BERTHA THOMAS: ‘George Sand.’
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[Sidenote: 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 composed in 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._
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[Sidenote: Her characteristics.]
[Sidenote: 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.’
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[Sidenote: 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 melancholy and depression of spirits, the natural consequences of my bilious temperament.
GEORGE SAND: _Letter to M. Hippolyte Chatiron_, March, 1834, in ‘Letters of George Sand.’
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[Sidenote: 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.’
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[Sidenote: 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.’
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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.’
[Sidenote: Life in Paris with Solange.]
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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.’
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[Sidenote: In Venice after De-Musset’s departure.]
She had taken apartments for herself in the interior of the city, in a little, low-built house, along the narrow, green, and yet limpid canal, close to the Ponte dei Barcaroli. “There,” she tells us, “alone all the afternoon, never going out except in the evening for a breath of air, working at night as well, to the song of the tame nightingales that people all Venetian balconies, I wrote _Andre_, _Jacques_, _Mattea_, and the first _Lettres d’ un Voyageur_.”
BERTHA THOMAS: ‘George Sand.’
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[Sidenote: At LaChatre.]
As regards my suit, I am still _in statu quo_. My husband has appealed against the decision of the court. I am still at La Châtre, staying with some friends, who spoil me like a child five years old. I live in a suburb composed of terraces, built on a rocky slope; below is an admirably pretty valley. A garden of four square yards, full of roses, and a terrace just spacious enough to move in, do duty for a drawing-room, a study and a gallery. My bedroom is large enough; it is furnished with a bed adorned with curtains of red cotton stuff--a regular peasant’s bed, hard and flat, two straw-bottomed chairs, and a deal table. My window opens six feet above the terrace. Through the hedging of the orchard I come and go at night, without having to open any door, and thus to disturb anybody, whenever inclined for a stroll in my four square yards of flowers. I sometimes go alone for a ride at dusk. I return home at midnight. My cloak, my bark hat, and the melancholy trot of my steed, cause the people to take me in the dark for a peddler or for a farmer’s boy.
GEORGE SAND: _Letter to the Countess d’ Agoult_, May, 1836, in ‘Letters of George Sand.’
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[Sidenote: At Majorca with Chopin.]
We were delighted to meet in an old Carthusian convent a Spanish family whom political reasons had compelled to seek a hiding-place there, and who possessed a tolerably decent suite of peasant furniture. The refugees intended to pass over to France; we, therefore, bought the furniture for three times its value, and installed ourselves in the convent of Valdemosa: a poetical name, a poetical abode--charming scenery, grand and wild, with the sea bordering on the horizon, formidable heights around us, eagles pursuing their prey even into the orange groves of our garden, a path planted with cypresses and winding its way from the top of the mountain to the bottom of the ravine; under our feet torrents, overhung by myrtles and palms.... We were unable to procure servants, because we were not _Christians_; and besides, nobody cared to wait upon a consumptive person.... We scarcely ever met a soul; nothing disturbed our occupations. After waiting for two months, and having to pay a duty of 300 francs, Chopin at last obtained his piano, and the vaults of the convent cells were enlivened by its melody. Maurice visibly improved every day in health and strength; as for me, I used to perform the duties of a tutor seven hours a day.... During one-half of the night I worked for myself. Chopin composed some of his masterpieces, and we were in hopes of swallowing our vexations by the aid of these compensating influences. But, owing to the elevated position of the convent, the climate eventually became unbearable. We were living in the midst of clouds, and for fifty days we were unable to descend to the valley. The roads had been changed into torrents, and we could no longer see the sun.
All that would have seemed very well to me if poor Chopin could have endured it.... While battering our rocks, the wind and the sea sang in a sublime tone. The immense and deserted cloisters were cracking overhead. Had I written there that part of _Lélia_ which is enacted in a monastery, I could have made it better and more real. But my poor friend’s chest was daily growing worse. Fine weather did not return. A chambermaid whom I had brought with me from France, and who until then had resigned herself, thanks to a large salary, to do our cooking and keep our rooms tidy, was beginning to consider her work too fatiguing. The moment had arrived when, having wielded the broom and boiled the saucepan myself, I too must have given way to fatigue; for, besides my tutor’s work, my literary pursuits, the continuous care demanded by the state of my patient, and the mortal anxiety he caused me, I was eaten up with rheumatism. In Majorca the use of chimneys is unknown. By paying an exorbitant price we succeeded in getting somebody to build a grotesque stove for us, a sort of iron caldron which gave us the headache and parched our chests. In spite of that, the humidity of the convent was such that our clothing grew mouldy on our backs.... We at last decided to go away, at whatever cost, although Chopin had not even strength enough to drag himself along.... We were obliged to travel three leagues along outlandish paths in a _birlocho_, that is to say, a wheelbarrow!