GEORGE SAND: _Letter to M. François Rollinat_, March, 1839, in ‘Letters of George Sand.’
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[Sidenote: “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 party assembled. 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,--of _simplicity_, 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.
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[Sidenote: Margaret Fuller’s account of her in 1847.]
[Sidenote: 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 of _goodness_, 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.
[Sidenote: 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, she _does_ smoke 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.
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[Sidenote: Sensation caused by her ‘Villemer’ in dramatic form.]
_Villemer_ still goes splendidly. The principal journals, without exception, are even louder in their praise than 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.’
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[Sidenote: 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 single _sou_. 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 happiness that 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.’
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[Sidenote: Appearance in later life.]
[Sidenote: 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 a by-stander who it was, and were told that it was George Sand and her son.