Part 5

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 a scandal; 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 of _Jules 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 sign _Jules 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 the _Figaro_. “You wrote ‘Rose et Blanche,’ and gave the name of its author as _Jules Sand_; Sand is, therefore, your common property. Madame needs only to select another Christian name. Now, madame, to-day is St. George’s Day. Call yourself _George 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.’

* * * * *

[Sidenote: 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.’

* * * * *

[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._

* * * * *

[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.’

* * * * *

[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.’

* * * * *

[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.’

* * * * *

[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.’

* * * * *

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.]

* * * * *

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.’

* * * * *

[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.’

* * * * *

[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.’

* * * * *

[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!

GEORGE SAND: _Letter to M. François Rollinat_, March, 1839, in ‘Letters of George Sand.’

* * * * *

[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.

* * * * *

[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.

* * * * *

[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.’

* * * * *

[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.’

* * * * *

[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.

PAUL VEVAY: Quoted in ‘The Record of the Year.’ Published by G. W. Carleton, September, 1876.

* * * * *

[Sidenote: 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.