1804. On July 5, 1804, as has been stated, Amandine

Lucille Aurore Dupin was born.

Time lightened the weight of the blow to Madame Dupin, who at last

consented to recognize her son's wife; but the two women rarely met for

some years. The elder Madame Dupin resided at Nohant (a spot which

George Sand's writings have made famous), a secluded estate in the

centre of France, near La Châtre, in the Department of the Indre.

Maurice, who had now become a captain, made his home in Paris, and, when

not on duty, spent his time there with his wife and their little

daughter in quiet happiness. The good judgment of the younger Madame

Dupin, and her kindly disposition and sincere and faithful affection for

her husband and child, seem to have found a counterpart in Captain

Dupin, and thus, within their own household, they enjoyed all that was

essential to their mutual inclinations.

The infant life of George Sand was passed in the unpretentious home in

Rue Grange-Batelière, her mother's good sense materially aiding the

development of the child's intelligence. This peaceful life, however,

was not long to be undisturbed; for the prolonged absence of Captain

Dupin, who was serving in Madrid as aide-de-camp to Murat, induced

Madame Dupin to journey thither with her child to join him. After a stay

of several weeks, the captain escorted his wife and little daughter to

France, where they went to the home of the elder Madame Dupin. They had

not long enjoyed the restful recreation of this quiet spot, when Captain

Dupin was killed by being thrown from his horse one night on returning

from La Châtre.

Aurore was only four years old at the time of this tragic event, which

was to be of such momentous consequence to her. Although the feelings of

the elder Madame Dupin lost some of their bitterness after the death of

her son, there was still too wide a gap between the grandmother, with

her class prejudices, and the simple-natured, plebeian daughter-in-law

to admit of concord between them, or of a mutual understanding as to the

education of the young girl, upon whom, after Captain Dupin's death, the

grandmother seemed to centre all her affection. The child became the

source of constant conflict, and, although she was permitted all freedom

in physical exercise and enjoyment, and even in the matter of education,

she suffered bitter sorrow because of the disputes and quarrels of which

she was the unwitting cause. Notwithstanding the heart-sorrow the little

one endured, she was already cultivating her vivid imagination and

developing her contemplative disposition, which were, even thus early,

marked characteristics. We learn that on the occasion of her father's

death, when she was but four years old, she fell into a long reverie,

during which she seemed to realize the meaning of death as she mused in

silent and seemingly apathetic abstraction. These dreamy periods were so

frequent that she soon acquired a _stupid_ look, speaking of which she

says: "It has been always applied to me, and, consequently, it must be

true."

Her _Histoire de ma Vie_ throws some very interesting light on these

earlier years. Aurore was able to read well at four years of age. She

studied grammar under old Deschartres, a very pedantic personage, who

had formerly acted as secretary to her grandfather, and later as tutor

to her father, and who formed part of the household at Nohant. Her

grandmother instructed her in music, and sought to impress her with the

aristocratic principles which should govern her conduct. Her religious

training was formed--if it can be said that she possessed any very clear

idea on this subject--on the principles of Voltaire and Rousseau,

expounded by the elder Madame Dupin, offset by the simple but devout

Christian teaching of Aurore's mother, whose sincere faith better suited

the mind of her daughter than did the cold and analytical reasoning of

her grandmother.

From the irksome routine of lessons, however, the child turned to the

freedom and wild enjoyment of outdoor life. She had as companions in her

games a boy and girl who were inmates of the home, the former her

half-brother, and the latter Ursule, who in later years was her faithful

servant. With these and the peasant children of the neighborhood, she

was able to pass numberless hours face to face with Nature, in whose

manifold forms she took unbounded delight. Gathered about the fires they

kindled in the meadows, they would romp and dance, or vary the pleasure

by story-telling. When the hemp-dressers assembled at the farm of an

evening, Aurore took the lead in the stories that were told; but she

tells us that she could never succeed in evoking one of the visions with

which the peasants were familiar. The _great beast_ had appeared to them

all, at least once; but she experienced only the excitement of disturbed

nerves.

When eight years old, the child had acquired a fair knowledge of her

native language, and composition and the cultivation of style were now

being taught her, added to which were such subjects as Greek, prosody,

and botany; the natural result of which was a brain taxed with details,

but lacking in a clear perception of the ideas and principles sought to

be established. Yet the imaginative mind was alert; it was storing up a

fund of fancy that the future could draw upon almost limitlessly. The

conflict between her mother and her grandmother was also exerting a

formative influence on the child's mind in cooperation with her

tenderness of heart. She could ill bear the grandmother's calm but

dignified reproaches, though she entertained for her no little

affection.

Constantly reminded of her aristocratic claims, and conscious of the

hardly veiled contempt in which her mother was held by the elder Madame

Dupin, she grew to despise the pretensions of caste, and her leanings

became thoroughly democratic, as if the spontaneous germination of her

sorrows. Her mother's angry outbreaks caused her not a tithe of the

sorrow that she endured at the cold reproofs of her grandmother; hence,

it was apparent to the latter that Aurore's love for her mother was

greater than that for herself. She was, however, bent on securing the

full love of her granddaughter and on obtaining sole guardianship. To

her she looked as her heir, on whom it was incumbent to espouse the

prejudices of the aristocracy.

The frequent disputes that arose resulted at length in a separation. The

mother was, after much persuasion, brought to the belief that her

daughter's future would be best assured by her child's remaining at

Nohant in the care of her grandmother; while she retired to Paris,

supported by the slender income from her late husband's estate. It was

arranged that Aurore should accompany her grandmother to Paris, where

she had a house for the winter, when the child could spend whole days in

the company of her beloved mother, while, during the summer, the latter

would come to Nohant. The grandmother, finding that the child's

affection for her mother showed no diminution, but rather the reverse,

and that her own share in her granddaughter's affection was rather that

inspired by respect and veneration, became more jealous than ever, and

sought to make the separation a real one. Hence, after a few years, the

visits to Paris ceased.

During all this time, Aurore had been reading promiscuously, but there

had been no definite method in her education, and her religious

tendencies were left almost free to her own impulses. She had conversed

with Nature; she despised conventionality; she had given free rein to

her fancy; she had defined little. Her heart was not satisfied, and her

mind was reaching out to an ideal.

Aurore still continued, for a long time, to hope that her mother and

grandmother would be brought together again and her happiness

consummated; but this hope was cruelly shattered. One day, she was

startled by some disclosures her grandmother made respecting the past

life of Aurore's mother, and which, in the narrator's opinion, rendered

it of the first importance that the mother and the daughter should live

apart. The moment was badly chosen, in a fit of anger and jealousy, and

the loving girl resented her guardian's imprudence most bitterly, while

suffering intensely. Her affection for her grandmother was thereby

lessened, while her despised mother became dearer to her. She resolved

to abandon all those material advantages that were promised by remaining

with her grandmother, to neglect instruction, and to renounce

accomplishments. She rebelled against the lessons of Deschartres, and,

indeed, became a thorough mutineer. This was the situation when Aurore

approached her fourteenth year; her grandmother, in view of the

circumstances, decided to send her to a convent to complete an education

befitting her social position. The Couvent des Anglaises was selected,

as being the best institution for girls of aristocratic families.

The young girl entered the convent, weary at heart, wounded in her

dearest affections: she found it a place of rest. She tells, in the

story of her life, of the sisters and pupils, the routine of

instruction, the petty quarrels, the pastimes, and the discipline; of

the quest of imaginary captives whose release was undertaken; of the

wanderings in vaults and passages. Though Aurore was of a dreamy nature,

yet her disposition manifested extremes; for at times she abandoned

herself to boisterous enjoyment. So in the convent she became resigned

to her lot, yet, yielding to her spirit of independence, she joined in

the pranks of the mischievous scholars. Of the two classes into which

the girls were divided,--_sages_ and _diables_,--Aurore made choice of

the latter. This life continued for nearly two years, the girl rarely

leaving the convent even for a single day, being deprived of her summer

vacations by her grandmother, who wished to bring her to a realization

of the pleasure and freedom of the Nohant home, which she would be the

better capable of by reason of her prolonged absence.

The routine of somewhat indifferent and desultory study and the

enjoyment of the _diables_' pranks were soon to give way to a new

impulse. Hitherto, Aurore had felt no attachment to the religious

exercises of the convent; but one day she was seated in an obscure

corner of the convent chapel, when a spiritual enthusiasm awoke in her

mind. She writes of this circumstance: "In an instant, it broke forth,

like some passion quickened in a soul that knows not its own force....

All her needs were of the heart, and that was exhausted." The fervent

religious emotion which she experienced at once transformed her. With

her whole-natured devotion, she yields to the impulse; faith finds her

soul unresisting, and she bends to the divine grace that appeals to her.

Yet the transformation swayed her soul with its consequences; she shed

the scalding tears of the pious, she experienced the exhaustion of

feverish exaltation and protracted meditation, but she found a personal

faith; and, through all the emotions and changes of the turbulent years

that followed, the pure faith that she imbibed in the silent convent

cloisters was never wholly obscured. This change wrought wonders in the

young girl's conduct; she was no longer a hoyden, but kept herself

strictly within the rules of the convent, and devoted herself with

regularity to its prescribed studies, yet with no more real interest

than before.

In the early part of 1820, Madame Dupin the elder fell seriously ill,

and, believing that her life would soon close, she desired her

granddaughter's return to Nohant. The lapse of time and the more serious

disposition of the latter were calculated to help Aurore in the cares of

the household that now devolved upon her, and in the nursing of her

grandmother, to whom she devoted herself assiduously during the ten

months that remained of her life. Her religious enthusiasm underwent

some abatement after her return, and the temporary absences from Madame

Dupin's bedside were spent in melancholy reverie, interrupted by active

exercise. At the convent, she had been counselled by her spiritual

adviser not to entertain the idea of a nun's life, for which she had

expressed a desire, but to yield to temporal and physical diversions. At

home, she adopted a middle course, neglecting neither her religious nor

her temporal duties, while still bent on taking the veil at a later

period. It was at this time that she was taught horseback riding by her

half-brother Hippolyte, who had become a cavalryman. This exercise

became her favorite pastime, and by it she was able to break the

monotony of her life and enjoy the beauties of the surrounding country,

which, in its peaceful charm and its succession of gentle scenes, was in

harmony with her contemplative mind, and evoked the spirit of poetry

within her.

The consciousness of the insufficiency of the education she had hitherto

received now became apparent to Aurore, and she determined to effect her

own instruction. She therefore read eagerly, her convent teaching and

experience inclining her first to study works of Christian doctrine and

practice, though she pursued her reading with great indefiniteness of

plan. The perusal and comparison of the _Imitation of Christ_ with that

of Chateaubriand's _Génie du Christianisme_ involved her in serious

doubts and apprehensions; her faith in Catholicism was at least sincere,

but the reasonings and discrepancies she found in these works were such

as to appeal to her intelligence while puzzling her faith in the

doctrines. In the orderly obedience to the teachings of the Romish

church rendered in the quiet convent, there was nothing to weaken the

faith in the system; but face to face with the practice of its tenets,

and in view of its inconsequence, apparently, in the lives of the

country people by whom she was surrounded, formidable difficulties arose

in her conscience. The same wholeness of character and independence of

judgment that had hitherto marked her conduct forbade her to give

adhesion to principles which were at variance with her reason and

conscience. To her, the practice of the confession and the doctrine that

salvation could be obtained only by those within the pale of the

orthodox Catholic communion were absolutely unacceptable. In her eager

search for the truth, she studied the works of the

philosophers--Aristotle, Montaigne, Bacon, Pascal, Bossuet, Locke,

Leibnitz, Montesquieu, Mably, Condillac. Of these, she preferred

Leibnitz, and, speaking of her study of this author, she says: "In

reading Leibnitz, I unconsciously became a Protestant." She could not

conceive of that being right which denied the liberty of conscience. So

far, the result, however, was, as might have been expected, much

knowledge of opinions, yet no very definite conviction, or clear

establishment of principles; but the desire to arrive at a true ideal

faith was intensified.

After the philosophers, came the moralists and poets: La Bruyère,

Virgil, Dante, Shakespeare, Milton, Byron, Pope. These writers were read

by the young girl with insatiable delight; but, as in the case of the

philosophers, without system. Thought piled on thought, principle

jostled against principle; all rapidly mastered and sympathetically

appreciated. The master was yet to be found, but he was at hand.

Jean-Jacques Rousseau's charm of eloquence and powerful logic gave her a

halting-point for her reason, and pointed the way to her. Her already

relaxed hold on Catholicism was now released.

The mental strain and emotional conflict of such studies resulted,

naturally enough, in a complete nervous exhaustion, and her will was

incompetent to enable her to formulate the truth, to comprehend the

doctrines, or even to fix her choice. Her intellect did not fail her, or

her memory betray her; but, in the confusion of her ideas, she lapsed

into a deep melancholy, which resulted in a disgust of life. She mused

on death, and, she says, often contemplated it, rarely seeing the river

without mentally expressing: "How easy it would be! Only one step to

take!" To the oft-recurring question _yes_, or _no_? as to the plunge

into the limpid stream whose waters would forever still the tumult of

her mind, she one day answered _yes_; but, happily, the mare she rode

into the deep water to carry out her purpose, by a magnificent bound

frustrated its rider's intent and saved the life of the woman who was to

thrill so many readers with her passionate prose-poems.

During this period, Aurore Dupin manifested, in her intrepidity in

horsemanship and in her independence of conventionality in respect of

her exercises and costume, the same spirit that so often brought her

under the ban of heedless criticism. It was her custom to don boys'

clothes on her expeditions, that she might with perfect freedom enjoy

the riding and shooting which were now her favorite pastimes. But this

course brought upon her the condemnation of her strict neighbors at La

Châtre, who regarded such departures from the prevailing customs as

evidences of eccentricity and ill-manners.

The death of her grandmother, in December, 1821, opened a new phase in

Aurore's life. The efforts which Madame Dupin the elder had made during

life to withdraw the girl from the influence of her mother were

perpetuated in her will, by which she appointed her nephew, Comte René

de Villeneuve, the guardian of her granddaughter, to whom she had left

her property. On the reading of the will, the relations between Aurore's

paternal and maternal families were completely severed. Madame Dupin was

not ignorant of the clause of the will which sought to deprive her of

the guardianship of her daughter, and which was not valid in law, and

she resisted its application. As the result of discussion, it was agreed

that Deschartres, the trusted adviser of the late Madame Dupin, should

be appointed as co-guardian with Aurore's mother. Deschartres was left

in charge of Nohant, and Madame Dupin took her daughter with her to

Paris. Here her life was by no means happy; the mother she idolized

seems to have suffered in temper from the troubles and checks she had

undergone, and her capricious outbursts of anger were only exasperated

by her daughter's gracious and yielding way. In her mother, Aurore

failed to find the guide that her nature required, and to a certain

extent she was neglected by her. It is not surprising to find,

therefore, that the young girl was ready to welcome any change that

would relieve the irritation she endured.

The opportunity presented itself in a visit to the country home of some

friends whose acquaintance Madame Dupin had recently made. In the lovely

home of the Duplessis family, Aurore was cheered by the companionship of

young people and the bright society found at the house. Madame Dupin

left her daughter with her friends, promising that she would come for

her "next week," but she was persuaded to permit the stay to continue

for five months. Here Aurore met the man whom she deliberately chose for

her husband. He was a friend of her hosts, Lieutenant Casimir Dudevant,

twenty-seven years old, and the natural son of Colonel Dudevant, a

Gascon landowner, who had been created a Baron of the Empire for his

services under Napoleon. The marriage of the colonel having proved

childless, he had acknowledged Casimir, and provided for his succession

to his property.

On seeing Mademoiselle Dupin, the lieutenant at once took a liking to

her, and this feeling was soon reciprocated by the young girl. The

officer does not appear to have been a very romantic suitor, but at

least he seems to have been sincere; and the fortunes of the parties

being equal, a reasonable prospect of happiness presented itself in a

marriage between them. The lieutenant ere long proposed marriage to

Aurore, adding: "It is not customary, I know, to propose marriage to the

intended affianced; but, mademoiselle, I love you. I am unable to resist

telling you of my sentiments, and if you find my appearance not too

displeasing--in a word, if you are willing to accept me as your husband,

I will make my intentions known to Madame Dupin; if, however, you reject

me, I should deem it useless to trouble your mother."

This frank but blunt proposal rather pleased Aurore; it was entirely

unconventional. Madame Dupin added her persuasion, as she considered the

offer a suitable one, and, the consent of Colonel Dudevant having been

obtained, the marriage was solemnized in September, 1822. An incident

involved in the preliminaries to the marriage is worthy of notice, as

evidence of the generous feelings and tender regard of Aurore for her

old and pedantic tutor, Deschartres. Being called upon to render the

accounts of his management of his ward's estate, he could not explain a

deficit of eighteen thousand francs, for the expenditure of which he

could not produce receipts. He was dumfounded; Madame Dupin threatened

to cause his arrest; but her daughter, moved to pity at the old man's

distress, insisted on taking the blame on herself, explaining that the

sum represented money paid to her by Deschartres, for which she had

neglected to give him receipts. This generous course saved the old man

from disgrace, and perhaps ruin, for he was proposing to sell his own

pitiful estate to make good the deficit due to his mismanagement.

Soon after the marriage, Monsieur and Madame Dudevant took up their

residence on the bride's estate at Nohant. The life there for some time

was tranquil, if not entirely happy. The young wife seems to have

abandoned the life of the intellect, and soon her whole dream was of

maternity. Matrimony had already failed as the ideal life she may have

contemplated. The companionship of her husband was not that living force

she had pictured. Probably she had trusted too much to reason and

common-sense, and certainly she had married in ignorance of her

husband's character and tastes, and, it may be, in ignorance of her own.

At any rate, she was not yet unhappy.

In July, 1823, Maurice was born, her beloved son, he who was to be the

comfort and joy of her life in all its troubles, and in whom the mother

was to find a compensation for the sorrows of the wife. From the time

his son was born, Monsieur Dudevant seems to have neglected his wife; he

was of a rather interfering disposition, and, moreover, given to the

pleasures of hunting, in pursuit of which he frequently left his wife as

early as two or three o'clock in the morning. The young wife, whose

health was not robust, and whose disposition led her to desire the

society of her husband, at first mildly reproached him for his absence,

but the effect was only momentary; happily, the joys of motherhood

consoled her, at least for a time, and matters progressed placidly.

The seclusion of the life at Nohant was first interrupted in 1824, when

a visit was made to Paris and to the home of the Duplessises. Later, in

1825, a journey was taken to some of the watering-places in the

Pyrenees, where it was hoped Madame Dudevant's health would be

reëstablished, and by means of which the young wife also hoped to bring

about a change in her husband's habits. To this trip, which was to be

made more entertaining by the company of two friends of her convent

life, Madame Dudevant looked with eager interest; for, in a letter to

Madame Dupin, written in June, 1825, she says: "I shall be most happy at

once more seeing the Pyrenees, which I scarcely remember, but which

everybody describes as offering incomparably lovely scenery."

The stay of a few months among the mountains proved of great physical

benefit to Madame Dudevant. In her letters to her mother, she describes

with almost childish glee the excursions she made, the daring feats she

undertook, and the beauty of the scenery. But the hope of changed

manners on the part of her husband was not realized; his treatment on

their return continued as before; when not engaged in his favorite

pastime of hunting, he indulged in the pleasures of the table.

The duties of a mother and a housewife now seemed to absorb Madame

Dudevant's thoughts; yet, while outwardly calm and dignified, the

experience she was gaining of conjugal life, which had destroyed all her

illusions, was establishing her views on the relations of husband and

wife and formulating her ideal of satisfied love. It cannot be doubted

that her earlier works, especially _Indiana_, are the pathetic and

passionate voice of her soul, long silenced by her obligations as wife

and mother; for in a letter to Madame Dupin, written in May, 1831,

Madame Dudevant writes: "I cannot bear even the shadow of coercion; that

is my principal defect. All that is imposed on me as a duty grows

detestable to me; what I can do without any interference, I do

whole-heartedly."

For a long time, the bitterness of her disappointment found no

confidant; and Monsieur Dudevant's interfering methods, and his

indifference to his wife's society, must have hourly wounded her

sensitive nature. In the letter last quoted, we read: "I hold liberty of

thought and freedom of action as the chief blessings in this world. If

to these are joined the cares of a family, then how immeasurably sweeter

life is; but where is one to find such a felicitous combination?" But

during the years in which her sorrows were accumulating, her letters to

those outside bear no sign of bitterness or anger. She endured her grief

and disappointment silently, so far as her friends were concerned. The

breach between the husband and the wife was, however, opening wider day

by day. In 1826, a letter to Madame Dupin tells of the life at Nohant

during the Carnival, and of the rustic wedding of two of her domestics,

in a cheerful and merry strain. Matters proceeded in this superficial

tranquillity, with no remarkable change, until the fall of 1828, when

the birth of her daughter, Solange, afforded a new interest and added

duties.

We glean from her letters that Madame Dudevant's health had given her

serious cause for anxiety; but plenty of outdoor life, and the duties of

the home, combined with her constitutional soundness, enabled her to

overcome this drawback; she writes to her mother, about this period, in

the same strain as before, describing her occupations and condition,

and, speaking of her husband, says: "Dear papa is very busy with his

harvest.... Dressed in a blouse, he is up at dawn, rake in hand....

As for us women, all day long we sit on corn-sheaves, that fill the

yard. We read and work much, hardly ever thinking of going out. We enjoy

a plenty of music." According to her own account, Madame Dudevant had

become a settled countrywoman.

In 1829, Monsieur and Madame Dudevant passed two months in Bordeaux and

at the home of her husband's mother; and on her return to Nohant in July

she resumed her quiet home life, restricting the circle of her friends

in conformity with her retired tastes. Here they enjoyed the society of

her half-brother and his wife. But the period of outward calm and

resignation to her condition was fast nearing its term. The relations

between the husband and the wife were rapidly growing worse. Among the

wife's occupations and diversions of this period were painting and

composition. Of the former, Madame Dudevant speaks with enthusiasm

later; already, in 1827, she had tried her hand at portrait-painting,

for in a letter to her mother she writes: "I send you a profile drawing

done from imagination; it is a regular daub. It is well that I should

tell you that it is intended as a representation of Caroline. I am the

only one who sees a likeness in it.... I also drew my own portrait.... Yet

I did not succeed better than with Caroline's.... I laugh in

its face on recognizing how pitiable it makes me look, so I dare not

send it." And again, early in February, 1830, she sends a portrait of

her son to her mother. It is well, as we shall soon see, that Madame

Dudevant was so little encouraged by her efforts. Yet of her literary

proclivities, which she also indulged by attempts at novel-writing, she

was certainly not convinced, and of her ability in this direction still

less so.

The education of her son Maurice had now become a matter of extreme

importance to Madame Dudevant. The boy was six years old, and she was

fortunate enough to secure as his tutor Monsieur Jules Boucoiran, of

Paris, who later became her trusted friend and the wise counsellor of

her son. How carefully Madame Dudevant still concealed her marital

wretchedness from even her mother is evidenced in a letter written in

December, 1829, in which she says: "What are you doing with my husband?

Does he take you to the theatre? Is he cheerful? Is he good-tempered?...

Make use of his arm while you can; make him laugh, for he is always

as gloomy as an owl while he is in Paris." The crisis which finally

separated the husband and wife was brought about by a discovery that

wounded the already stricken heart beyond endurance. Monsieur Dudevant

had become even brutal in his conduct; he had gone so far as actually to

strike his wife.

One day, Madame Dudevant, while looking for something in her husband's

desk, chanced upon a package addressed to herself, and bearing the

direction: _To be opened only on my death_. Deeming that her health did

not promise her survival of her husband, and seeing that the package was

addressed to her, Madame Dudevant, anxious to know the estimation in

which her husband held her, opened the package. Her letter to Monsieur

Boucoiran, dated December 3, 1830, best tells the revelation. She

writes: "Good God! what a will! For me nothing but maledictions. He had

heaped up therein all his violence of temper and ill-will against me,

all his reflections concerning my perversity, all his contempt for my

character. And that was what he had bequeathed me as his token of

affection! I believed that I was dreaming, I, who hitherto had been

obstinately shutting my eyes and refusing to see that I was scorned. The

reading of that will at last aroused me from my slumber.... My

decision was taken, and, I dare declare, irrevocably."

Madame Dudevant at once informed her husband of her decision to leave

him, and of the motives thereof. The explanations that followed led to

an arrangement whereby Madame Dudevant was to receive from her husband

an income of about three thousand francs, and to spend one-half of the

year at Nohant and the other half in Paris. The care she took to keep

the secret of her troubles from the world, for the sake of her children,

may be understood from her letters. She desired that it should be

supposed that she was leading a "separate life," hoping that, by her

alternate residence in Paris and at Nohant, her husband would "learn

circumspection." She writes to Monsieur Boucoiran, on December 8, 1830:

"I must confess I am distressed at the thought that the secret of my

domestic affairs may become known to others besides you.... The good

understanding which, notwithstanding my separation from my husband, I

desire to maintain in all that concerns my son, will compel me to act

with as much caution when absent as when with him." The momentous step

which was to result in Madame Dudevant's entire liberty of action, and,

above all, in her giving to the world the masterpieces which soon

rendered her famous, was taken in the early days of January, 1831, when,

leaving her children, and her home at Nohant, with its cherished

associations, she set out for Paris, armed with letters of introduction

to one or two literary men, given her by friends at La Châtre.

But there was yet a wide chasm to be gulfed. Her equipment for the life

of independence she contemplated was, in a material sense, very limited.

Her income was insufficient to secure her the luxuries she had enjoyed

at Nohant, and to which her tastes inclined. Her stout heart and

indomitable will were, however, not to be shaken. She had cast the die.

She would not face the humiliation of failure and a retreat from the

position she had created. But live she must, and in her endeavors to

secure a livelihood she sought to employ the accomplishments she had

acquired. At first, she attempted translating, believing that her

knowledge of English, obtained at the convent, would provide her the

necessary income; but in this she was doomed to disappointment. Then,

too, millinery and dressmaking proved profitless, in spite of long hours

of daily toil. Somewhat better results attended her efforts to gain a

sufficient subsistence by art. The pastime at Nohant now stood her in

stead to some degree. She made a limited success in miniature paintings

for fancy articles, such as cigar-cases, snuff-boxes, and tea-caddies.

But she still failed in her purpose. So nearly, however, had she adopted

art as a profession, that it appears that, had she not been discouraged

by the price secured on one occasion, her energies would have been

directed away from the field in which she attained her glory!

It is curious to find Madame Dudevant hesitating in her choice between

literature and art. The decision was not long before being reached,

happily for the world of literature, though it cannot be claimed that

the choice was quite voluntary, if we may judge by her letters. Writing

to Monsieur Boucoiran on January 13, 1831, she says: "I am embarking on

the stormy sea of literature. For one must live," and, later, to

Monsieur Duvernet she says that only the "profits of writing tempt my

material and positive mind." That a dominant inclination for letters

possessed her, however, is surely indicated in her early attempts at

composition; even during the previous autumn, while at Nohant, she had

wrought out a kind of romance in her grandmother's boudoir, with her

children at her side, of which she says: "Having penned it, I was

convinced that it was of no value, but that I might do less badly."

The decisive first step in her literary career was due probably more to

the advice of Jules Sandeau than to any other cause; for, spite of the

rare qualities she possessed, Madame Dudevant was diffident as to her

powers. Jules Sandeau was, like herself, a native of Berry; they had

formed each other's acquaintance at Nohant some time before the

separation between Monsieur and Madame Dudevant. On receiving her

confidences as to her straitened circumstances, Sandeau advised Madame

Dudevant to adopt the literary career. It was soon arranged that the two

should collaborate in writing an article for the _Figaro_, which was

accepted with so much encouragement that others soon followed. Writing

of this arrangement to Monsieur Duvernet, Madame Dudevant says: "I have

resolved to associate him with my labors, or myself with his, as you may

please to put it. Be it as it may, he lends me his name, as I do not

wish mine to appear."

But the way to fame, though rapid, was not without discouragement. A

novelette had been accepted by the _Revue de Paris_, but its publication

was delayed in favor of known authors, and, meantime, the future

favorite was scribbling articles for the _Figaro_, at the price of seven

francs a column, which, she remarks, "enables me to eat and drink, and

even attend the play." The drawbacks and discouragements she suffered

were many; she writes to Monsieur Duvernet, in February, 1831: "Had I

foreseen half the difficulties I encounter, I should never have entered

on the career. But, the more the obstacles I meet with, the greater is

my determination to go forward.... We must have a passion in life."

But, spite of this "passion," our author began her lifework under

circumstances that might well have intimidated a less ardent and

determined person. Her imperfect and fragmentary education; her crude

and ill-digested ideas of social life; the bitter memories and smarts of

domestic life; the disillusionment she had suffered in her hopes of

marriage,--all these were sore obstacles; but she still had unbounded

faith, a sympathetic mind and heart; and her poetic nature cast a lustre

over all her thoughts. If she had no precise ideal, no well-matured

method, if she lacked experience of the under-currents that swayed

social and political circles, she was endowed with keen perceptive

faculties and a rapid insight into character. She loved Nature

passionately, and to the cry of human sorrow her heart was quickly

responsive.

During these first struggles in the literary path, Madame Dudevant's

letters to her son and his tutor manifest her constant anxiety as to the

welfare of those she had left behind, and of her longing for the time

when, in accordance with her arrangements with Monsieur Dudevant, she

could be with her children again. There is no touch of pride or

vainglory in her naïve confessions, nor does she claim for herself any

but an amateur's position in the world of letters. She writes to

Monsieur Duvernet: "I nevertheless long to go back to Berry; for my

children are dearer than all else. But for the hope of some day being

more useful to them with the pen of the scribe than with the needle of

the housewife, I should not be away from them so long. In spite,

however, of the innumerable difficulties I encounter, I am resolved to

take the first steps in this thorny career."

Soon after the appearance of the articles in the _Figaro_, the two

fellow-provincials produced a novel entitled _Rose et Blanche, ou la

Comédienne et la Religieuse_ (Rose and Blanche, or the Actress and the

Nun), which, through the good offices of Monsieur de Latouche, the

director of the _Figaro_, also a native of Berry, to whom Madame

Dudevant had been recommended by the Duvernets of La Châtre, realized

four hundred francs. A difficulty arose touching the name of the author,

which must be published with the work. Sandeau was in a quandary, for he

risked incurring the reprobation of his relatives, who were averse to

his entering upon literature to the prejudice of his law studies, should

his name appear; while Madame Dudevant dreaded a scandal, if she were

named as the author. As a result, a compromise was effected, and the

book appeared as the work of _Jules Sand_.

The freedom required by Madame Dudevant in her new profession she soon

found was greatly hampered by her sex; it was almost indispensable to

visit many places from which women were generally barred; consequently,

she adopted male attire, apparently at the suggestion of Madame Dupin,

to whom such disguise was not infrequent in the course of her travels

with her husband. For this shocking procedure she has been unnecessarily

condemned; but her own explanation of the causes, and its advantages,

seem to justify the singular course. Madame Dudevant was a singular

woman; moreover, she found herself shackled in the execution of her

new-found aims. The obstacles had to be overcome, and without fuss or

parade she brushed the difficulty aside by the most direct means

available. Under her disguise, she was free to enter cafés, theatres,

lounge about the boulevard, visit picture-galleries, come and go at all

hours, attended or otherwise--in a word, mix with all sorts and

conditions, to gather the raw material which her rare skill enabled her

to spin into such charming and provoking articles as she was at the time

writing. But hardly had Madame Dudevant made her début as a journalist,

when she found herself within measurable distance of La Force (a prison

to which political offenders were consigned), in consequence of an

article in the _Figaro_; for on March 9, 1831, she says in a letter to

Monsieur Boucoiran: "You must know that I began with a scandal, a tilt

at the National Guards. The issue of the _Figaro_ of the day before

yesterday was pounced upon by the police. I was making my preparations

to spend six months at La Force, for I had decided that I would shoulder

the responsibility for my article. Monsieur Vivien, however, foresaw how

ridiculous such a prosecution would be, and caused the proceedings to be

abandoned. All the worse for me! My reputation and fortune might have

been made by a political conviction."

While the choice of literature as a career seems not to have aroused any

opposition on the part of her own kin, the case was different as to her

husband's. Baroness Dudevant dreaded the possibility of the name she

bore appearing in printed books; but such a circumstance was not

contemplated, and the baroness's dignity was saved.

The success of _Rose et Blanche_, in spite of its defects, was such as

to pave the way for further novels. It was arranged between its joint

authors that a new novel, entitled _Indiana_, should be prepared by

them. On Madame Dudevant's return to Nohant for three months, she set

about her part, and on reaching Paris in July, 1831, she called upon

Sandeau, to submit her contribution; her collaborator had not even

written a line of his share. Reading her work, he deemed it a

masterpiece, and, notwithstanding the objections of Madame Dudevant,

insisted on its publication as her sole production. A new difficulty

here presented itself, but at the suggestion of Monsieur de Latouche it

was solved by the use of their common literary name _Sand_, with the

prefix _George_. This incident gave to the world the name which was soon

to acquire such fame. Henceforward we shall speak of Madame Dudevant as

_George Sand_.

During her early struggles in Paris, the mother and friend is never lost

in the enthusiastic and impulsive writer; her letters to her son, to his

tutor, and to other friends, present a very intelligible reflex of her

mind. She is not to be turned back because she does not meet with

success at once. A close observer of all that is going on about her, she

is a lively critic, and an equally enthusiastic supporter; she finds

enjoyment anywhere "where hatred, suspicion, injustice, and bitterness

do not poison the atmosphere." Her children's welfare is the burden of

her mind. Her letters are full of tenderness and a complete entering

into their joys and pleasures, and are charged with wise and interesting

counsel.

With the publication of _Indiana_, George Sand's renown was established.

In a letter to Monsieur Duvernet, written July 6, 1832, she says: "The

success of _Indiana_ makes me feel nervous. I never looked for anything

like it; but hoped that I might labor without attracting notice, or

deserving attention. But the Fates have willed otherwise. It is my part

to justify the unmerited favor shown to me." While the authorship of

this book was an enigma to many critics, the public seized on the work

with avidity. Its success was beyond all cavil. People recognized in it

a master hand tracing a new path in romance-writing. We are forbidden by

George Sand to consider the book as a romance history of herself, for

she always protested against her works being interpreted as

autobiographical; still, we might almost say that _Indiana_ came into

the world ready-made. Its conception at least was, as it were, the

burden of her musings in the quiet hours at Nohant. Her ideal was formed

of a loving, tender woman, a woman with a heart that beat only for

chaste and profound love, love controlling all, pure in itself, and

believing all else to be pure. Unquestionably, the work was the

spontaneous outburst of the long-indulged dreams of the disappointed

woman. All the accessories to her central idea were not far to seek, and

her marvellous imaginative power and poetic fancy sufficed to clothe her

ideas with an artistic mantle that would obscure the individuality. Of

course, Colonel Delmare is not Maurice Dudevant. Nor is Ralph found in

the life about her: he is the creature of her idea.

With the success of _Indiana_, George Sand found publishers seeking her

work, both the _Revue de Paris_ and the _Revue des Deux Mondes_ engaging

her services. The irritation of compulsion to work was now largely

removed; even in the early part of February, 1832, she writes to her

mother: "I can now take it quietly, without worrying myself. If I

sometimes work by night, it is simply because I cannot leave a thing

half finished." On her return to Paris in April of the same year, she

was accompanied by her little daughter, Solange, who was then between

three and four years old, and the mother's letters to her son tell of

the doings of his little sister, and show how good is the distraction

thus afforded to the mother. The visits to the Luxembourg, the Jardin

des Plantes, the circus, all the little talk that could please and

comfort her boy, the fond mother pours out in child-like, easy prattle

that bespeaks her entire sympathy with her children.

Again at Nohant for the summer, George Sand applied herself strenuously

to the composition of _Valentine_; so closely, indeed, that, if she is

to be taken seriously as to a letter written in August, 1832, she was

rather weary of her work. At any rate, its early issue was marked by so

brilliant a success, that the labor and weariness of her task may well

have been forgotten. This book, like its predecessor, was severely

criticised by those who saw in it an outspoken challenge to recognized

social decrees. With what wealth of poetry, what beauty of imagery, and

what force, is told the story of a girl sacrificed by a marriage of

expediency! The crime is not the author's; she strikes at the system

which destroys a pure heart and substitutes misery and shame for

happiness and dignity. The author would trace the fault, to have it

remedied.

Though the subject of _Valentine_ is, like that of _Indiana_, unhappy

marriage, the former, in arrangement, plan, and style, gave further

convincing evidence of the author's artistic skill and promise of rich

literary treasures of diverse and widely varying style and conception.

Valentine, the heroine, has been brought up according to the prejudices

and decrees of the aristocratic class. She marries in accordance with

the dictates of her family. Her heart is not involved; she is passive in

the matter. Later, the abandonment she suffers, and the passion of her

own soul, lead her into a false position, of which the man who is

entitled to call her his wife takes advantage. The climax is dishonor,

death.

The winter of 1832 finds George Sand again in Paris, where she is

comfortably settled; she finds herself bothered with visitors, but out

of the clutches of poverty. In her apartments, she seeks her pleasure in

her work and the society of her little Solange, of whom she writes at

this time: "She brings me more happiness than all the rest." In a letter

to her son's tutor, written December 20, 1832, she says: "I am making

lots of money; I am receiving propositions from all quarters. The _Revue

de Paris_ and the _Revue des Deux Mondes_ are fighting for my work. I

finally bound myself to the latter." _La Marquise_ had just been

published, the novel having been received with great favor. Thus, within

two years from the time she came to Paris to seek liberty of action and

thought, wounded in her faith and affection, and her hopes entirely

shattered of realizing any joy in her husband's society, George Sand had

overthrown all obstacles in the path before her, and had become a

distinguished personality in the world of letters.

In her next work, _Lélia_, written in 1833, the author's riotous

imagination produced a poem--for such it is--which was regarded as

another manifestation of the wide range of her faculties. The book,

however, is now regarded as important chiefly from the fact that George

Sand confessedly pictures herself more closely therein than in any other

of her works. She writes to Monsieur François Rollinat: "This book will

enable you to know the depth of my soul, and also that of your own."

Again she says later, in 1836, in a letter to Mademoiselle de Chantepie:

"_Lélia_ ... contains more of my inmost self than any other book."

Again, writing in 1842, she says: "Lélia is not offered as an example

to be followed, but as a martyr who may arouse thoughts in his judges

and executioners, those who pronounce the law, and those who execute it....

I have never preached a doctrine; I do not feel that I am

intelligent enough to do so."

It was after the publication of _Lélia_ that George Sand first became

personally acquainted with Alfred de Musset, then a young man of

twenty-three, but already of established fame as a dramatist and poet.

That this acquaintance should have rapidly matured into a close

friendship is not surprising. On her part, George Sand felt that she had

encountered a soul that understood her own, while De Musset was equally

enchanted with her. Before the year 1833 had closed, the two attached

friends had started for Italy, full of the hope of continued mutual

happiness. It is unnecessary here to trace the history of their

friendship in detail; it is certain that the mental sufferings and the

unsatisfied heart-cravings of George Sand had rendered her morbid. Her

letters to friends, written before her journey to Italy, show that she

realized too well the hollowness of society to lean upon it for

guidance, or even distraction. She says, writing in July: "Of the things

I hate or contemn, society is the least." To her, therefore, the

companionship of De Musset must have seemed as refreshing as rain to a

parched land. In speaking of the separation that followed in April,

1834, when De Musset, still very weak from a sickness, left Venice for

Paris, accompanied by a Venetian physician, she writes: "We have parted,

perhaps only for a few months; perhaps for ever. Only God knows what

will become of my poor head and heart. I feel that I possess strength

enough to live, toil, and endure." The story of this painful effort of

genius to lead and ennoble genius is told with much interest in _Elle et

Lui_ (She and He), which appeared more than twenty-five years later.

The Italian journey was of immense influence on the future literary

labors of the novelist. While in Venice, she worked hard in order to pay

off the debt due to her publishers for the money advanced for the

journey. Here she wrote _André_, _Jacques_, _Mattea_, and the first

_Lettres d'un Voyageur_. Here she toiled while suffering from

disappointment and consumed with longing to be with her children again.

Of these works, _Jacques_ presents her ideal of a true, loving man;

whose passion is deep and exalted, whose soul faints at the prospect of

faithlessness; whose self-devotion leads to abandonment of every right,

even to self-destruction by suicide in order to shield the beloved woman

from the disgrace of an unlawful joy and the consequences of a

dishonored happiness. Of the other tales mentioned, it may be said that

_André_ offers a style quite distinct from all the author's previous

works. The burden of the tale still is love, but love in a weak and

docile nature, which yields to its elevating influence, only to be

crushed. The early _Lettres d'un Voyageur_ have a charm that none of the

later ones possess; they tell of the journeys in the Alps and in the

vicinity of the Tyrol; of the author's lonely musings in Venice; of the

sorrow that weighed on her heart.

In August, George Sand was once more back in Paris, making her

arrangements to visit Nohant again, which she reached before the close

of the month. In describing her journey through Switzerland, she relates

that she had walked three hundred and fifty leagues; yet, with all the

change of scene and novelty of surroundings, a deep melancholy settled

in her heart. She writes to Monsieur Boucoiran on August 31, 1834, from

Nohant: "I felt that I had come to bid adieu to my birthplace, to all

the memories of my youth and childhood; for you must have perceived and

divined that life is hereafter hateful, even impossible, for me, and

that I have seriously made up my mind to end it before long." Again, in

the same letter: "I am very desirous of having a long chat with you, and

of confiding to you the fulfilment of my last and sacred wishes." But

the presence of friends of sympathetic natures and the care of her

children served to dissipate the cloud that had settled on her mind; as

she says shortly after, she was "cured, ... because, having become

accustomed and resigned to my sorrows, my judgment is no longer led

astray by my grief."

Affairs at Nohant for some time after her return from Italy must have

added greatly to her unusual mental disturbance; she continued to reside

alternately at Paris and Nohant, in accordance with the agreement made

in 1830, but the arrangement was becoming irksome. Monsieur Dudevant's

management of the estate that his wife had relinquished to him was

anything but satisfactory, and, moreover, with the growth of her

children, George Sand became increasingly anxious as to their control

and care. The complete rupture between herself and De Musset, which was

attended with very painful and stormy incidents, augmented her anxiety

and grief during the winter of 1834-1835.

By this time, George Sand's fame had surrounded her with a large circle

of friends, which included the most eminent men of the day; among them

were the leaders of the various schools that contended for the mastery

in matters of social progress. To them the eloquent author appeared as a

much-to-be-desired ally; their theories would enjoy greater popularity

if they could be presented in the entertaining and passionate language

and clothed with the poetic imagery of the highly talented author of

_Indiana_ and _Valentine_. In the spring of the year 1835, she became

acquainted with Monsieur de Lamennais whose freedom of thought and

humanitarian Christianity were well suited to George Sand's

predilections, and secured the approval of her intelligence, which had

rebelled against the bigoted teachings of the Roman Catholic Church.

Hence, for a time, her genius was directed by the philosophy of this

eminent teacher, and she wrote for his journal, _Le Monde_, an

unfinished series styled _Lettres à Marcie_. It is not surprising that

George Sand's enthusiasm should have been aroused by the liberal

doctrines set forth by this liberal-minded advocate of religious and

social progress. Her natural generosity, the whole experience of her

life, led her to espouse his views with the fervor of a devotee; and it

seems certain from her letters that her troubled mind was soothed by the

righteous and humane principles which she conceived the new movement to

embody. She says in her letter to Monsieur Adolphe Guéroult, dated May

6, 1835: "You are in error if you consider me more _fretful_ now than in

the past. Just the reverse, I am less so. Great men and great thoughts

are constantly before me." The same correspondent appears to have taken

George Sand mildly to task for her custom of appearing in men's clothes;

and it may not be uninteresting to quote from her reply, as the best

indication of her position as to this question. She writes: "It is

better that you should not trouble yourself concerning my garments. It

is a very small matter what kind of costume I wear in my study, and my

friends will, I trust, respect me equally whether I wear a vest or a

shift. I never appear out of doors in men's clothes without taking a

stick with me; so do not feel alarmed. My fancy for wearing a frock-coat

occasionally, and under certain circumstances, will not accomplish a

revolution in my life."

About the same time, she made the acquaintance of the advocate Michel,

of Bourges, whose advanced views on politics, enunciated so eloquently,

had acquired for him great renown. A third person also subjected her

generous instincts to his philosophical teachings--Pierre Leroux, whose

acquaintance she made at this period. George Sand's emotional nature was

easily captivated by the eloquent pleadings and close reasonings of

these men. She spoke from her heart; she says of herself: "I easily

relapse into a wholly sentimental and poetical existence without

doctrines and systems." The influence of these leaders is found stamped

on the novels of this period, as well as in the _Lettres d'un Voyageur_.

It is clear that at this time the relations of the husband and the wife

were undergoing a strain that threatened an early further change. In

May, 1835, Monsieur Dudevant prepared and signed an agreement which was

forwarded to his wife for her signature, but which she returned torn up.

Explaining this incident, she writes to Monsieur Duteil, of La Châtre:

"I also perceive that grief and bad feeling on his part would attend the

division of our home and means.... I therefore return to you the

agreements that he signed; moreover, I return them torn up, so that he

may have only the trouble of burning them, in case he should in the

least degree regret the arrangement prepared and set out by himself."

This matter dragged on until the fall, and it is not difficult to

realize how much the situation in which George Sand was placed grieved

and chafed her. Some evidence is found in her own words, written in

June, 1835: "Our society is still completely hostile to those who run

counter to its institutions and prejudices, and women who realize the

need of freedom, but are not yet ripe for it, are wanting both in

strength and power to maintain the combat against an entire society

which has, to say the least, decreed for them abandonment and misery."

Her chief anxiety in this domestic misfortune was as to her children's

welfare and control. She was jealous of their affection for her. Her

letters to her son at this period are full of the tender solicitude she

feels; she puts before him a high standard for his life's guidance, and

strives to inculcate unselfish love as a consoling virtue. She betrays

her anxiety lest her children should be separated from her. Finally, in

the autumn of 1835, she applied to the courts for a legal decision that

should give her the definite and valid settlement which Monsieur

Dudevant had previously voluntarily agreed to, but had since avoided.

George Sand proposed to pay her husband a yearly income of three

thousand eight hundred francs, which, in addition to the small remnant

of the income from his own fortune, would make a total revenue of five

thousand francs. She was to undertake the charge of her children's

education, and to have possession of Nohant. Even in this crisis, the

wife's respect for the father of her children is in clear evidence. She

writes to her mother in October: "If my husband will be amenable to

propriety and duty, neither of my children will love one of their

parents at the expense of the other." This suit was delayed, and a final

issue was not obtained till the middle of 1836, a decision rendered in

February in her favor, by default, having been appealed against. During

this period of unrest, George Sand actually contemplated, in case she

failed, running away to America with her children.

The months that had passed, however, were not without literary fruit.

The works of the first period or style, besides those already mentioned,

include _Leone Leoni_, 1835; _Simon_, _Lavinia_, and _Metella_, 1836.

She also rewrote _Lélia_ (of which she says: "Lélia is not myself ... but

she is my ideal."), modifying her first production of anger so

that it should "harmonize with that of gentleness." _Leone Leoni_ is a

tale of a woman's incurable love. The heroine is a bourgeoise, who has

been ensnared by the wiles of a Venetian nobleman. She endures manifold

sufferings and base indignities, yet her heart triumphs over her mind.

While she rebels against the thrall in which she is held, she cannot

break from it; and even when rescue is offered her by marriage with a

man of heart, and all has been arranged to this end, she forsakes him in

favor of the rascal who has wronged her. This morbid love, while

alluring enough, does not offer us the type of woman whom we find

attractive in the characters drawn by our author. In _Simon_, a new tone

is dominant; there is light in the mind, hope in the heart. Herein she

shows social prejudice overcome by deep and patient love.

The term of uncertainty due to the protracted legal proceedings had not

been an idle one, nor does it seem to have deadened George Sand's

appreciation of the external beauties of nature, or her enjoyment of

physical exercise; for she writes cheerfully of her horseback rides at

night, of the pleasure she takes in her surroundings at La Châtre,

where she is entertained by friends near her own home during the

pendency of the trial. She tells of the delight she experienced in

watching the transition from night to day, which she speaks of as a

"revolution apparently so uniform, but possessing a different character

every day." Those evening rides, how much inspiration they furnished for

the poet-novelist as she wandered along alone! how much of influence on

her marvellous creative mind! In that breaking dawn, indistinct and

fanciful, did she not see the image of society in its obscurity, and

dream of the dawn of its hoped-for emancipation from the gloom of

inequality and prejudice? She was once more face to face with nature,

her back was turned upon the vanities of the proud and the machinations

of the perverse. She was musing over the new teachings that had been

given her. She sought "to believe in no other God than he who preaches

justice and equality to men." How calming to her mind her communion with

nature was at this time, and how refreshing to her fancy, may be

inferred from her own words: "There is not a meadow, not a clump of

trees, which, bathed in a lovely and brilliant sun, does not seem

entirely Arcadian in my eyes. I teach you all the secrets of my

happiness." In the woods, the streams, the sky, and the stars, George

Sand found so many religious teachers. All her former spiritual

tendencies reawakened, she tells us that through her prayers, few and

poor though they were, she experienced a "foretaste of infinite

ecstasies and exaltations like those of my youth, when I used to believe

that I saw the Virgin, like a white spot on a sun which moved about me.

Now my visions are all about stars; but I begin to have strange dreams."

In September, 1836, after reëntering into possession of Nohant, George

Sand took her two children with her on a visit to her friend, the

Comtesse d'Agoult, at Geneva. In November, she was in Paris again, but

not in her old _poet's attic_, for she occupied a suite of apartments in

the Hôtel de France. Her son's health now occasioned her profound

trouble. Symptoms of consumption were apparent. In her distress, she

begs Monsieur Dudevant to aid her in her anxiety, and entreats him to

share her care in effecting their son's recovery. We are able to

understand her feelings and the rule of her conduct toward her children

in respect of their father by her letter to Monsieur Dudevant. She

pleads that their child's health stands before everything else; that, as

she encourages the boy's affection for his father, the latter should

abstain from thwarting his affection for his mother. She invites him to

come to her house as often as he pleases, and volunteers to keep out of

his way if her presence should be distasteful to Monsieur Dudevant. She

concludes: "What interest could there now be for us to attack each other

through the affection of a poor child who is all meekness and love?" A

short time later, the boy had recovered his health in the Berry home.

In the following year, George Sand wrote _Mauprat_. In this book is

traced the power of love over an impulsive heart that no culture of the

mind has influenced. A gentle woman, pure and gracious, bred in

accordance with the dictates of an aristocratic class, gives her love to

a boor, and, ignoring all conventional decrees, deliberately chooses to

drive the savage out of the nature of her lover, and by his very love

raise him to a level at which he stands her fellow and almost an

exemplar for even the best of men. George Sand's faith in the

transforming power of love is eloquently expressed in this work, in

which also she shows the influence of Jean-Jacques Rousseau.

In her letters of this period, we find her imbued with strong Republican

theories, insisting on the liberty and dignity of the individual, and

inveighing against monarchical principles. In the same year, _Les

Maîtres Mosaïstes_ appeared in the _Revue_. It was a short story,

written for her son, telling of the adventures of the Venetian

mosaic-workers. The character of Valerio, she says, was penned while she

had in mind her friend Calamatta, the artist, who painted one of George

Sand's portraits. Here we may give a word-picture of our author by

Heine, who was a frequent visitor with her in the Comtesse d'Agoult's

salon, and who saw much of George Sand at this period. "Her face might

perhaps be described as more beautiful than interesting, yet the cast of

her features is not severely antique, for it is softened by modern

sentiment, which enwraps them with a veil of sadness. Her forehead is

not lofty, and a wealth of most beautiful auburn hair falls on each side

of her head to her shoulders. Her nose is not aquiline and decided, nor

is it an intelligent little snub-nose. It is merely a straight and

ordinary one. A most good-humored, though not very attractive, smile

generally plays around her mouth; her lower lip, which is slightly

inclined to droop, seems to suggest fatigue. Her chin is plump, but very

beautifully formed, as are her shoulders, which are magnificent." So

much for her physical traits. From the same source we learn that her

voice was dull and muffled, with no sonorous tones, but sweet and

pleasant. Her conversation he describes as not being brilliant; that she

possessed absolutely none of the sparkling wit that distinguishes her

countrywomen; nor had she their inexhaustible power of chattering.

In the summer of 1837, the illness of Madame Dupin disturbed the

peaceful and pleasurable life that George Sand was enjoying at Nohant.

Hurrying to Paris, she remained with her mother during her last days,

but was not present at the moment of her death; for having received a

false alarm that her son had been abducted from Nohant, she had sent a

messenger there, and had herself gone to Fontainebleau to receive her

son, and during the night of her absence her mother had died. At

Fontainebleau, George Sand remained with her son for some weeks, riding

in the forest, gathering flowers, and chasing butterflies during the

daytime, and writing closely at night. It was here that she wrote _La

Dernière Aldini_, a novel reminiscent of Italy, and remarkable for its

brilliant style and exquisite descriptions. The patrician lady, her

daughter, and Lelio,--how distinct are the characters, how subtle the

scenes, and with what ease the current of the romance flows amid the

charming pictures that dazzle with their beauty!

_Le Secrétaire Intime_, _Lavinia_, and some others, also belong to this

period, which was one of constant labor; for the obligation now resting

on George Sand of maintaining her old home and providing for the

education and future of her children was a heavy burden. By the legal

decision of 1836, certain details of the arrangements between Monsieur

Dudevant and his wife had been left to private settlement, a

circumstance which brought about renewed conflict. The mother was in

constant dread lest her son should be kidnapped; indeed, in the case of

her daughter Solange, this actually appears to have been undertaken

during the mother's stay at Fontainebleau. Another arrangement was

effected, by which all future friction was avoided, and the charge and

education of Maurice, over whom his father had previously held joint

control, was henceforward to rest solely with Madame Sand.

In the winter following, in consequence of the unsatisfactory condition

of Maurice's health, a trip to Majorca was determined on, where it was

hoped that the climate and a few months' change would reinvigorate him.

The family was accompanied by the eminent composer, Chopin, who was

suffering from phthisis. The stay in the island, however, was attended

by the greatest inconveniences. Here George Sand devoted herself to the

education of her children, to the household cooking and cleaning, to the

care of her friend, and, lastly, to her literary labors. But the

discomfort and extortion were such as to render the visit unendurable,

and she left Spain with feelings of thankfulness for her departure, and

with her son's health reëstablished. The literary result of this stay

is _Un Hiver à Majorque_, of whose scenery she says: "It is the

promised land;" but of whose people she writes in the severest terms:

"They are devout, that is to say, fanatical and bigoted, as in the days

of the Inquisition. Friendship, loyalty, honor, exist here only in name.

The wretches! oh, how I detest and despise them!"

In the cells of Valdemosa, an old and deserted Carthusian monastery,

situated in a wild and noble landscape, George Sand found poetic

surroundings and associations that were so congenial that she says: "Had

I written there that part of _Lélia_ which has a monastery for its

scene, I should have produced a finer and more real picture." The

occupation of rooms in this lonely old retreat was perhaps the only

pleasurable feature of the stay in Majorca. It was here that _Spiridion_

was finished: a tale of a young monk who is filled with the fervor of

divine love, but who later strays from his simple faith as the result of

the agitations and doubts which philosophic teachings impart. This book

probably reflects the experience of the author, more particularly that

of her exaltation at the convent, and it also portrays her own spiritual

conflicts and the calm of a sincere, broad faith that rises above dogma

and rests secure in the divine love. After a short stay at Marseilles

and a trip to Italy, George Sand returned to her home at Nohant.

We have now approached a period when Madame Sand's literary work was to

show a change from the subjective lyricism of her previous works, which

are the voice of her long-repressed early emotions, to a series of works

in which she drew her inspiration largely from the religious,

philosophic, and socialistic doctrines that her impressionable mind had

espoused as expounding the true principles by which society and the

individual should govern themselves. But, in yielding her art to the

services of the reformers, George Sand had little thought for aught but

the goodness of the principles, as they appeared to her, or, at any

rate, had not taken measure of the practical difficulties within the

circle of the reformers and those which passive resistance on the part

of the great masses offered.

Before, however, the first of her books of the quasi-philosophical style

appeared, our author made an essay as a playwright, and _Cosima_, a

drama in five acts, was produced at the Théâtre Français. It was

received with hisses and hooting.--George Sand writes of it, on May 1,

1840: "The whole audience condemned the play as being immoral, and I am

not sure that the Government will not prohibit it.... It was played

through, being much attacked by some, and equally defended by

others, ... and I will not alter a single word for the subsequent

representations." The scene was laid in Florence, and the period was the

Middle Ages, both time and place being unsuited to the wholly French

sentiment of the play.

Madame Sand had for some time been a regular contributor to the _Revue

des Deux Mondes_, but the novel _Horace_, written for its pages, was

rejected by the editor as being of subversive tendencies; it was,

therefore, published in the _Revue Indépendante_, a very advanced

journal founded in 1840 by Pierre Leroux and Louis Viardot, to which

George Sand gave her coöperation. This work portrays in its study of

the titular character a sort of moral mountebank; the analysis is very

clever and interesting of the weak, selfish man who for a time imposes

with his claims for distinction, but who appears in his true light at

last. Next came the _Compagnon du Tour de France_, in which socialist

doctrines are the animating spirit. Though the freedom of the author's

fancy clothes the subject and the characters with great interest and

portrays many charming situations, yet there is a strained and not

seldom unwelcome contrast presented by the necessity of keeping the

individuals in line with the political purpose of the novel. Speaking of

her writing, about this time, George Sand says: "Happily, I do not need

to seek ideas; they are clearly fixed in my brain. I have no longer to

struggle with doubts; these vanished like clouds in the light of

conviction. I no longer have to examine my sentiments; their voice

sounds aloud from the depths of my heart, and puts to silence all

hesitation, literary pride, and fear of ridicule. So much has philosophy

done for me."

In 1842, the beginning of _Consuelo_ appeared in the _Revue

Indépendante_, and its opening was so auspicious that the scope

originally planned was considerably enlarged. The author tells us that

she felt she had before her a grand subject and powerful types of

character, with time, place, and historic incidents of deep interest, in

great profusion awaiting the explorer. The heroine of the work is a

lovely portraiture: lofty in mind, noble in heart, and chaste in

thought. _Consuelo_ must ever remain one of George Sand's finest

creations. The work abounds in interesting situations; the exuberant

fancy and poetic spirit of the author find full play in a series of

marvellous and fascinating adventures; and the characters are portrayed

with subtle skill and vigor. Nor can the prolixity and gloomy

meditations of Comte Albert check the reader's interest. The meeting of

Consuelo and Haydn and the wonderful musical performances of these

wayfarers present lovely and by no means impossible pictures. The

influence of George Sand's friendship with Liszt, who stayed at Nohant

during the summer of 1837, and with Chopin, with whom she was on equally

close terms, is seen in this work. The _Comtesse de Rudolstadt_ is

perhaps less likely to arouse enthusiasm and sustained interest;

Consuelo has become the Comtesse de Rudolstadt, and with the change not

a little of the charm disappears in the mystifying allegory and

humanitarian theories which obscure the artist's poetic fancy and

brilliant description. This work likewise appeared in the _Revue

Indépendante_, in 1843.

In 1845, George Sand wrote the _Meunier d'Angibault_, a work also

written under the influence of Leroux's teachings. The socialist idea is

presented in the person of an artisan, Lémor, who refuses to marry a

rich widow because she is rich, and, consequently, such a union would do

violence to his principles. Finally, a fire destroys the widow's

château, and she rejoices at her deprivation, inasmuch as she is now no

longer separated by the possession of her property from the man who

adores her. While this and similar works created for their author much

enmity, their characters presented nothing but virtuous, if

unrealizable, ideas. Following this, in 1846, appeared _La Mare au

Diable_, an exquisite idyl, a gem of rural poetry. We can well imagine

with what delight George Sand penned this touching and beautiful poem.

The construction is of the simplest form. A ploughman, a widower, is

about to seek a wife, as a prudential step; he undertakes the charge of

a young peasant girl who is going to fill a place as shepherdess a few

miles from her home. The way is lost, and they camp for the night under

great oaks. Here, Marie chats till overcome by sleep, but Germain

indulges in dreams which result in cooling his interest in his proposed

marriage venture. The rest is easily understood; Germain and Marie

become husband and wife. The incidents are all natural and the

dénouement quite expected. The reader cannot forget the charming story.

During the years since her final arrangement with Monsieur Dudevant, the

home life of George Sand had been one of tranquillity and ease. We find

her generally at Nohant, enjoying the society of her chosen friends; an

entertaining hostess, retiring in disposition, and giving of her means

with a liberal hand to those in need about her; caring with the

tenderest solicitude for the present happiness and future welfare of her

children; despising glory, and devoting herself to her literary work

with assiduity. In May, 1847, a domestic event of unusual importance

transpired. Madame Sand's daughter, Solange, was married to Monsieur

Clésinger, respecting which she writes to the famous Italian patriot,

Mazzini: "I have just married my daughter, and, as I believe,

satisfactorily, to an artist of great talent and purpose. My only

ambition for the dear creature was that she should love and be loved in

return; my wish is gratified."

In this same year, _Lucrezia Floriani_ appeared. The titular heroine is

a cantatrice of fame, which, however, she despises, and early in life

she retires from the world. Her noble character, which her experiences

had failed to mar, attracts the devoted attachment of a prince. His

protestations lead Lucrezia to think that each will find in the other

the happiness desired. But Prince Karol soon entertains jealous

sentiments concerning events of the earlier years of Lucrezia's life.

The misery consequent on the prince's despotism year by year crushes

Lucrezia's life. The chief interest in this work is, perhaps, due to the

persistent determination to read therein an attack on Chopin, whose

long-continued friendship with George Sand was broken at this time. The

evidences of such an attack certainly appear very unsubstantial, nor

does it seem that the eminent composer himself recognized it, at least

until he had been influenced to do so by others. She says of it herself

that it is "entirely an analytical and meditative work." It is a

masterful presentment of the inception, development, and destructive

culmination of jealousy.

In 1847, also, _Le Péché de Monsieur Antoine_ appeared, in which the

sentiments of Michel, of Bourges, find expression, and we cannot but

sympathize with the victims of the social and political systems that

George Sand depicts with so much energy and denunciatory style. We miss,

however, once more the spontaneous poetry, the vivid imagination, that

are natural to the writer, or, rather, it would be more correct to say

that the beauty of such is obscured by the dissertations that are

essential to the corrective aims in view. This vein of literary wealth

was happily interrupted by _Il Piccinino_, an engrossing novel of

Sicilian life. A family, owing to secret enmity, has been obliged to

seek refuge in Rome. After a time, the father and the daughter return to

Sicily, leaving the son and brother in Rome to pursue his art study. The

latter returns later, having been unable to make his way. He later sees

Princesse Agathe Palmarosa, whose kindly attentions to him have a

mysterious appearance, and he becomes deeply enamored of her. He finds

a terrible rival in Il Piccinino, a bandit, but the power of the

princess suffices to control the bandit, and it is discovered that the

young painter is the son of the princess. The style of the work, with

its romantic situations and fascinating adventures, and the strongly

accented characters make it remarkable.

_François le Champi_ next appeared, in the feuilleton of the _Journal

des Débats_. It is a simple pastoral of Berry, a centre sacred to

George Sand by her lifelong associations. She was familiar with every

detail of the landscape about her. Every nook and corner was filled with

eloquent voices that her ear understood. In this book she adopts the

dialect of the province. Madelon, a childless wife, is moved to pity for

the poor foundling, François; she supplies almost the place of a mother

to him, while he returns her affection as a son. Later, however, this

relation of love changes, and they become husband and wife. There is

little of intricacy in this rustic poem, but it exactly suits the genius

of the author. As to her choice of this dialect, it is not without

interest to read her own views thereon, which are expressed in her

letter to Mazzini of July 28, 1847: "I entertain great respect and

liking for the language of the peasants; in my judgment, it is the more

correct."

At this time, Madame Sand had undertaken to write the _Histoire de ma

Vie_, the source of many details given in this notice; and as a

commentary on the spirit of its author, we may quote some of her

remarks: "Our own lives are a part of our environments, and we can never

exonerate ourselves without being obliged to accuse somebody; sometimes

our best friend. But it is my desire to avoid accusing or wounding

anybody. That would be hateful to me, and I should suffer more than my

victims." An event was approaching which threw into the shade the

_Histoire_ and all work in hand: the Revolution of 1848.

This was the hour when George Sand's fervent nature was to carry her

into the vortex of politics, and for months the power of her energy was

directed on a series of _Lettres au Peuple_ and _Bulletins du Ministère

de l'Intérieur_. The spirit that animated her may be illustrated by her

own words, written from Paris in March, 1848: "Situated as we now are,

we must show not merely devotion and loyalty, but also, if required,

fanaticism. We must rise above ourselves, forswear all weakness, and

even brush aside our affections if they should run counter to the onward

course of a power elected by the people." She is sincere in her

convictions, fearless of the consequences of doing what she believes to

be right, and always full of faith in the people. She both twits and

tries to strengthen Lamartine and other leaders. But she is optimistic,

for, before very long, she finds strange omens of the destruction of the

Republic. Her letters during the stormy period of its existence are most

interesting from a historical point of view, but it is unnecessary here

to follow our author in her political career. Alternately hopeful and

despairing in face of _ententes_ and conspiracies, she continued her

active interest and eloquent support to the Republic by her articles in

the _Bulletin de la République_, the _Cause du Peuple_, and other

journals. The excitements and disappointments of this period were the

cause of many disillusionments, not, however, as to principle, but as to

persons and methods. She bids adieu to politics, with a bruised heart.

In a letter to Mazzini in September, 1850, she describes her feelings

thus: "Hope has not revived in me, and I am not one to sing songs that

do not spring from my soul.... I return to fiction.... I make

popular types such as I no longer see, but such as they should and might

be. In art, it is still feasible to substitute dreaming for reality; in

politics, all poetry is a lie, which conscience rejects."

So, on the closing of her connection with politics, we find her at

Nohant taking up her interrupted work and finishing _François le

Champi_, followed by _La Petite Fadette_, in which her own genius shone

forth with undimmed lustre. What interest she arouses in the reader in

Fanchon and the twin brothers, and how graceful and alluring are the

moral pictures she draws! We can fancy that the writing of these tales

must have been a balm to the soul wearied by its struggles for a lost

cause.

During a year previous to September, 1850, George Sand had been giving

her attention once more to dramatic art, which, she writes: "Being novel

to me, has restored me of late somewhat, and it is the only work to

which I have been able to apply myself for an entire year." Her

experience of the reception of _Cosima_ in no way seems to have

discouraged her. Indeed, we know that she expressed herself as

satisfied. _François le Champi_, a pastoral comedy adapted from her

novel of the same title, was produced in 1849 at the Odéon. Its success

was genuine, and was followed by _Claudie_, in 1851, which was likewise

received with public favor; their simple rural qualities were a novelty

which was heartily appreciated. This period of labor was interrupted by

the political situation in 1851, which had become turbulent: numberless

arrests had been made; among others, of many of her oldest comrades and

friends, and Madame Sand emerged from her retirement, not as a

passionate writer, but as a pleader with President Louis Napoléon in

behalf of the unfortunates involved, in which she was successful in a

number of individual cases. The drama _Maître Favilla_, produced at the

Odéon, was also written at this period; it had been performed

previously at the private theatre at Nohant, which had for years been

one of the delightful pastimes of the home circle.

In the same year, she wrote _Le Mariage de Victorine_, a society comedy,

which met with deserved success; and in 1852, _Les Vacances de

Pandolphe_, a piece written, she says, "while anguish was gnawing my

soul." In 1853, another drama appeared: _Le Pressoir_; it is a story of

rural life, and, like its predecessors of the same kind, it enjoyed a

very favorable reception. This series of excursions into bucolic scenes

carried George Sand's popularity to the point of enthusiastic

appreciation. The novel _Les Maîtres Sonneurs_ was also written in

1853; it deals with rustic life of the century before, and is a

delightful specimen of the author's imaginative work.

We must, however, pass over many of the minor works that go to make up

the imperishable monument to the fame of this great writer. In 1855, the

_Histoire de ma Vie_ was published, which consists of a series of

narratives of particular circumstances of her life rather than a close

or connected autobiography. We have already seen that George Sand was

constrained, in the preparation of this work, to sacrifice much to her

sensitiveness on the score of others.

In the early part of this year, 1855, a great calamity befell Madame

Sand. Her much-loved granddaughter, Jeanne Clésinger, to whom she was

devoted, died; she of whom she writes, in December, 1852: "I have a

charming little girl (my daughter's), on whom I bestow great care and

much time." This event rendered her very despondent, and, not long

after, she made a journey to Italy, which restored her health; for, she

writes, she came back "cured." The impressions of this journey were

embodied in _La Daniella_, a novel that appeared shortly after. These

impressions were not wholly pleasing, certainly not as to Rome, which,

in a letter, George Sand describes as "horribly ugly and filthy."

But, despite her fancy for the drama, George Sand did not forsake

romances; she soon produced some works of a semi-historic kind. Of

these, _Les Beaux Messieurs de Bois-Doré_ was published in 1857; it

relates to the period of Louis XIII, and is a powerfully romantic work

that appeals by its exciting incidents and rich descriptive quality.

This was later dramatized and produced in 1862, and proved a great

triumph for the author. Two years later, _Elle et Lui_ was given to the

world, and the public was for the first time taken into George Sand's

confidence as to the brief intimacy between herself and Alfred de

Musset, broken more than a quarter of a century before. The novel was

published in the _Revue des Deux Mondes_, and although many details are,

of course, largely artistic fictions, yet it is recognized that the

author is speaking of herself in the person of the heroine, Thérèse,

and of De Musset in that of the strangely whimsical painter, Laurent.

Whatever may be said of the wisdom of parading the miseries of the two

quondam friends, it must not be forgotten that De Musset had long before

railed at her in his writings, and the publication of _Elle et Lui_ by

Madame Sand is not without strong justification.

In 1859, also, appeared _L'Homme de Neige_, a most fantastic work of

imagination whose scene is laid in Sweden. It abounds in enchanting

details and excellent character sketches; the period is the eighteenth

century. The use of the marionette player and his performances are

noteworthy as showing the interest the author took in such exhibitions,

and of how great use they may be made artistically. At Nohant, the

puppet-show had long been a favorite; we learn that more than twenty

plays were prepared for it, and that the little puppet-actors numbered

more than a hundred.

_Pierre qui Roule_ was written at this time. The Rolling Stone is a law

student in Paris, who becomes enamored of a genuinely talented and

virtuous young actress, for love of whom he abandons his hopes of bar

and bench and joins a theatrical company. The delineation of character

and the wealth of incident and adventure in this book render it one of

the most attractive of George Sand's works. The story was later

continued as _Le Beau Laurence_, which will be mentioned further on.

The next important work was the _Marquis de Villemer_, a society

romance, in which the analysis of character is extremely fine, and the

variety of incidents amazing. The aristocratic marquise, her two sons,

and Caroline de Saint-Geneix keep the reader's interest throughout. They

seem real persons, as we read the pages, so clearly and distinctly are

their individualities maintained. This popular novel was dramatized in

1864, and performed successfully. The qualities of the drama are

manifestly superior to most of the author's work as a playwright,

whether due to the aid given her by Alexandre Dumas the Younger, as is

reasonably supposed, or not. This drama and _Le Mariage de Victorine_

are generally regarded as the two plays on which George Sand's

reputation as a dramatist mainly rests. The latter was admittedly

inspired by Sedaine's _Le Philosophe sans le Savoir_. Her contributions

as a playwright number more than a score, but of most of them it may be

said that they demonstrate that the author's true vocation was not found

in writing for the stage.

_Jean de la Roche_ is a work of this period, the ripened period when

experience, both of life and the art of her craft, had furnished the

author with the keenest perception of the forces of the one and the

requisites of the other. The phase of love that is used as the

controlling influence in the development of the subject of the work is

that of the heroine for her little brother, whose jealousy of her lover

prevents the marriage of the happy and favored pair. The skill employed

in depicting the incidents which lead to the removal of this obstacle is

beyond praise.

Late in 1860, Madame Sand was at work on the opening of _La Famille de

Germandre_, when she was stricken down by typhoid fever; but its

completion was delayed until the spring of 1861, when she had regained

her health after a stay at Tamaris. In this year also appeared

_Antonia_. In 1862, Madame Sand saw the fulfilment of a cherished

design: her son Maurice was married to Mademoiselle Calamatta, an event

which was a source of great joy to Madame Sand, for the husband and wife

settled at Nohant, and thus kept the home circle intact.

The following year, _Mademoiselle de La Quintinie_ appeared, but its

chief interest is that it was so strong in controversy that it aroused

the anger of the clergy. That it had seized upon the popular sympathy

seems to be indicated by George Sand's remarks in a letter to her son,

from Paris, March 1, 1864, wherein she says: "I have just returned [she

had been witnessing the first performance of _Villemer_], attended by

the students, who shouted: 'George Sand for ever! _Mademoiselle de La

Quintinie_ for ever!'" This work can hardly be ranked among the author's

important works.

Of her later works, it may be said that _L'Autre_, the latest of her

plays that were quite successful, was adapted with considerable

modification from the author's novel _La Confession d'une jeune Fille_,

which had been published six years earlier. Madame Sarah Bernhardt

played the heroine's part, and it is interesting to read George Sand's

opinion of this talented actress, of whom she writes in October, 1871:

"Sarah does not give more consolation [than another leading actress

whose foibles had greatly worried Madame Sand], unless her ways have

been considerably modified. She is an excellent girl, but she does not

study, and is concerned only about enjoying herself. When acting her

rôle, she improvises it, which, though sometimes effective, is not

always accurate." _Le Beau Laurence_ is the sequel to _Pierre qui

Roule_, and both works are tales of actors and stage adventures. The

incidents are full of variety, and the descriptions picturesque and

daring. The heroine of the story, Impéria, is a pure and lovely

character, who is delineated with consummate skill; while the other

characters, such as would be found in a strolling troupe, are cleverly

drawn and handled. Love is, of course, the pivotal force, and here again

Madame Sand has shown her wonderful powers of imagination and artistic

excellence by unravelling her plot in the most attractive and artistic

fashion.

_Le Chateau de Pictordu_, _La Tour de Percemont_, _Le Chêne Parlant_,

_Les Dames Vertes_, _Le Diable au Champ_, as well, of course, as the

_Contes d'une Grand'mère_, were written for the pleasure and

instruction of her grandchildren. They not merely discover fresh

treasures of imagination, but take us back to the impressions of the

author's early childhood days at Nohant. In the _Journal d'un Voyageur

pendant le Siège_, we have the impressions of a close observer, a

record of events and conditions which escape the formal historian, and

the reflections of a matured mind directed by an active participation in

the public affairs of her time. _Nanon_ is a tale of the Revolutionary

period, and is a very picturesque work, full of spirit and touching

incidents. The rustic heroine is another of the sweet women characters

that George Sand has known so well how to depict; the signs of old age

are certainly not discoverable in this fresh and entertaining work.

Besides these, the last ten years of her life produced _Malgré Tout_,

_Francia_, _un Bienfait n'est jamais perdu_, _Impressions et Souvenirs_,

_Ma Sœur Jeanne_, _La Laitière et le Pot au Lait_, _Les deux Frères_,

_Flamarande_, _Marianne_, _Dernières Pages_, _Légendes Rustiques_,

_Fanchette_, _Nouvelles Lettres d'un Voyageur_. The last work of the

great author was a critique on Renan's _Dialogues et Fragments

Philosophiques_; it is dated May 6, 1876.

During the same month, Madame Sand had manifested to her anxious family

the evidences of an illness of which she still ignored the importance;

but at the close of the month, she yielded to their wish that medical

treatment should be resorted to. The hold of internal paralysis was,

however, too secure, and on June 8th she glided quietly, imperceptibly,

over the borderland of life.

Such, in brief, is the life of this extraordinarily gifted woman. We are

amazed when we consider the stupendous work she accomplished: the whole

list of her writings forms a monumental undertaking. Only the possession

of a singularly rare genius could have produced such results. We know

from her letters that Madame Sand's literary work was almost a

spontaneous creation; her real work consisted in her maternal cares and

her vast correspondence. She has said that she sometimes forgot the

titles of her works, and that she could not recall the names of her

characters or the method by which she worked out her subject. We cannot

fail to see that she wrote from the impulse or fulness of her heart, and

that her unhewed thoughts were enriched by a golden eloquence with a

charm of grace that far excels the results of more carefully wrought-out

works.

As a flower unconsciously takes its tints and scents from the elements

by which it is surrounded, so George Sand drew from her environments the

tone and character of her works. We see throughout, a lack of system, of

coordination; it is manifest, of course, that there was artistic

modification and development, but there is no strong evidence that the

education of the artist counts for much in the success of our author.

Among the finest of her works are those which early appeared,--the

impulsive outpouring of her heart. She is at her best when unfolding the

picture of nature treasured in her mind; when giving free rein to the

development of the rôle of the characters conceived by her ardent and

poetic imagination; then there is a sweet music in her language and a

fervor in her descriptions that wholly fascinate. Like her love of

nature, was her fondness for the marvellous. We are told that she

vividly remembered her first doubt as to the existence of Father

Christmas. This moment was a sorrowful one for the tiny child. How

marked this characteristic was, we see in her enjoyment of the

fairy-tales and folk-lore which she shared with her child-companions and

the peasants at Nohant, and later at the convent; again it finds voice

in _Consuelo_, _The Snow Man_, and the plays and stories written for her

children and grandchildren.

George Sand's imagination was never at rest. To it her greatness and

much of her suffering are alike traceable. In her friendships, she

conceived too lofty an ideal; few persons could bear the test of her

standard: her mother, her grandmother, her husband, political and social

guides--all suffered from the discrepancy between her estimate of what

they should be and what they were. To this fact it seems not altogether

unreasonable to attribute the succession of reproaches, embroilments,

and separations that attended the career of this marvellous woman. She

is glad to escape from the distress she suffers from her mother's angry

outbreaks and find relief with the Duplessis family; she finds life

intolerable with her husband; again, there is evidence that the same

exacting ideal was responsible for the differences with De Musset,

Pagello, Chopin, Michel, Lammenais, and even Mazzini. Once a principle

was believed to be right, she could not fetter its application by any

considerations of expediency. At least, this is generally so as to the

early years; later, it underwent some modification. Conscious of her own

rectitude, Madame Sand fearlessly gave utterance to the decisions of her

energetic mind. With her, a sentiment speedily becomes a feeling, and

the feeling calls for expression. "My calling is to abhor evil, to love

good, and to bend the knee to the beautiful," is her conviction in 1836,

as she states it.

As in her novels, so in her political writings George Sand pursued an

ideal. In a letter to her friend Mazzini, written in 1850, she says: "My

Communism supposes men to be quite different from what they are, but

such as I feel they should be. The ideal, the dream of my social

happiness, is in the sentiments I feel in myself." She acted from the

heart more than from the mind; she could not reduce her principles to a

formula, of which, she says, if she had one: "I would part with it very

cheaply." And again: "My whole heart is in what I say to you; when you

are fully acquainted with me, you will know that you can blindly trust

in the instinct of my heart."

It has been asserted that George Sand's works, or many of them, are

repugnant to the sense of morality. Before saying anything in

refutation, let us present the creed of the author in her own words,

written to her friend, the Comtesse d'Agoult, in 1836: "To rush into the

bosom of Mother Nature, to consider her really as a _mother_ and a

_sister_; to resist with all obstinacy the proud and wicked; to be meek

and lowly with the wretched ones; to weep over the poor man's misery,

and hope for the fall of the rich as my only consolation; to believe in

no other God than He who preaches justice and equality to men; to

venerate what is _good_; to judge severely what is only _strong_; to

live on nearly nothing; to give almost everything, in order to

reëstablish primitive equality and to restore divine institutions--such

is the religion I would proclaim in my humble retreat." Nor was this

creed belied, even to the giving "almost everything"; for we find Madame

Sand writing to Monsieur Ulbach, in November, 1869: "I have earned by my

writings about a million, but I have not laid aside a single _sou_. I

gave away all, except twenty thousand francs, which I invested two years

ago, so that if I fall ill my children will not be put to too much

expense; and yet I am not sure that I shall be able to keep even that

little fund, for I may meet with people who may need it more

imperatively than myself."

But to return to the charge we have mentioned, which is still made in

some quarters, and which, at the most, will apply less to matter than to

manner. Let each individual test the question by his own sentiment and

judgment. Who has put down one of George Sand's books and felt himself

less pure from the reading? Nay, more, who has gone from its perusal

without a quickened admiration of virtue and a corresponding dislike of

vice? If our sympathies are frequently aroused for the transgressor, is

this something of which to be ashamed in itself? If we look at the

offences laid to the charge of the author, is there not found a manifest

purpose on her part to present a victim who will arouse interest enough

to give force to the author's denunciations of the system she would

overthrow, and to whose charge she would ascribe the offence of her

victim? Are these victims impure of heart and vicious of purpose? The

charge in question is mainly directed at _Indiana_, _Valentine_, and

_Lélia_. Let us see what Madame Sand says in a letter in 1842: "I find

society abandoned to the most dreadful disorder, and in the front rank

of the iniquities to which I see it given over are the relations of the

sexes, which I regard as being regulated in the most unjust and

ridiculous manner.... Love, fidelity, and motherhood are,

notwithstanding, the most necessary, the most important, and the most

sacred things in a woman's life." Her attacks were directed, be it

understood, not against marriage, but against the debasing and unjust

conditions under which, in her judgment, a woman's marriage placed her,

and against which Madame Sand revolted, and gloried in her revolt. Her

fault, if it must be called such, is that her sentiment was aroused, and

the exuberance of her eloquence and the vividness of her imagination

impelled her to a directness of attack that spared nothing. Nor were the

conditions of society confronting the author such as to suggest

concession on her part, and it is difficult to see how the prevailing

taste should have been shocked, at least by her matter. But there was

another powerful opposition--a religious one.

To certain practices and duties of the Roman Catholic Church, George

Sand could not bend her conscience, and her conviction thereon is found

in a letter to a curé, written in 1844, in which she says: "Since the

spirit of liberty has been suppressed in the Church, since in Catholic

doctrine there is no longer a place for discussions, counsels, progress,

or light, I regard that doctrine as a dead letter set as a political

check under thrones and above peoples. It is for me a dark veil

obscuring the word of Christ--a false interpretation of the sublime

Gospels, and an insurmountable obstacle to the sacred equality that God

promises, which God will grant to men, on earth as in Heaven." Hence it

was that our author found herself at variance with the ecclesiastical

teaching; but it seems somewhat difficult to find in her works an

anti-Christ belief; she is full of faith in the divine love and mercy;

hers is a broad, tolerant creed. A great stride has been made toward

liberality in religious belief since George Sand wrote the works that

were attacked, and it is not likely that on this score they would arouse

any serious outcry against their author had they been written in these

days.

But to the two points we have indicated--for the pardonable

eccentricities of the woman scarcely deserve notice--is due the

denunciation of George Sand's works. What, then, must be the power, the

rare qualities, which made them triumph over powerful opposition and

acquired for the author a world-wide fame, and which during her life

secured her the homage and esteem of her nation? Monsieur de Latouche,

her first literary mentor, said: "Your qualities transcend your

defects." These qualities are a vivid poetic imagination, a passionate

love of nature, a sincere and loyal purpose, a tender sympathy for the

weak and oppressed, an innate hatred of injustice, a keenly observant

mind, a prompt and vigorous power of analysis of the human heart and

mind, and an eloquence that is irresistible. It is almost useless to

compare George Sand with any other writer. She stands alone; her mind

and her energy are virile, her heart is a woman's. When all allowance is

made for defects of style, for the family likeness perceived in many of

her characters, for the discursive tendency that is at times marked, and

for the weakness of the dramatic element--we are conscious of a charm

that enchants, an interest that entrains, and a skill that engrosses.

She sought no model, looked to no teachers; but presented an ideal. She

wrote as she believed; her individuality is inseparable from her works;

hence, no little of their charm. To use her own words, the reader "feels

he has to do with a living soul, not with a mere instrument."

Of the woman, it is less easy to speak. She was early placed in a

singular position; lacking the prudent and consistent training that

might have produced more settled views and different tendencies, she was

left to form her own opinions out of the chaotic instruction she had

obtained. Contradictory elements were at work about and within her. Her

heart was loving and tender, her impulses affectionate and good; but

before her judgment could be formed, her affections were bruised, her

tenderness was slighted.

Buffeted by the storms of passion and grief, George Sand's true life as

a woman can hardly be said to have commenced till she settled down at

Nohant in the full repossession of her children and her home. In the

unrestrained enjoyment of her duties as a mother, we find the woman. How

peaceful, how lovely, was that life with her family and friends about

her! All the treasures of her soul were lavishly bestowed on her

children; their present enjoyment and their future welfare her happiness

and care; and, as the years roll on, the same tenderness is bestowed on

her grandchildren. Madame Sand's letters throw a brilliant light on this

heart-satisfying life, during which her literary work was carried on

unceasingly, or only interrupted by occasional visits to Paris on

business, or to seek clemency at the hand of the Emperor on behalf of

some political victims, or by trips for health.

We find her bestowing of her earnings in charity to those in need about

her, and helping modestly to alleviate the sufferings of those with whom

she is brought in contact; helping with advice and encouragement those

who seek her counsel in literary matters; coming forth from her solitude

when national peril threatens, and stirring with the fervor of her

eloquence as she had appealed to her countrymen on political and social

questions. Happily, these latter wanderings from her true vocation,

brilliant as they were, were not for long periods; but it is interesting

to note that from first to last she espoused the cause of the people

without wavering. Her instincts were wholly democratic, nor, although

time and careful observation later imposed restraint on the former

impetuous journalist, did she at any time sacrifice an iota of her

principles; only, she came to recognize that it was impossible to change

the course of society by a theoretical exposition of principles, and

abandoned the idea of curing social ills by mere strenuous declamation.

In 1870, when the darkest hours were gathering over her beloved country,

and its future government was at stake, her invincible faith in humanity

was reiterated. She writes: "Let us believe in humanity, for he who

doubts it, doubts himself." She had learned by experience that patient

waiting is a virtue, that events cannot be forced to an untimely issue

with good results. "I have seen revolutions," she writes in 1872, "and

closely observed the actors in them; I sounded the depths of their

souls,--I should perhaps say, of their bags: lack of principles!"

In reviewing her life, in 1872, George Sand writes to Gustave Flaubert:

"Do not laugh at the principles of a very candid child, principles which

I held throughout life, through _Lélia_ and the romantic period,

through love and doubt, through enthusiasm and disappointment. Love,

self-sacrifice, the repossession of my own self only in cases where my

sacrifice was hurtful to the objects of it, and further abnegation with

the hope of serving some true cause,--such has been my life, such my

conception of love." Madame Sand is not here speaking of personal

passion, but of the love of the species, of the extension of the

sentiment of self-love, of the horror of _self only_.

In the literary beginnings of younger authors George Sand took the

warmest interest, and unsparingly and judiciously advised and encouraged

them. Her counsel and tender solicitude in the case of Flaubert and many

others show how large was her heart and how untiring her aid. Concerning

her views on her art, her opinion is well expressed in a letter written

in the last year of her life: "Art should be the seeking for truth, and

the latter consists in something more than representing evil or good.

The _artiste_ who notices but the blemishes is as incomplete as he who

brings forth only good qualities." The imaginative played in Madame Sand

a greater part than the real. Love was the force out of which all that

is good or just should spring; she says: "He who abstains from love,

abstains from justice."

This great writer, whose works have triumphed over prejudice and secured

her a homage that rarely falls to the lot of authors, was as unassuming

as she was brilliant and fearless. She disliked all parade, and while

ever ready and prompt to come to the front when circumstances rendered

her prominence necessary or desirable, she preferred retirement. Of her

literary claims she says, in her calm old age: "I have never entertained

the pretension of being a first-rate writer. My object has been to react

on my contemporaries, even were they only a few, and to induce them to

partake of my ideal of meekness and poetry."

After an interval of usual reaction from great popularity, which George

Sand's works have not escaped, a reawakened interest has come. Time has

removed many prejudices, and her aim and intent are better understood.

Of the multitude of works she has contributed, it is not too venturesome

to assert that posterity will cherish many of her romances as classic

treasures. As long as the human heart feels the burden of the real life,

so long will men and women take delight and comfort in the ideal life;

in wandering amid scenes that will shed a cheering ray to lighten the

gloom and brighten the sadness of our real world. Nor will it be found

that George Sand takes us so out of the reality that we shall experience

only a mere wondering diversion. She indeed pictures life as it should,

and might, be; but she also describes it as she sees it; she feels what

she writes; she reads and interprets the "never-changing language of

nature"; she recognizes that the romance must be human before all else,

and assumes that true reality consists in a mixture of good and evil.

Her writings are too interestingly human for humanity to lose its

appreciation of those of them that are not precluded by special reasons

from enjoying lasting fame.

J. A. B.

Philadelphia, 1902.

SHE AND HE

TO MADEMOISELLE JACQUES

"MY DEAR THÉRÈSE:

"Since you permit me not to call you mademoiselle, let me tell you an

important piece of news in _the world of art_, as our friend Bernard

says. Ah! there's a rhyme;[1] but what I am going to tell you has

neither rhyme nor reason.

"Fancy that yesterday, after boring you with my visit, I found, on

returning to my rooms, an English milord (by the way, perhaps he isn't a

milord; but he surely is an Englishman), who said to me in his dialect:

"'Are you a painter?'

"'Yes, milord.'

"'You paint faces?'

"'Yes, milord.'

"'And the hands?'

"'Yes, milord; also the feet.'

"'Good!'

"'Very good!'

"'Oh! I am sure of it! well, would you like to paint my portrait?'

"'Yours?'

"'Why not?'

"The _why not_ was said with so much good humor, that I ceased to take

him for an idiot, especially as this son of Albion is a magnificent man.

He has the head of an Antinous on the shoulders of--well, of an

Englishman; he is a Greek type of the best epoch on the bust, somewhat

strangely dressed and cravatted, of a perfect specimen of Britannic

_fashion_.

"'Faith!' said I, 'you are a fine model, that is sure, and I should like

to make a study of you for my own benefit; but I cannot paint your

portrait.'

"'Why not, pray?'

"'Because I am not a portrait-painter.'

"'Oh! Do you pay here in France for a license to practise this or that

specialty in art?'

"'No; but the public doesn't permit us to follow more than one branch.

They insist upon knowing what to expect, especially when we are young;

and if I who am speaking, and who am very young, should have the

ill-luck to paint a good portrait of you, I should find it very

difficult to succeed at the next Exposition with anything but portraits;

and, in like manner, if I made only a moderately good one, I should be

forbidden ever to try another: the public would pass judgment to the

effect that I had not the essential qualities of a portrait-painter, and

that I was a presumptuous fellow to make the attempt.'

"I told my Englishman much more nonsense, which I spare you, and which

made him open his eyes; after which he began to laugh, and I saw clearly

that my arguments inspired in him the most profound contempt for France,

if not for your humble servant.

"'Let us say the word,' he said. 'You do not like portrait-painting.'

"'What! what sort of a clown do you take me for? Say, rather, that I do

not as yet dare to paint portraits, and that I could not do it, since it

must be one of two things: either a specialty, which admits no rivals,

or perfection, and, as one might say, the crown of talent. Certain

painters, incapable of inventing anything, are able to copy faithfully

and agreeably the living model. These are sure of success, provided that

they have the knack of presenting the model in its most favorable

aspect, and of costuming it becomingly while costuming it according to

the fashion; but, when one is only a poor historical painter, very much

of a novice, and of disputed talent, as I have the honor to be, one

cannot contend against the people who make it a business. I confess that

I have never studied conscientiously the folds of a black coat and the

peculiar idiosyncrasies of a given face. I am unfortunate as an inventor

of attitudes, types, and expressions. All these must yield to my

subject, my idea, my dream, if you choose. If you would permit me to

costume you to suit myself, and to place you in a picture of my own

invention---- But no, that would be good for nothing, it wouldn't be

you. It would not be a portrait to give your mistress--much less your

lawful wife. Neither of them would recognize you. So do not ask me now

to do what I may perhaps be able to do some day, if I ever happen to

become a Rubens or a Titian, because then I can remain a poet and

creator, while grasping, without effort and without fear, the potent and

majestic reality. Unfortunately, it is not likely that I shall ever

become anything more than a madman or a fool. Read Messieurs So-and-So

and So-and-So, who have said as much in their criticisms.'

"You can imagine, Thérèse, that I did not say to my Englishman a word

of what I have said to you; one can always arrange one's thoughts better

when talking to one's self; but of all that I could say to excuse myself

for not painting his portrait, nothing had any effect but these few

words: 'Why the devil don't you apply to Mademoiselle Jacques?'

"He said _Oh_! three times, after which he asked me for your address,

and off he went without the slightest comment, leaving me exceedingly

confused and irritated because I could not finish my dissertation on

portrait-painting; for, after all, my dear Thérèse, if that handsome

brute of an Englishman comes to see you to-day, as I believe he is

capable of doing, and repeats to you all I have written you, that is to

say, all that I did not say to him, about the _faiseurs_ and the great

masters, what will you think of your ungrateful friend? May he place you

among the first, and judge you incapable of painting anything else than

pretty portraits which please everybody! Ah! my dear friend, if you had

heard all that I said to him about you--after he had gone! You know what

it was; you know that in my eyes you are not Mademoiselle Jacques, who

paints excellent portraits that are much in vogue, but a superior man

disguised as a woman, who, although he has never made the Academy,

divines and has the art of making others divine a whole body and a whole

soul from a bust, after the manner of the great sculptors of antiquity

and the great painters of the Renaissance. But I say no more; you are

not fond of having people tell you what they think of you. You pretend

to take such talk for mere compliments. You are very proud, Thérèse.

"I am altogether down in the mouth to-day, I don't know why. I

breakfasted so poorly this morning--I have never eaten with so little

satisfaction since I have had a cook. And then one cannot get any good

tobacco nowadays. The government monopoly poisons you. And then I have a

pair of new boots which don't fit at all. And then it rains. And

then--and then--I don't know what. The days have been as long as days

without bread, for some time past, don't you find them so? No, you

don't, of course. You know nothing of this feeling of gloom, the

pleasure that bores, the boredom that intoxicates, the nameless disease

of which I spoke to you the other evening in the little lilac salon

where I would like to be now; for I have a horrible light for painting,

and not being able to paint, it would please me to bore you to death by

my conversation.

"So I shall not see you to-day! You have an insupportable family who

steal you from your most delightful friends! In that case I shall be

driven to do some foolish thing this evening! Such is the effect of your

kindness to me, my dear, tall comrade. It makes me so stupid and so good

for nothing when I do not see you, that I absolutely must divert myself

at the risk of shocking you. But never fear, I will not tell you how I

employ my evening.

"Your friend and servant,

"LAURENT.

"May 11, 183--."

[Footnote 1: Dans le monde des arts, comme dit our friend Bernard.]

TO M. LAURENT DE FAUVEL

"First of all, my dear Laurent, I entreat you, if you have any

friendship for me, not to indulge too often in foolish things which

injure your health. I will wink at all others. You may ask me to mention

one such, and I should be sadly embarrassed to do it; for I know very

few foolish things which are not injurious. So I must needs find out

what you call by that name. If you mean one of those long suppers you

spoke about the other day, I think that they are killing you, and I am

in despair. What are you thinking of, in God's name, to ruin thus, with

a smile on your lips, an existence so precious and beautiful? But you

want no sermons; I confine myself to prayers.

"As for your Englishman, who is an American, I have seen him, and as I

shall not see you to-night or to-morrow, to my great regret, I must tell

you that you were altogether wrong not to consent to do his portrait. He

would have offered you the eyes out of his head, and with an American

like Dick Palmer, the eyes out of his head means a goodly number of

bank-notes, of which you stand in need to prevent you from doing foolish

things, that is to say, from haunting gambling-houses in the hope of a

stroke of fortune which never comes to people of imagination, because

people of imagination do not know how to play cards, because they always

lose, and because they must thereupon appeal to their imagination for

the wherewithal to pay their debts--a trade to which that princess does

not feel adapted, and to which she cannot adapt herself except by

setting fire to the poor body she inhabits.

"You find me very outspoken, do you not? That does not matter to me.

Moreover, if we approach the subject from a more exalted standpoint, all

the reasons that you gave to your American and me are not worth two

sous. That you do not know how to paint portraits is possible, nay, it

is certain, if it must be done under the conditions which attend vulgar

success in that art; but Monsieur Palmer did not stipulate that it

should be so. You took him for a green-grocer, and you made a mistake.

He is a man of judgment and taste, who knows what he is talking about,

and who has an enthusiastic admiration for you. Judge whether I gave him

a warm welcome! He came to me as a makeshift; I saw it plainly enough,

and I was grateful to him for it. So I consoled him by promising to do

all that I possibly could to induce you to paint him. We will talk about

it the day after to-morrow, for I have made an appointment with the said

Palmer for that evening, so that he may assist me to plead his own

cause, and may carry away your promise.

"And now, my dear Laurent, console yourself as best you can for not

seeing me for two days. It will not be difficult for you: you know many

bright people, and you have a footing in the best society. For my part,

I am only an old sermonizer who is very fond of you, who implores you

not to go to bed late every night, and who advises you to carry nothing

to excess or abuse. You have no right to do it: genius imposes

obligations.

"Your comrade,

"THÉRÈSE JACQUES."

TO MADEMOISELLE JACQUES

MY DEAR THÉRÈSE:

"I start in two hours for the country, with the Comte de S---- and

Prince D----. There will be youth and beauty in the party, so I am

assured. I promise and swear to you to do nothing foolish and to drink

no champagne--without reproaching myself bitterly therefor! What can you

expect? I should certainly have preferred to lounge in your great

studio, and talk nonsense in your little lilac salon; but since you are

in retirement with your thirty-six provincial cousins, you will

certainly not notice my absence the day after to-morrow; you will have

the delicious music of the Anglo-American accent throughout the evening.

Ah! so the excellent Monsieur Palmer's name is Dick? I thought that Dick

was the familiar diminutive of Richard! To be sure, in the matter of

languages, French is the only one I can claim to know.

"As for the portrait, let us say no more about it. You are a thousand

times too motherly, my dear Thérèse, to think of my interests to the

detriment of your own. Although you have a fine clientèle, I know that

your generosity does not permit you to save money, and that a few

bank-notes will be much more suitably placed in your hands than in mine.

You will employ them in making others happy, and I should toss them on a

card-table, as you say.

"Moreover, I have never been less in the mood for painting. One needs

for that two things which you have, reflection and inspiration; I shall

never have the first, and I _have had_ the second. So I am disgusted

with it, as with an old witch who has exhausted me by galloping me

across fields on the skinny back of her horse Apocalypse. I see clearly

enough what I lack; with all respect to your good sense, I have not yet

lived hard enough, and I am going away for three days or a week with

Madame Reality, in the guise of divers nymphs of the Opéra _corps de

ballet_. I hope, on my return, to be a most accomplished, that is to

say, a most blasé and most reasonable man of the world.

"Your friend,

"LAURENT."

I

Thérèse understood perfectly, at first sight, the spleen and jealousy

which dictated this letter.