AURORE DUPIN (DUDEVANT).(George Sand.)1804-1876.AURORE DUPIN (DUDEVANT).(George Sand.)
AURORE DUPIN (DUDEVANT).(George Sand.)1804-1876.
Aurore Dupin was born in Paris, July 5, 1804. Her father, Maurice Dupin de Franceuil, was the son of an illegitimate daughter of Marshal Saxe. His wife, Sophie Delaborde, was “a child of the people.” The death of Captain Dupin, in 1808, left little Aurore “a bone of contention” between her plebeian mother and her patrician grandmother. Most of her youth was passed with the latter, at Nohant, in Berri. Her education was irregularly carried on under an old tutor named Deschatres. At thirteen, she was sent to the Convent des Anglaises, at Paris. Here a strong religious enthusiasm took possession of her; and she desired to become a nun. But, her grandmother having removed her from the convent, her lonely study of the works of philosophers and metaphysicians wrought a change, and she “became a Protestant without knowing it.” In 1821 the grandmother died. Aurore lived unhappily with her mother, a woman of violent temper (to whom she was nevertheless deeply attached), and this fact may have influenced her in accepting the hand of M. Casimir Dudevant, to whom she was married in 1822. The disparity in age was not great, M. Dudevant being twenty-seven; but the marriageproved a most uncongenial one. In 1823, Aurore’s beloved son, Maurice, was born; in 1828, her daughter, Solange. In 1831 she made an arrangement with her husband by which she was free to spend every alternate three months, in Paris, working with her pen. He allowed her 3,000 francs a year. The education of the children was carefully provided for in their compact. And now Aurore’s career really began. In 1832 she published, under the pseudonym, “George Sand,” her first novel,Indiana. This created a sensation and established her fame. It was followed during her long life byValentine, 1832,[3]Lélia, 1833,Jacques, 1834,Le Secrétaire intime, 1834,André, 1835,Leone Leoni, 1835,Simon, 1836,Mauprat, 1837,La Dernière Aldini, 1837,Les Maîtres Mosaïstes, 1837,Spiridion, 1840,Le Compagnon du Tour de France, 1840,Horace, 1842,Consuelo, 1842-1843,La Comtesse de Rudolstadt, 1843-4,Jeanne, 1844,Le Meunier d’ Angibault, 1845,La Mare au Diable, 1846,La Péché d’ M. Antoine, 1847,Lucrezia Floriani, 1847,La Petite Fadette, 1849,François le Champi, 1850,Le Château des Désertes, 1851,Les Maîtres Sonneurs, 1853,Les Beaux Messieurs de Bois Doré, 1858,Elle et Lui, 1859,L’ Homme de Neige, 1859,Constance Verrier, 1860,Jean de la Roche, 1860,Le Marquis de Villemer, 1861,Valvèdre, 1861,La Ville Noire, 1861,Mlle. La Quintinie, 1863,La Confession d’ une Jeune Fille, 1865,Cadio, 1868,Malgré tout, 1870,Pierre qui roule, 1870,Nanon, 1872,Contes d’ une Grand’ mère, 1873, and numerous other novels and tales;Cosima, 1840,Claudie, 1851,Le Mariage de Victorine, 1851,Le Pressoir, 1853,Maître Favilla, 1855, and other plays;Letters d’ un Voyageur(written 1834-6),Un Hiver à Majorque, 1842,Histoire de ma Vie, 1854-5,Journal d’ un Voyageur pendant le Siège, 1872,Impressions et Souvenirs, 1873, and other records of experience.
In 1836, M. and Mme. Dudevant finally separated, and the latter was known henceforward as Mme. Sand. She had from this time full control of her children, to whom she was devoted. Her intimacy with Alfred de Musset, broken off after their journey to Italy, in 1834, is well known and variously commented upon. Chopin was also her ardent admirer.
She took to the end a deep interest in public affairs. The last years of her life were passed quietly at Nohant, where she died, June 8, 1876.
The brief remarks on George Sand, by Charlotte Brontë and Mrs. Browning, have interest, as the words of sister authors who (as well as George Eliot), are sometimes classed with her.
“The immense vibration of George Sand’s voice upon the ear of Europe,” says Mr. Arnold, “will not soon die away. Her passions and her errors have been abundantly talked of. She left them behind her, and men’s memory of her will leave them behind also. There will remain of her to mankind the sense of benefit and stimulus from the passage upon earth of that large and frank nature, of that large and pure utterance.... There will remain an admiring and ever-widening report of that great and ingenuous soul, simple, affectionate, without vanity, without pedantry, human, equitable, patient, kind.”
Reminiscences of her childhood.
While I was yet very young, my mother commenced the cultivation of my intellectual faculties; my mind was neither particularly sluggish nor particularly active; left to itself it might have developed but slowly. I was rather backward in talking, but having once begun to speak I learned words very rapidly, and, when but four years old, I could read fluently. I was brought up with my cousin Clotilde. Our respective mothers taught us our prayers, and I recollect that I used to repeat mine by heart without a mistake, and also without having any idea of their meaning, except as regards the following words, which we were made to repeat when our little heads were laid upon the same pillow: “Mon Dieu, je vous donne mon cœur!” (My God, I give my heart to Thee!) I do not know why I understood those words better than the rest, for they are highly metaphysical; but certainly I did understand them, and it was the only part of my prayers that conveyed to me any idea either of God or myself....
My mother used to sing to me a rhyme on Christmas Eve; but as that only occurred once a year, I do not recollect it. What I have not forgotten is the absolute belief which I had in the descent down the chimney of Old Father Christmas, a good old man with a snowy beard, who, during the night, as the clock struck twelve, was to come and place in my little shoe a present which I should find upon awaking. Twelve o’clock at night! that mysterious hour unknown to children, and which is represented to them as the impossible limit to which they can keep awake! What incredible efforts did I not make to resist my tendency to sleep before the appearance of the littleold man! I felt anxious yet afraid to see him! But I could never keep awake long enough, and the following morning my first anxiety was to go and examine my shoe in the fire-place. What emotion did I not feel at sight of the white paper parcel! for Father Christmas was extremely clean in his ways, and never failed to carefully wrap up his offering. I used to jump out of bed and run barefooted to seize my treasure. It was never a very magnificent affair, for we were not wealthy! It used to be a little cake, an orange, or simply a nice rosy apple. But, nevertheless, it seemed so precious to me that I scarcely dared to eat it.
George Sand: ‘Histoire de ma Vie,’ quoted by Raphaël Ledos de Beaufort, in ‘Letters of George Sand.’
Early education.
Imaginativeness.
Activity.
There seems to have been little or no method about her early education. The study of her own language was neglected, and the time spent less profitably, she considered, in acquiring a smattering of Latin. She took to some studies with avidity, while others remained wholly distasteful to her. For mere head-work she cared little. Arithmetic she detested; versification no less. The drytechniquein music was a stumbling block of which she was impatient. History and literature she enjoyed in whatever they offered that was romantic, heroic, or poetically suggestive. In her Nohant surroundings there was nothing to check, and much to stimulate, this dominant imaginative faculty.... Such a visionary life might have been most dangerous and mentally enervating had her organization beenless robust, and the tendency to reverie not been matched by lively external perception and plentiful physical activity. As it was, if at one moment she was in a cloud-land of her own, or poring over the stories of the Iliad, the classic mythologies, or Tasso’sGerusalemme, the next would see her scouring the fields, ... playing practical jokes on the tutor, and extemporizing wild out-of-door games and dances with her village companions.
A curious development.
Of serious religious education she received none at all.... Her mother was pious in a primitive way, though holding aloof from priestly influences. The grandmother [was] a disciple of Jean-Jacques Rousseau and of Voltaire.... On both sides what was offered her to worship was too indefinite to satisfy her strong religious instincts.... She filled in the blank with her imagination, which was forthwith called upon to picture a being who should represent all perfections, human and divine; something that her heart could love, as well as her intelligence approve.
“Corambé.”
This ideal figure, for whom she devised the name Corambé, was to combine all the spiritual qualities of the Christian ideal with the earthly grace and beauty of the mythological deities of Greece. It is hardly too much to say that the Christianity which had been expressly left out in her teaching she invented for herself. She erected a woodland altar in the recesses of a thicket to this imaginary object of her adoration, and it is a characteristic trait that the sacrifices she chose to offer there were the release of birds and butterflies that had been taken prisoners—as a symbolical oblation most welcome to adivinity whose essential attributes were infinite mercy and love.
Bertha Thomas: ‘George Sand.’ (Famous Women Series.) Boston: Roberts Brothers, 1883.
Unhappy married life.
Her husband seems to have gradually neglected her, to satisfy his tastes as a sportsman. An excellent shot, a daring horseman, an indefatigable huntsman, he often left her at two and three in the morning to indulge in his favorite sport—hunting.
The young wife, delicate in health and ardent in her affection, deeply resented the frequent absence of her husband. She at first meekly remonstrated with M. Dudevant, who would then stay at home for a few days, soon again to disappear. Months and years thus elapsed. When not out hunting, M. Dudevant indulged in feasting with his friends, eating enormously and drinking more, ... and almost forsaking his wife for the pleasures of the field and the table.
Raphaël Ledos de Beaufort:Biographical Sketch, in ‘Letters of George Sand.’
The crisis.
I must inform you that in spite of my inertia, indifference, unsteadiness of purpose, the facility with which I forgive and forget sorrows and injury, I have just taken arash and extreme resolution.... You are acquainted with my home life, you are able to judge whether it is tolerable. You, scores of times, wondered how I could display so much courage and equanimity when my pride was being constantly crushed. But there is a limit to everything.... There has been noscandal. While looking for something in my husband’s desk, I simply found a parcel addressed to me. That parcel had a kind of solemn appearance which struck me. It bore the inscription:To be opened only at my death.
I could not find the patience to wait until I became a widow. With health like mine I cannot expect to survive anyone. At any rate, I supposed my husband dead, and felt rather anxious to know what he might think of me while still alive. The parcel being directed to me, I had a right to open it without being thought indiscreet, and, as my husband is in the full enjoyment of health, I could read his will without emotion.
Good heavens! what a will! Curses for me and nothing else! He had collected therein all his impulses of temper and ill-humor against me, all his reflections respecting myperverseness, all his feelings of contempt for my character. And that is what he had left me as a token of his affection! I fancied that I was dreaming, I who, until now, was obstinately shutting my eyes and refusing to see that I was scorned. The perusal of that will has at last aroused me from my slumber. I said to myself that to live with a man who feels neither esteem for nor confidence in his wife, would be equivalent to trying to revive a corpse. My mind was made up, and, I dare say so,irrevocably.
Aurore Dudevant:Letter to M. Jules Boucoiran, December, 1830. ‘Letters of George Sand,’ translated by Raphaël Ledos de Beaufort. London: Ward & Downey, 1886.
Her life in Paris.
The beginning of her life in Paris was one of considerablepoverty and privation. She livedau cinquièmein a lodging which cost her a yearly rent of £12; she had no servant, and got in her food from an eating-house close by for the sum of two francs a day. Her washing and needlework she did herself. Notwithstanding this rigid economy, it was impossible to keep within the limits of her husband’s allowance of £120 a year, especially as far as her dress was concerned. After some hesitation, therefore, she took the resolution, which caused so much scandal then and afterwards, of adopting male attire.
Adoption of male attire.
“My thin boots wore out in a few days,” she tells us in the autobiography. “I forgot to hold up my dress, and covered my petticoats with mud. My bonnets were spoilt one after another by the rain. I generally returned from the expeditions I took, dirty, weary, and cold. Whereas my young men acquaintances—some of whom had been the companions of my childhood in Berri—had none of these inconveniences to submit to. I therefore had a long gray cloth coat made, with a waistcoat and trousers to match. When the costume was completed by a gray felt hat and a loose woollen cravat, no one could have guessed that I was not a young student in my first year. My boots were my particular delight. I should like to have gone to bed with them. On their little iron heels I wandered from one end of Paris to the other; no one took any notice of me, or suspected my disguise.”
—— ——: ‘George Sand.’Temple Bar, April, 1885.
Literature at first a resource.
My husband has set down my private expenses at3,000 francs. You know that that is little for me, who like to give and cannot bear to receive. I therefore only purpose increasing my income from some other source. I have no ambition to be known, and shall not be. I shall not attract either the envy or the hatred of any one. Most writers, I know, lead lives of anguish and struggle; but those whose sole ambition is to earn a livelihood live in peaceable obscurity. It would ... be very odd if a paltry talent like mine could not withhold itself from the public gaze.
Aurore Dudevant:Letter to M. Jules Boucoiran, February, 1831, in ‘Letters of George Sand.’
But soon a passion.
I am more than ever intent upon following a literary career. In spite of the repugnance which I sometimes experience, despite the days of idleness and fatigue which cause me to break off my work, in spite of the life, more than quiet, which I lead here, I feel that henceforth my existence has an aim. I have a purpose in view, a task before me, and, if I may use the word, apassion. For the profession of writing is nothing else but a violent, indestructible passion. When it has once entered people’s heads it never leaves them.
Aurore Dudevant:Letter to M. Jules Boucoiran, March, 1831, in ‘Letters of George Sand.’
Bohemian experiences.
Balzac’s oddities.
On the Quai St. Michel—a portion of the Seine embankment facing the towers of Notre Dame, the Sainte Chapelle, and other picturesque monuments ofancient Paris—she had now definitely installed herself in modest lodgings on the fifth story. Accepted and treated as a comrade by a little knot of fellowliteratiand colleagues on theFigaro, two of whom—Jules Sandeau and Félix Pyat—were from Berri, like herself; and with Delatouche, also a Berrichon, for their head-master, she served thus singularly her brief apprenticeship to literature and experience, sharing with the rest both their studies and their relaxations, dining with them at cheap restaurants, frequenting clubs, studios, and theatres of every degree; the youthful effervescence of her student-friends venting itself in such collegians’ pranks as parading deserted quarters of the town by moonlight, in the small hours, chanting lugubrious strains to astonish the shop-keepers. The only great celebrity whose acquaintance she had made was Balzac, himself the prince of eccentrics. Although he did not encourage Madame Dudevant’s literary ambition, he showed himself kindly disposed towards her and her young friends, and she gives some amusing instances that came under her notice of his oddities. Thus once, after a little Bohemian dinner at his lodgings in the Rue Cassini, he insisted on putting on a new and magnificent dressing-gown, of which he was exceedingly vain, to display to his guests, of whom Madame Dudevant was one; and not satisfied therewith, must needs go forth, thus accoutred, to light them on their walk home. All the way he continued to hold forth to them about four Arab horses, which he had not got yet, but meant to get soon, and of which, though he never got them atall, he firmly believed himself to have been possessed for some time.
Bertha Thomas: ‘George Sand.’ (Famous Women Series.) Boston: Roberts Bros., 1883.
“An artist’s life.”
I must live. For that purpose I am doing the meanest of work. I write articles for theFigaro. If you only knew what it is! But they pay seven francs for a column; besides which it enables me to eat and drink and even go to the play.... It affords me the opportunity of making most useful and amusing observations. When intending to write, people must see and know everything and laugh at everything. Ah, upon my word, there is nothing like an artist’s life. Our motto isliberty.
That is, however, a rather exaggerated boast. We do not precisely enjoylibertyat theFigaro. M. de Latouche, our worthy director (ah! you ought to know the fellow), is always hanging over us, cutting, pruning, right or wrong, imposing upon us his whims, his aberrations, his fancies, and we have to write as he bids; for, after all, that is his affair. We are but his working tools.
Aurore Dudevant:Letter to M. Jules Boucoiran, March, 1831, in ‘Letters of George Sand.’
Origin of her pseudonym.
The two young friends [Mme. Dudevant and Jules Sandeau] wrote a novel entitled ‘Rose et Blanche, ou la Comédienne et la Religieuse,’ which they sold for 400 francs.... But it was indispensable that the name of the author should be appended to the work. Madame Dudevant could not put her name to it for fear of ascandal; as for Sandeau, he was afraid of incurring the reproaches of his family, which objected to his pursuing a literary career. The name Sandeau was curtailed, and ‘Rose et Blanche’ appeared under the signature ofJules Sand.
Shortly before the departure of Madame Dudevant for Nohant, where she was about to spend three months, it was arranged between herself and Sandeau that they should each contribute a portion of a novel, whose title was to be ‘Indiana.’
On her return to Paris our heroine called upon Sandeau in order to submit to him what she had done, and found that he had not yet written a single line of his allotted share of the work.
He began to read the work of his collaborator, but had not proceeded beyond a few lines when he gave vent to enthusiastic expressions.
“You have written a masterpiece!”
“So much the better; let us go off at once to the publisher’s.”
“Wait a moment; you wrote that work alone—you alone must sign it.”
“Never! we will continue to signJules Sand.”
“Not at all,” replied Sandeau; “I am too honest to rob you of your glory. My conscience would never fail to reproach me with such an action.”
The young man was firm in his decision; and, in spite of the protests of M. de Latouche, declined to alter it.
At last an idea struck the director of theFigaro. “You wrote ‘Rose et Blanche,’ and gave the name of its author asJules Sand; Sand is, therefore, your common property. Madame needs only to select anotherChristian name. Now, madame, to-day is St. George’s Day. Call yourselfGeorge Sand, and the difficulty is solved.” Madame Dudevant assented, and thus assumed a name upon which her genius conferred more imperishable titles of nobility than had been bestowed upon her either by birth or marriage.
Raphaël Ledos de Beaufort:Biographical Sketch, in ‘Letters of George Sand.’
Another account.
‘Rose et Blanche,’ though little noticed by the public, brought a publisher to the door, one Ernest Dupuy, with an order for another novel by the same authors. ‘Indiana’ was ready-written, and came in response to the demand. But as Sandeau had had no hand whatever in this composition, the signature had of course to be varied. The publisher wishing to connect the new novel with its predecessor, it was decided to alter the prefix only. She fixed on George, as representative of Berri, the land of husbandmen; and George Sand thus became the pseudonym of the author of ‘Indiana,’ a pseudonym whose origin imaginative critics have sought far afield.... Its assumption was to inaugurate a new era in her life.
Bertha Thomas: ‘George Sand.’
Appearance at this time.
George Sand was twenty-seven years of age at this time. Without being beautiful she was striking and sympathetic-looking. Sainte-Beuve thus describes his first interview with her: “I saw, as I entered the room, a young woman with expressive eyes and a fine open brow, surrounded by black hair, cut rather short. She was quiet and composedin manner, speaking little herself, but listening attentively to all I had to say.”... Her features were large but regular, her eyes magnificent, and her face distinguished by an expression of strength and calm that was very remarkable.
—— ——: ‘George Sand.’Temple Bar.
Her characteristics.
Love of liberty.
You strongly suspect me of a love of pleasure, of a thirst for amusement and diversion, of which I am far from being possessed. I do not crave for society, the bustling of cities, theatres, dresses, or jewelry; you alone are mistaken respecting me; what I long for is liberty. Being alone in the streets, and saying to myself: “I shall dine at four or at seven, if I please. I shall pass through the Luxembourg Gardens instead of through the Champs Elysées on my way to the Tuileries, if I feel so inclined;” that is what amuses me a great deal more than the insipidity of men or the stiffness of drawing-rooms.
Aurore Dudevant:Letter to her mother, May, 1831, in ‘Letters of George Sand.’
Of work.
Love of work is a great boon. I bless the memory of my grandmother for having compelled me to acquire the habit of it. That habit has become a faculty, which itself is for me a necessity. I have now reached such a point that I can, without injuring my health, work for thirteen hours in succession, although the average is from seven to eight hours a day, whether the work be difficult or easy. Work brings me plenty of money, and takes up much time which, had I nothing to do, would be devoted to melancholyand depression of spirits, the natural consequences of my bilious temperament.
George Sand:Letter to M. Hippolyte Chatiron, March, 1834, in ‘Letters of George Sand.’
Of the country.
I am passionately fond of the country; I have, like yourself, all household tastes, home tastes; I love dogs, cats and children above all things.
George Sand:Letter to M. Jules Janin, February, 1857, in ‘Letters of George Sand.’
Maternal affection.
Make haste then, and tell me that my family is ... in good health; and, above all, my little Maurice, the little rogue, whom, however, I love more than anything in this world, and but for whom there would be no happiness for me. Does he sleep and eat well? Is he cheerful? Is he quite well? Do not be too indulgent to him, and yet, as much as you can, make him fond of his studies. I know full well that that is no easy task. When I am with him to wipe his eyes, and see him fall asleep in his cot, I do not much mind; but afar, my weakness as a mother is roused, and I am only grieved when I think that he is perhaps crying over his lesson-book.
Aurore Dudevant:Letter to M. Jules Boucoiran, November, 1829, in ‘Letters of George Sand.’
I ... long to go back to Berry; for I have children whom I love more than anything else. But for the hope of being some day more useful to them with the scribe’s pen than with the housewife’s needle, I should not part from them so long.
Aurore Dudevant:Letter to M. Charles Duvernet, March, 1831, in ‘Letters of George Sand.’
Life in Paris with Solange.
I am living here like a hermit. My apartment is so nice and warm; it is so light and quiet that I never care to leave it. But, on the other hand, I am all day long bothered with visitors, who are not all very entertaining. It is one of the drawbacks of my calling, and I am obliged to put up with them; but in the evening I shut myself up with my pen and ink, Solange, my piano, and my fire. In their midst I spend some very pleasant hours. The only sounds I hear are the notes of a harp, proceeding I know not whence, and the plashing of a jet of water which plays in the garden under my windows. It is most poetic. Do not laugh about it.... I must tell you that I am coining money. I receive proposals from all directions. I shall sell my next novel for 4,000 francs.
George Sand:Letter to M. Jules Boucoiran, December, 1832, in ‘Letters of George Sand.’
In Venice after De-Musset’s departure.
She had taken apartments for herself in the interior of the city, in a little, low-built house, along the narrow, green, and yet limpid canal, close to the Ponte dei Barcaroli. “There,” she tells us, “alone all the afternoon, never going out except in the evening for a breath of air, working at night as well, to the song of the tame nightingales that people all Venetian balconies, I wroteAndre,Jacques,Mattea, and the firstLettres d’ un Voyageur.”
Bertha Thomas: ‘George Sand.’
At LaChatre.
As regards my suit, I am stillin statu quo. My husband has appealed against the decision of the court. I am still at La Châtre, staying with some friends, whospoil me like a child five years old. I live in a suburb composed of terraces, built on a rocky slope; below is an admirably pretty valley. A garden of four square yards, full of roses, and a terrace just spacious enough to move in, do duty for a drawing-room, a study and a gallery. My bedroom is large enough; it is furnished with a bed adorned with curtains of red cotton stuff—a regular peasant’s bed, hard and flat, two straw-bottomed chairs, and a deal table. My window opens six feet above the terrace. Through the hedging of the orchard I come and go at night, without having to open any door, and thus to disturb anybody, whenever inclined for a stroll in my four square yards of flowers. I sometimes go alone for a ride at dusk. I return home at midnight. My cloak, my bark hat, and the melancholy trot of my steed, cause the people to take me in the dark for a peddler or for a farmer’s boy.
George Sand:Letter to the Countess d’ Agoult, May, 1836, in ‘Letters of George Sand.’
At Majorca with Chopin.
We were delighted to meet in an old Carthusian convent a Spanish family whom political reasons had compelled to seek a hiding-place there, and who possessed a tolerably decent suite of peasant furniture. The refugees intended to pass over to France; we, therefore, bought the furniture for three times its value, and installed ourselves in the convent of Valdemosa: a poetical name, a poetical abode—charming scenery, grand and wild, with the sea bordering on the horizon, formidable heights around us, eagles pursuing their prey even into the orange groves of our garden, a path planted withcypresses and winding its way from the top of the mountain to the bottom of the ravine; under our feet torrents, overhung by myrtles and palms.... We were unable to procure servants, because we were notChristians; and besides, nobody cared to wait upon a consumptive person.... We scarcely ever met a soul; nothing disturbed our occupations. After waiting for two months, and having to pay a duty of 300 francs, Chopin at last obtained his piano, and the vaults of the convent cells were enlivened by its melody. Maurice visibly improved every day in health and strength; as for me, I used to perform the duties of a tutor seven hours a day.... During one-half of the night I worked for myself. Chopin composed some of his masterpieces, and we were in hopes of swallowing our vexations by the aid of these compensating influences. But, owing to the elevated position of the convent, the climate eventually became unbearable. We were living in the midst of clouds, and for fifty days we were unable to descend to the valley. The roads had been changed into torrents, and we could no longer see the sun.
All that would have seemed very well to me if poor Chopin could have endured it.... While battering our rocks, the wind and the sea sang in a sublime tone. The immense and deserted cloisters were cracking overhead. Had I written there that part ofLéliawhich is enacted in a monastery, I could have made it better and more real. But my poor friend’s chest was daily growing worse. Fine weather did not return. A chambermaid whom I had brought with me from France, and who until then had resigned herself, thanks to a large salary, to do our cooking andkeep our rooms tidy, was beginning to consider her work too fatiguing. The moment had arrived when, having wielded the broom and boiled the saucepan myself, I too must have given way to fatigue; for, besides my tutor’s work, my literary pursuits, the continuous care demanded by the state of my patient, and the mortal anxiety he caused me, I was eaten up with rheumatism. In Majorca the use of chimneys is unknown. By paying an exorbitant price we succeeded in getting somebody to build a grotesque stove for us, a sort of iron caldron which gave us the headache and parched our chests. In spite of that, the humidity of the convent was such that our clothing grew mouldy on our backs.... We at last decided to go away, at whatever cost, although Chopin had not even strength enough to drag himself along.... We were obliged to travel three leagues along outlandish paths in abirlocho, that is to say, a wheelbarrow!
George Sand:Letter to M. François Rollinat, March, 1839, in ‘Letters of George Sand.’
“Madame Sand” at Nohant.
It seems to me but the other day that I saw her, yet it was in the August of 1846, more than thirty years ago. I saw her in her own Berry, at Nohant, where her childhood and youth were passed, where she returned to live after she became famous, where she died and has now her grave.... The château of Nohant, in which Madame Sand lived, is a plain house by the roadside, with a walled garden. Down in the meadows, not far off, flows the Indre, bordered by trees....
The mid-day breakfast at Nohant was not yet over when I reached the house, and I found a large partyassembled. I entered with some trepidation, ... but the simplicity of Madame Sand’s manner put me at ease in a moment. She named some of those present; amongst them were her son and daughter, the Maurice and Solange so familiar to us from her books, and Chopin with his wonderful eyes. There was at that time nothing astonishing in Madame Sand’s appearance. She was not in man’s clothes; she wore a sort of costume not impossible, I should think (although on these matters I speak with hesitation), to members of the fair sex at this hour amongst ourselves, as an out-of-door dress for the country or for Scotland. She made me sit by her and poured out for me the insipid and depressing beverage,boisson fade et mélancolique, as Balzac called it, for which English people are thought abroad to be always thirsting,—tea. She conversed of the country through which I had been wandering, of the Berry peasants and their mode of life, of Switzerland, whither I was going; she touched politely, by a few questions and remarks, upon England and things and persons English—upon Oxford and Cambridge, Byron, Bulwer. As she spoke her eyes, head, bearing, were all of them striking; but the main impression she made was an impression of what I have already mentioned,—ofsimplicity, frank, cordial simplicity. After breakfast she led the way into the garden, asked me a few kind questions about myself and my plans, gathered a flower or two and gave them to me, shook hands heartily at the gate, and I saw her no more.
Matthew Arnold:George Sand. ‘Mixed Essays,’ etc. New York; Macmillan & Co. 1883.
Margaret Fuller’s account of her in 1847.
Appearance.
I went to see her at her house, Place d’ Orleans. I found it a handsome, modern residence.... The servant who admitted me was in the picturesque costume of a peasant, and, as Mme. Sand afterward told me, her god-daughter, whom she had brought from her province. She announced me as “Madame Salere,” and returned into the ante-room to tell me “Madame says she does not know you.” I began to think I was doomed to a rebuff, among the crowd who deserve it. However, to make assurance sure, I said, “Ask if she has not received a letter from me.” As I spoke, Madame S. opened the door, and stood looking at me an instant. Our eyes met. I never shall forget her look at that moment. The doorway made a frame for her figure; she is large, but well-formed. She was dressed in a robe of dark violet silk, with a black mantle on her shoulders, her beautiful hair dressed with the greatest taste, her whole appearance and attitude, in its simple and lady-like dignity, presenting an almost ludicrous contrast to the vulgar caricature idea of George Sand. Her face is a very little like the portraits, but much finer; the upper part of the forehead and eyes are beautiful, the lower, strong and masculine, expressive of a hardy temperament and strong passions, but not in the least coarse; the complexion olive, and the air of the whole head Spanish.... All these details I saw at a glance; but what fixed my attention was the expression ofgoodness, nobleness, and power, that pervaded the whole—the truly human heart and nature that shone in the eyes. As our eyes met, she said, “C’est vous,” and held out her hand. I took it, and went into her little study....I stayed a good part of the day, and was very glad afterward, for I did not see her again, uninterrupted. Another day I was there, and saw her in her circle. Her daughter and another lady was present, and a number of gentlemen. Her position there was that of an intellectual woman and good friend,—the same as my own, in the circle of my acquaintance, as distinguished from my intimates. Her daughter is just about to be married. It is said, there is no congeniality between her and her mother; but for her son she seems to have much love, and he loves and admires her extremely. I understand he has a good and free character, without conspicuous talent.
Her conversation.
Her way of talking is just like her writing—lively, picturesque, with an undertone of deep feeling, and the same skill in striking the nail on the head every now and then with a blow.
We did not talk at all of personal or private matters. I saw, as one sees in her writings, the want of an independent, interior life, but I did not feel it as a fault, there is so much in her of her kind. I heartily enjoyed the sense of so rich, so prolific, so ardent a genius.... I never liked a woman better.
I forgot to mention, that while talking, shedoessmoke all the time her little cigarette.
Margaret Fuller:Letter, 1847, in ‘Memoirs of Margaret Fuller Ossoli,’ by R. W. Emerson, W. H. Channing, and J. F. Clark. Boston: Roberts Bros., 1874.
Sensation caused by her ‘Villemer’ in dramatic form.
Villemerstill goes splendidly. The principal journals, without exception, are even louder in their praisethan their humbler contemporaries.... The Odéon is taking 4,000 francs for seats booked in advance, and from 500 to 600 at the door every night. There is a string of carriages all day long, bringing people who come to book places, and another at night, besides a crowd at the doors.... The players are always recalled after each act. It is a splendid success, and, as it is supported only by the paying public, it is so unanimous and hearty that the actors say they have never seen anything like it.... Travellers who arrive in Paris, and who pass during the evening in front of the Odéon, pull up in a fright and ask if there is a revolution, if the republic is proclaimed.
George Sand:Letter to her son, March, 1864, in ‘Letters of George Sand.’
Account of her earnings in 1869.
If you wish to know my pecuniary position, it is easy to set forth. My accounts are not involved. I have earned about a million with my writings; I have not put by a singlesou. I gave away every thing except 20,000 francs, which, two years ago, I invested, in order not to cause too much expense to my children if I should fall ill; and yet I am not sure that I shall be able to keep that little capital; for I may meet with people who may want it more urgently than I, and, should I be well enough to earn a little more, I will have to part with my savings.... If you should speak of my resources, you can say, with perfect truth, that I always lived from day to day from the fruits of my labor, and that I consider as ensuring most happinessthat way of arranging my life. I thus have no pecuniary anxiety, and I do not fear robbers.
George Sand:Letter to M. Louis Ulbach, November, 1869, in ‘Letters of George Sand.’
Appearance in later life.
Gray eyes.
At one of the great horticultural shows in Paris, ... moving about among the fruits and flowers, we saw a woman of the medium size, plainly and rather peculiarly dressed, and accompanied by a pale young man who resembled her so strongly that we at once pronounced them mother and son. The woman was in the autumn of life, the young man in the early summer. On her face the woman wore marks of care and time, a tired, disappointed look, such as they wear who, after hard climbing, have reached a height of fame, and find it uncompensating. There were remnants of beauty in the face, but they were only remnants. There were deep, gray eyes under brows too heavy for a woman, a head crowned with a considerable wealth of carelessly arranged hair just threaded with gray, and picturesquely draped with lace. There was the little stoop of the shoulders, that comes of the habit of thinking hard and writing steadily. Wherever this woman and her companion went, the spectators turned to look at them. The face and figure are clear-cut in my memory to-day, and there is nothing commonplace in it. You would have known that this was a distinguished person. It was a face with a soul behind it. The movements were those of a person accustomed to be looked at and accustomed to homage. One looked at this woman—almost an aged woman—and felt the magnetism of genius. We asked of aby-stander who it was, and were told that it was George Sand and her son.
Paul Vevay: Quoted in ‘The Record of the Year.’ Published by G. W. Carleton, September, 1876.
Her own account of her character.
I am but a good old woman, to whom people have attributed a ferocity of character altogether fantastical. I have also been accused of having proved unable to love with passion. It seems to me I have lived a life of tenderness, and that ought to have satisfied people.
Now, thank God, nothing except affection is expected from me; and those who are good enough to love me, in spite of the want of lustre in my life and the dulness of my wit, do not complain of me.
My disposition has remained inclined to gaiety; though devoid of initiative for amusing others, I am efficient in helping them to enjoy themselves.
I must possess some great defects, but, like every body else, mine do not strike me. I am also ignorant of the existence of any quality or virtue in me. I much pondered overtruth, and when one is so engaged the sentiment ofselfvanishes more and more daily.
George Sand:Letter to M. Louis Ulbach, November, 1869, in ‘Letters of George Sand.’