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.”
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[Sidenote: Reminiscences of her childhood.]
While I was yet very young, my mother commenced the cultivation of my intellectual faculties; my mind was neither particularly sluggish nor particularly active; left to itself it might have developed but slowly. I was rather backward in talking, but having once begun to speak I learned words very rapidly, and, when but four years old, I could read fluently. I was brought up with my cousin Clotilde. Our respective mothers taught us our prayers, and I recollect that I used to repeat mine by heart without a mistake, and also without having any idea of their meaning, except as regards the following words, which we were made to repeat when our little heads were laid upon the same pillow: “_Mon Dieu, je vous donne mon cœur!_” (My God, I give my heart to Thee!) I do not know why I understood those words better than the rest, for they are highly metaphysical; but certainly I did understand them, and it was the only part of my prayers that conveyed to me any idea either of God or myself....
My mother used to sing to me a rhyme on Christmas Eve; but as that only occurred once a year, I do not recollect it. What I have not forgotten is the absolute belief which I had in the descent down the chimney of Old Father Christmas, a good old man with a snowy beard, who, during the night, as the clock struck twelve, was to come and place in my little shoe a present which I should find upon awaking. Twelve o’clock at night! that mysterious hour unknown to children, and which is represented to them as the impossible limit to which they can keep awake! What incredible efforts did I not make to resist my tendency to sleep before the appearance of the little old man! I felt anxious yet afraid to see him! But I could never keep awake long enough, and the following morning my first anxiety was to go and examine my shoe in the fire-place. What emotion did I not feel at sight of the white paper parcel! for Father Christmas was extremely clean in his ways, and never failed to carefully wrap up his offering. I used to jump out of bed and run barefooted to seize my treasure. It was never a very magnificent affair, for we were not wealthy! It used to be a little cake, an orange, or simply a nice rosy apple. But, nevertheless, it seemed so precious to me that I scarcely dared to eat it.
GEORGE SAND: ‘_Histoire de ma Vie_,’ quoted by Raphaël Ledos de Beaufort, in ‘Letters of George Sand.’
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[Sidenote: Early education.]
[Sidenote: Imaginativeness.]
[Sidenote: Activity.]
There seems to have been little or no method about her early education. The study of her own language was neglected, and the time spent less profitably, she considered, in acquiring a smattering of Latin. She took to some studies with avidity, while others remained wholly distasteful to her. For mere head-work she cared little. Arithmetic she detested; versification no less. The dry _technique_ in music was a stumbling block of which she was impatient. History and literature she enjoyed in whatever they offered that was romantic, heroic, or poetically suggestive. In her Nohant surroundings there was nothing to check, and much to stimulate, this dominant imaginative faculty.... Such a visionary life might have been most dangerous and mentally enervating had her organization been less robust, and the tendency to reverie not been matched by lively external perception and plentiful physical activity. As it was, if at one moment she was in a cloud-land of her own, or poring over the stories of the Iliad, the classic mythologies, or Tasso’s _Gerusalemme_, the next would see her scouring the fields, ... playing practical jokes on the tutor, and extemporizing wild out-of-door games and dances with her village companions.
[Sidenote: A curious development.]
Of serious religious education she received none at all.... Her mother was pious in a primitive way, though holding aloof from priestly influences. The grandmother [was] a disciple of Jean-Jacques Rousseau and of Voltaire.... On both sides what was offered her to worship was too indefinite to satisfy her strong religious instincts.... She filled in the blank with her imagination, which was forthwith called upon to picture a being who should represent all perfections, human and divine; something that her heart could love, as well as her intelligence approve.
[Sidenote: “Corambé.”]
This ideal figure, for whom she devised the name Corambé, was to combine all the spiritual qualities of the Christian ideal with the earthly grace and beauty of the mythological deities of Greece. It is hardly too much to say that the Christianity which had been expressly left out in her teaching she invented for herself. She erected a woodland altar in the recesses of a thicket to this imaginary object of her adoration, and it is a characteristic trait that the sacrifices she chose to offer there were the release of birds and butterflies that had been taken prisoners--as a symbolical oblation most welcome to a divinity whose essential attributes were infinite mercy and love.
BERTHA THOMAS: ‘George Sand.’ (Famous Women Series.) Boston: Roberts Brothers, 1883.
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[Sidenote: Unhappy married life.]
Her husband seems to have gradually neglected her, to satisfy his tastes as a sportsman. An excellent shot, a daring horseman, an indefatigable huntsman, he often left her at two and three in the morning to indulge in his favorite sport--hunting.
The young wife, delicate in health and ardent in her affection, deeply resented the frequent absence of her husband. She at first meekly remonstrated with M. Dudevant, who would then stay at home for a few days, soon again to disappear. Months and years thus elapsed. When not out hunting, M. Dudevant indulged in feasting with his friends, eating enormously and drinking more, ... and almost forsaking his wife for the pleasures of the field and the table.
RAPHAËL LEDOS DE BEAUFORT: _Biographical Sketch_, in ‘Letters of George Sand.’
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[Sidenote: The crisis.]
I must inform you that in spite of my inertia, indifference, unsteadiness of purpose, the facility with which I forgive and forget sorrows and injury, I have just taken a _rash and extreme resolution_.... You are acquainted with my home life, you are able to judge whether it is tolerable. You, scores of times, wondered how I could display so much courage and equanimity when my pride was being constantly crushed. But there is a limit to everything.... There has been no scandal. While looking for something in my husband’s desk, I simply found a parcel addressed to me. That parcel had a kind of solemn appearance which struck me. It bore the inscription: _To be opened only at my death._
I could not find the patience to wait until I became a widow. With health like mine I cannot expect to survive anyone. At any rate, I supposed my husband dead, and felt rather anxious to know what he might think of me while still alive. The parcel being directed to me, I had a right to open it without being thought indiscreet, and, as my husband is in the full enjoyment of health, I could read his will without emotion.
Good heavens! what a will! Curses for me and nothing else! He had collected therein all his impulses of temper and ill-humor against me, all his reflections respecting my _perverseness_, all his feelings of contempt for my character. And that is what he had left me as a token of his affection! I fancied that I was dreaming, I who, until now, was obstinately shutting my eyes and refusing to see that I was scorned. The perusal of that will has at last aroused me from my slumber. I said to myself that to live with a man who feels neither esteem for nor confidence in his wife, would be equivalent to trying to revive a corpse. My mind was made up, and, I dare say so, _irrevocably_.