Her life at Nohant.
Not silent in her own circle.
M. Plauchut, a literary friend and a visitor at Nohant, during the last decade of her lifetime, gives a picture of the order of her day; it is simplicity itself. Nine o’clock, in summer and in winter alike, was her hour of waking. Letters and newspapers would occupy her until noon, when she came down to join the familydéjeûner. Afterwards she would stroll for an hour in the garden and thewood, visiting and tending her favorite plants and flowers. At two o’clock she would come indoors to give a lesson to her grandchildren, in the library, or work there on her own account, undistracted by the romps around her. Dinner at six was followed by a short evening walk, after which she played with the children, or set them dancing indoors. She liked to sit at the piano, playing over to herself bits of music by her favorite Mozart, or old Spanish and Berrichon airs. After a game of dominoes or cards, she would still sit up so late, occupying herself with water-color painting or otherwise, that sometimes her son was obliged to take away the lights. These long evenings, the same writer bears witness, sometimes afforded rare opportunities of hearing Madame Sand talk of the events and the men of her time. In the absolute quiet of the country, among a small circle of responsive minds, she, so silent otherwise, became expansive. “Those who have never heard George Sand at such hours,” he concludes, “have never known her. She spoke well, with great elevation of ideas, charming eloquence, and a spirit of infinite indulgence.” When, at length, she retired, it was to write on until the morning hours, according to her old habit, only relinquished when her health made this imperative.
Bertha Thomas: ‘George Sand.’
Not brilliant in general conversation.
Her cigarette.
George Sand had none of the brilliancy and repartee in general conversation one would have expected, and as the years went on she became more silent and reserved. Her greatest happiness was to sit in her arm-chair, smokingcigarettes. Often, when her friends thought she was absorbed in her own meditations, she would put in a word that proved she had been listening to everything. The word spoken, she would relapse again into silence.
Manner of working.
It was only when she sat down to her desk that she became eloquent, and the expressions that halted on her lips rushed abundantly from her pen. Her characters grew beneath her hand, and she went on writing, with that perfect style which is like the rhythmic cadence of a great river—“large, calm, and regular.” George Sand worked all night long, after all her guests were in bed, sometimes remaining up until five o’clock in the morning. She generally sat down to the old bureau in the hall at Nohant, with pen, ink, and foolscap paper sewn together, and began, without notes or a settled scheme of any kind.
—— ——:George Sand. ‘Temple Bar.’
Vigor at sixty-eight.
To-day,my sixty-eighth birthday, I will write to you. My health is perfect, in spite of a whooping cough, which, however, does not longer disturb my rest, since I daily plunge myself in a foaming, icy-cold little torrent, winding its way among the pebbles, the flowers, and the grass, under a delightful shade.... I walk all the way to the river, and, quite hot with perspiration, plunge myself in the icy-cold water. The doctor says I am mad; I let him talk and cure myself, whilst his patients nurse themselves andcroak. I am like the grass in the fields—water and sun are all I require.
George Sand:Letter to M. Gustave Flaubert, 5th July, 1872, in ‘Letters of George Sand.’
Still later.
I am still discharging the duties of assiduous and patient teacher, and I have little time left forprofessional writing, seeing that I spend the evening with my family, and can now no longer work after midnight; yet my being pinched for time acts like a stimulant upon me, and causes me to find much pleasure in hard work; it is to me like secretly relishing some forbidden fruit.
George Sand:Letter to M. Gustave Flaubert, December, 1875, in ‘Letters of George Sand.’
George Sand’s creed.
There is for me but one creed and one refuge: faith in God and our own immortality. My secret is not new, but there is no other.
George Sand:Letter to Mlle. Leroyer de Chantepie, August, 1836, in ‘Letters of George Sand.’
I see future and eternal life before me as a certainty; as a light in the glimmer of which every thing is only dimly seen; but that light is there, and that is all I wish for. I know full well that my Jeanne [her granddaughter] is not dead.... I know well that I shall meet her again, and that she will recognize me, even though she should not recollect or I either. She was part of my own self and that fact will always remain.
George Sand:Letter to M. Edouard Charton, February, 1855, in ‘Letters of George Sand.’
Her last words.
Up to her last hour she preserved consciousnessand lucidity. The words, “Ne touchez pas à la verdure,” among the last that fell from her lips, were understood by her children, who knew her wish that the trees should be undisturbed under which, in the village cemetery, she was soon to find a resting-place.
Bertha Thomas: ‘George Sand.’
We have seen a photograph done of George Sand, shortly before she died. The face is massive, but lit up by the wonderful eyes, through which the soul still shines. An expression of tenderness and gentle philosophy hovers round the lips, and we feel almost as though they would break into a smile as we gaze. She became, latterly, like one of those grand old trees of her own “Vallée Noir,” lopped and maimed by the storms and struggles of life, but ever to the last putting forth tender shoots and expanding into fresh foliage, through which the soft winds of heaven whisper, making music in the ears of those weary wayfarers who pause to rest beneath their shade.
—— ——: ‘George Sand.’Temple Bar.
Two notable opinions of George Sand’s works.
Though I never saw any of her works which I admired throughout (even ‘Consuelo,’ which is the best, or the best that I have read, appears to me to couple strange extravagance with wondrous excellence), yet she has a grasp of mind, which, if I cannot fully comprehend, I can very deeply respect; she is sagacious and profound.... It is poetry, as I comprehend the word, which elevatesthat masculine George Sand, and makes out of something coarse, something godlike.
Charlotte Brontë:Letters to G. H. Lewes, 1848, in Mrs. Gaskell’s ‘Life of Charlotte Brontë’. London: Smith, Elder & Co., 1857.
George Sand is the greatest female genius the world ever saw—at least, since Sappho, who broke off a fragment of her soul to be guessed by, as creation did by its fossils. And George Sand, it is remarkable, precisely like her prototype, has suffered her senses to leaven her soul—to permeate it through and through, and make a sensual soul of it. She is a wonderful woman, and, I hope, rising into a purer atmosphere by the very strength of her wing.
Elizabeth Barrett: ‘Letters of Elizabeth Barrett Browning to R. H. Horne.’ New York: James Miller, 1877.
FOOTNOTES:[3]Dates of publication in book form; see Catalogue Général de la Librairie Française.
[3]Dates of publication in book form; see Catalogue Général de la Librairie Française.
[3]Dates of publication in book form; see Catalogue Général de la Librairie Française.