The George Sand-Gustave Flaubert Letters

Translated by A. L. McKenzie (1921)

Introduction by Stuart Sherman

PREFATORY NOTE

This translation of the correspondence between George Sand andGustave Flaubert was undertaken in consequence of a suggestion byProfessor Stuart P. Sherman. The translator desires to acknowledgevaluable criticism given by Professor Sherman, Ruth M. Sherman, andProfessor Kenneth McKenzie, all of whom have generously assisted inrevising the manuscript. 

A. L. McKenzie

INTRODUCTION

The correspondence of George Sand and Gustave Flaubert, ifapproached merely as a chapter in the biographies of these heroes ofnineteenth century letters, is sufficiently rewarding. In arelationship extending over twelve years, including the tryingperiod of the Franco-Prussian War and the Commune, theseextraordinary personalities disclose the aspects of their diversenatures which are best worth the remembrance of posterity. Howeverher passionate and erratic youth may have captivated ourgrandfathers, George Sand in the mellow autumn of her life is for usat her most attractive phase. The storms and anguish and hazardousadventures that attended the defiant unfolding of her spirit areover. In her final retreat at Nohant, surrounded by her affectionatechildren and grandchildren, diligently writing, botanizing, bathingin her little river, visited by her friends and undistracted by thefiery lovers of the old time, she shows an unguessed wealth ofmaternal virtue, swift, comprehending sympathy, fortitude, sunnyresignation, and a goodness of heart that has ripened into wisdom. For Flaubert, too, though he was seventeen years her junior, theflamboyance of youth was long since past; in 1862, when thecorrespondence begins, he was firmly settled, a shy, proud, grumpytoiling hermit of forty, in his family seat at Croisset, beginninghis seven years' labor at L'Education Sentimentale, master of hisart, hardening in his convictions, and conscious of increasingestrangement from the spirit of his age. He, with his craving forsympathy, and she, with her inexhaustible supply of it, meet; hepours out his bitterness, she her consolation; and so with equalcandor of self-revelation they beautifully draw out and strengtheneach the other's characteristics, and help one another grow old. 

But there is more in these letters than a satisfaction for thebiographical appetite, which, indeed, finds ITS account rather inthe earlier chapters of the correspondents' history. What impressesus here is the banquet spread for the reflective and criticalfaculties in this intercourse of natural antagonists. As M. Faguetobserves in a striking paragraph of his study of Flaubert:

"It is a curious thing, which does honor to them both, that Flaubertand George Sand should have become loving friends towards the end oftheir lives. At the beginning, Flaubert might have been looked uponby George Sand as a furious enemy. Emma [Madame Bovary] is GeorgeSand's heroine with all the poetry turned into ridicule. Flaubertseems to say in every page of his work: 'Do you want to know what isthe real Valentine, the real Indiana, the real Lelia? Here she is, it is Emma Roualt. ' 'And do you want to know what becomes of a womanwhose education has consisted in George Sand's books? Here she is, Emma Roualt. ' So that the terrible mocker of the bourgeois haswritten a book which is directly inspired by the spirit of the 1840bourgeois. Their recriminations against romanticism 'whichrehabilitates and poetises the courtesan, ' against George Sand, theMuse of Adultery, are to be found in acts and facts in MadameBovary. "

Now, the largest interest of this correspondence depends preciselyupon the continuance, beneath an affectionate personal relationship, of a fundamental antagonism of interests and beliefs, resolutelymaintained on both sides. George Sand, with her lifelong passion forpropaganda and reformation, labors earnestly to bring Flaubert toher point of view, to remould him nearer to her heart's desire. He, with a playful deference to the sex and years of his friend, addresses her in his letters as "Dear Master. " Yet in the essentialsof the conflict, though she never gives over her effort, he neverbudges a jot; he has taken his ground, and in his last unfinishedwork, Bouvard and Pecuchet, he dies stubbornly fortifying hisposition. To the last she speaks from a temperament lyrical, sanguine, imaginative, optimistic and sympathetic; he from atemperament dramatic, melancholy, observing, cynical, and satirical. She insists upon natural goodness; he, upon innate depravity. Sheurges her faith in social regeneration; he vents his spleneticcontempt for the mob. Through all the successive shocks ofdisillusioning experience, she expects the renovation of humanity bysome religious, some semi-mystical, amelioration of its heart; hegrimly concedes the greater part of humanity to the devil, and cansee no escape for the remnant save in science and aristocraticorganization. For her, finally, the literary art is an instrument ofsocial salvation--it is her means of touching the world with herideals, her love, her aspiration; for him the literary art is theavenue of escape from the meaningless chaos of existence--it is hissubtly critical condemnation of the world. 

The origins of these unreconciled antipathies lie deep beneath thepersonal relationship of George Sand and Gustave Flaubert; lie deepbeneath their successors, who with more or less of amenity in theirmanners are still debating the same questions today. The maincurrents of the nineteenth century, with fluent and refluent tides, clash beneath the controversy; and as soon as one hears its "longwithdrawing roar, " and thinks it is dying away, and is become a partof ancient history, it begins again, and will be heard, no doubt, bythe last man as a solemn accompaniment to his final contention withhis last adversary. 

George Sand was, on the whole, a natural and filial daughter of theFrench Revolution. The royal blood which she received from herfather's line mingled in her veins with that of the Parisianmilliner, her mother, and predestined her for a leveller bypreparing in her an instinctive ground of revolt against all thoseinherited prejudices which divided the families of her parents. As ayoung girl wildly romping with the peasant children at Nohant shediscovered a joy in untrammeled rural life which was only toincrease with years. At the proper age for beginning to fashion aconventional young lady, the hoyden was put in a convent, where sheunderwent some exalting religious experiences; and in 1822 she wasassigned to her place in the "established social order" by hermarriage at seventeen to M. Dudevant. After a few years of ratherhumdrum domestic life in the country, she became aware that thisgentleman, her husband, was behaving as we used to be taught thatall French husbands ultimately behave; he was, in fact, turning fromher to her maids. The young couple had never been strongly united--the impetuous dreamy girl and her coarse hunting mate; and they hadgrown wide apart. She should, of course, have adjusted herselfquietly to the altered situation and have kept up appearances. Butthis young wife had gradually become an "intellectual"; she had beenreading philosophy and poetry; she was saturated with the writingsof Rousseau, of Chateaubriand, of Byron. None of the spiritualmasters of her generation counselled acquiescence in servitude orsilence in misery. Every eloquent tongue of the time-spirit urgedself-expression and revolt. And she, obedient to the deepestimpulses of her blood and her time, revolted. 

At the period when Madame Dudevant withdrew her neck from theconjugal yoke and plunged into her literary career in Paris, thedoctrine that men are created for freedom, equality and fraternitywas already somewhat hackneyed. She, with an impetus from her ownprivate fortunes, was to give the doctrine a recrudescence ofinterest by resolutely applying it to the status of women. We cannotfollow her in detail from the point where she abandons the domesticsewing-basket to reappear smoking black cigars in the Latin Quarter. We find her, at about 1831, entering into competition with thebrilliant literary generation of Balzac, Hugo, Alfred de Musset, Merimee, Stendhal, and Sainte-Beuve. To signalize her equality withher brothers in talent, she adopts male attire: "I had a sentry-boxcoat made, of rough grey cloth, with trousers and waist-coat tomatch. With a grey hat and a huge cravat of woolen material, Ilooked exactly like a first-year student. " In the freedom of thisrather unalluring garb she entered into relations Platonic, fraternal, or tempestuously passionate with perhaps the mostdistinguished series of friends and lovers that ever fluttered aboutone flame. There was Aurelien de Seze; Jules Sandeau, her firstcollaborator, who "reconciled her to life" and gave her a nom deguerre; the inscrutable Merimee, who made no one happy; Musset--anencounter from which both tiger-moths escaped with singed wings; theodd transitional figure of Pagello; Michel Euraed; Liszt; Chopin, whom she loved and nursed for eight years; her master Lamennais; hermaster Pierre Leroux; her father-confessor Sainte-Beuve; and GustaveFlaubert, the querulous friend of her last decade. 

As we have compressed the long and complex story of her personalrelationships, so we must compress the intimately related history ofher works and her ideas. When under the inspiration of Rousseau, theemancipated George Sand began to write, her purposes were butvaguely defined. She conceived of life as primarily an opportunityfor unlimited self-expansion, and of literature as an opportunityfor unrestricted self-expression. "Nevertheless, " she declares, "myinstincts have formed, without my privity, the theory I am about toset down, --a theory which I have generally followed unconsciously. . . . According to this theory, the novel is as much a work of poetryas of analysis. It demands true situations, and characters not onlytrue but real, grouped about a type intended to epitomize thesentiment or the main conceptions of the book. This type generallyrepresents the passion of love, since almost all novels are love-stories. According to this theory (and it is here that it begins)the writer must idealize this love, and consequently this type, --andmust not fear to attribute to it all the powers to which he inwardlyaspires, or all the sorrows whose pangs he has observed or felt. This type must in no wise, however, become degraded by thevicissitude of events; it must either die or triumph. "

In 1831, when her pen began its fluent course through the lyricalworks of her first period--Indiana, Valentine, Lelia, Jacques, andthe rest--we conceive George Sand's culture, temper, and point ofview to have been fairly comparable with those of the young Shelleywhen, fifteen years earlier, he with Mary Godwin joined Byron andJane Clairmont in Switzerland--young revoltes, all of them, nourished on eighteenth century revolutionary philosophy and Gothicnovels. Both these eighteenth century currents meet in the work ofthe new romantic group in England and in France. The innermostorigin of the early long poems of Shelley and the early works ofGeorge Sand is in personal passion, in the commotion of a romanticspirit beating its wings against the cage of custom and circumstanceand institutions. The external form of the plot, whatever isfantastic and wilful in its setting and its adventures, is due tothe school of Ann Radcliffe. But the quality in Shelley and inGeorge Sand which bewitched even the austere Matthew Arnold in hisgreen and salad days is the poetising of that liberative eighteenthcentury philosophy into "beautiful idealisms" of a love emancipatedfrom human limitations, a love exalted to the height of its gamut bythe influences of nature, triumphantly seeking its own or shatteredin magnificent despair. In her novels of the first period, GeorgeSand takes her Byronic revenge upon M. Dudevant. In Indiana and itsimmediate successors, consciously or unconsciously, she declares tothe world what a beautiful soul M. Dudevant condemned to sewing onbuttons; in Jacques she paints the man who might fitly have matchedher spirit; and by the entire series, which now impresses us asfantastic in sentiment no less than in plot, she won her earlyreputation as the apologist for free love, the adversary ofmarriage. 

In her middle period--say from 1838 to 1848--of which The Miller ofAginbault, Consuelo, and The Countess of Rudolstadt arerepresentative works, there is a marked subsidence of her personalemotion, and, in compensation, a rising tide of humanitarianenthusiasm. Gradually satiated with erotic passion, graduallyconvinced that it is rather a mischief-maker than a reconstructiveforce in a decrepit society, she is groping, indeed, between hersuccessive liaisons for an elusive felicity, for a larger missionthan inspiring Musset's Alexandrines or Chopin's nocturnes. It issomewhat amusing, and at the same time indicative of her vague butdeep-seated moral yearnings, to find her writing rebukingly toSainte-Beuve, as early as 1834, apropos of his epicurean Volupte:"Let the rest do as they like; but you, dear friend, you mustproduce a book which will change and better mankind, do you see? Youcan, and therefore should. Oh, if poor I could do it! I should liftmy head again and my heart would no longer be broken; but in vain Iseek a religion: Shall it be God, shall it be love, friendship, thepublic welfare? Alas, it seems to me that my soul is framed toreceive all these impressions, without one effacing another . . . Whoshall paint justice as it should, as it may, be in our modernsociety?"

To Sainte-Beuve, himself an unscathed intellectual Odysseus, shedeclares herself greatly indebted intellectually; but on the wholehis influence seems to have been tranquillizing. The material forthe radical program, economic, political, and religious, which, likea spiritual ancestor of H. G. Wells, she eagerly sought topopularize by the novels of her middle years, was supplied mainly bySaint-Simon, Lamennais, and Leroux. Her new "religion of humanity, "a kind of theosophical socialism, is too fantastically garbed tocharm the sober spirits of our age. And yet from the ruins of thattime and from the emotional extravagance of books grown tedious, which she has left behind her, George Sand emerges for us with oneradiant perception which must be included in whatever religionanimates a democratic society: "Everyone must be happy, so that thehappiness of a few may not be criminal and cursed by God. "

One of George Sand's French critics, M. Caro, a member of theAcademy, who deals somewhat austerely with her religiose enthusiasmsand with her Utopian projects for social reformation, remarksgravely and not without tenderness:

"The one thing needful to this soul, so strong, so rich inenthusiasm, is a humble moral quality that she disdains, and whenshe has occasion to speak of it, even slanders, --namely resignation. This is not, as she seems to think, the sluggish virtue of basesouls, who, in their superstitious servitude to force, hasten tocrouch beneath every yoke. That is a false and degradingresignation; genuine resignation grows out of the conception of theuniversal order, weighed against which individual sufferings, without ceasing to be a ground of merit, cease to constitute a rightof revolt. . . . Resignation, in the true, the philosophical, theChristian sense, is a manly acceptance of moral law and also of thelaws essential to the social order; it is a free adherence to order, a sacrifice approved by reason of a part of one's private good andof one's personal freedom, not to might nor to the tyranny of ahuman caprice, but to the exigencies of the common weal, whichsubsists only by the concord of individual liberty with obedientpassions. "

Well, resigned in the sense of defeated, George Sand never became;nor did she, perhaps, ever wholly acquiesce in that scheme of thingswhich M. Caro impressively designates as "the universal order. " Yetwith age, the abandonment of many distractions, the retreat toNohant, the consolations of nature, and her occupation with tales ofpastoral life, beginning with La Mare au Diable, there developswithin her, there diffuses itself around her, there appears in herwork a charm like that which falls upon green fields from the levelrays of the evening sun after a day of storms. It is not the charm, precisely, of resignation; it is the charm of serenity--the serenityof an old revolutionist who no longer expects victory in the morningyet is secure in her confidence of a final triumph, and still moresecure in the goodness of her cause. "A hundred times in life, " shedeclares, "the good that one does seems to serve no immediatepurpose; yet it maintains in one way and another the tradition ofwell wishing and well doing, without which all would perish. " At theoutset of her career we compared her with Shelley. In her lastphase, she reminds us rather of the authors of Far from the MaddingCrowd and The Mill on the Floss, and of Wordsworth, once, too, atorch of revolution, turning to his Michaels and his leech-gatherersand his Peter Bells. Her exquisite pictures of pastoral life areidealizations of it; her representations of the peasant are notcorroborated by Zola's; to the last she approaches the shield ofhuman nature from the golden side. But for herself at least she hasfound a real secret of happiness in country life, tranquil work, anda right direction given to her own heart and conscience. 

It is at about this point in her spiritual development that sheturns towards Gustave Flaubert--perhaps a little suspiciously atfirst, yet resolved from the first, according to her naturalinstinct and her now fixed principles, to stimulate by believing inhis admirable qualities. Writing from Nohant in 1866 to him atCroisset, she epitomises her distinction as a woman and as an authorin this playful sally: "Sainte-Beuve, who loves you nevertheless, pretends that you are dreadfully vicious. But perhaps he sees witheyes a bit dirty, like that learned botanist who pretends that thegermander is of a DIRTY yellow. The observation was so false that Icould not help writing on the margin of his book: 'IT IS YOU, WHOSEEYES ARE DIRTY. '"

We have spoken of George Sand as a faithful daughter of the FrenchRevolution; and by way of contrast we may speak of Flaubert as adisgruntled son of the Second Empire. Between his literary adventand hers there is an interval of a generation, during which theproud expansive spirit and the grandiose aspirations imparted to thenation by the first Napoleon dwindled to a spirit of mediocrity andbourgeois smugness under a Napoleon who had inherited nothing greatof his predecessor but his name. This change in the time-spirit mayhelp to explain the most significant difference between Flaubert andGeorge Sand. He inherited the tastes and imagination of the greatromantic generation; but he inherited none of its social andpolitical enthusiasm. He was disciplined by the romantic writers;yet his reaction to the literary culture of his youth is not ethicalbut aesthetic; he finds his inspiration less in Rousseau than inChateaubriand. He is bred to an admiration of eloquence, the poeticphrase, the splendid picture, life in the grand style; withincreasing disgust he finds himself entering a society which, hefeels, neither understands nor values any of these things, and whichthreatens their destruction. Consequently, we find him actuated as awriter by two complementary passions--the love of splendor and thehatred of mediocrity--two passions, of which the second sometimesalternates with the first, sometimes inseparably fuses with it, andultimately almost extinguishes it. 

The son of an eminent surgeon of Rouen, Gustave Flaubert may haveacquired from his father something of that scientific precision ofobservation and that cutting accuracy of expression, by which hegained his place at the head of modern French realism and won thediscipleship of the Goncourts, Daudet, Zola, and Maupassant and theapplause of such connoisseurs of technique as Walter Pater and HenryJames. From his mother's Norman ancestry he inherited the physiqueof a giant, tainted with epilepsy; a Viking countenance, strong-featured with leonine moustaches; and a barbaric temper, habituallysomewhat lethargic but irritable, and, when roused, violent andintolerant of opposition. He had a private education at Rouen, withwide desultory reading; went to Paris, which he hated, to study law, which he also hated; frequented the theatres and studios; travelledin Corsica, the Pyrenees, and the East, which he adored, seeingEgypt, Palestine, Constantinople, and Greece; and he had one, andonly one, important love-affair, extending from 1846 to 1854--thatwith Mme. Louise Colet, a woman of letters, whose difficultrelations with Flaubert are sympathetically touched upon in Pater'scelebrated essay on "Style. " When by the death of his father, in1845, he succeeded to the family-seat at Croisset, near Rouen, hesettled himself in a studious solitude to the pursuit of letters, which he followed for thirty-four years with anguish of spirit anddogged persistence. 

Flaubert probably loved glory as much as any man; but he desired toreceive it only on his own terms. He profoundly appeals to writersendowed with "the artistic conscience" as "the martyr of literarystyle. " In morals something of a libertine, in matters of art heexhibited the intolerance of weakness in others and the remorselessself-examination and self-torment commonly attributed to thePuritan. His friend Maxime Du Camp, who tried to bring him out andteach him the arts of popularity, he rebuffed with deliberateinsult. He developed an aversion to any interruption of his work, and such tension and excitability of nerves that he shunned a day'souting or a chat with an old companion, lest it distract him for amonth afterward. His mistress he seems to have estranged by an ill-concealed preference to her of his exacting Muse. To illustrate his"monkish" consecration to his craft we cannot do better thanreproduce a passage, quoted by Pater, from his letters to MadameColet:

"I must scold you for one thing, which shocks, scandalises me, thesmall concern, namely, you show for art just now. As regards glorybe it so--there I approve. But for art!--the one thing in life thatis good and real--can you compare with it an earthly love?--preferthe adoration of a relative beauty to the cultus of the true beauty?Well! I tell you the truth. That is the one thing good in me: theone thing I have, to me estimable. For yourself, you blend with thebeautiful a heap of alien things, the useful, the agreeable, whatnot?

"The only way not to be unhappy is to shut yourself up in art, andcount everything else as nothing. Pride takes the place of allbeside when it is established on a large basis. Work! God wills it. That, it seems to me, is clear. 

"I am reading over again the Aeneid, certain verses of which Irepeat to myself to satiety. There are phrases there which stay inone's head, by which I find myself beset, as with those musical airswhich are forever returning, and cause you pain, you love them somuch. I observe that I no longer laugh much, and am no longerdepressed. I am ripe, you talk of my serenity, and envy me. It maywell surprise you. Sick, irritated, the prey a thousand times a dayof cruel pain, I continue my labour like a true working-man, who, with sleeves turned up, in the sweat of his brow, beats away at hisanvil, never troubling himself whether it rains or blows, for hailor thunder. I was not like that formerly. "

The half-dozen works which Flaubert beat out on his "anvil, " with anaverage expenditure of half-a-dozen years to each, were composed ona theory of which the prime distinguishing feature was the greatdoctrine of "impersonality. " George Sand's fluent improvisationsordinarily originated, as we have noted, in an impulse of herlyrical idealism; she began with an aspiration of her heart, toexecute which she invented characters and plot so that she is alwayson the inside of her story. According to Flaubert's theory, thenovel should originate in a desire to present a certain segment ofobserved life. The author is to take and rigorously maintain aposition outside his work. The organ with which he collects hismaterials is not his heart but his eyes, supplemented by the othersenses. Life, so far as the scientific observer can be sure of it, and so far as the artist can control it for representation, is apicture or series of pictures, a dramatic scene or a concatenationof dramatic scenes. Let the novelist first, therefore, withscrupulous fidelity and with minute regard for the possiblesignificance of every observable detail, fill his notebooks, amasshis materials, master his subject. After Flaubert, a first-ratesociological investigator is three-fourths of a novelist. The restof the task is to arrange and set forth these facts so that theyshall tell the truth about life impressively, in scene and dramaticspectacle, the meaning of which shall be implicit in the plot andshall reach the reader's consciousness through his senses. 

Critics have spent much time in discussing the conflict of"romantic" and "realistic" tendencies in Flaubert's works. And it isobviously easy, so far as subject-matter is concerned, to group hisbooks in two divisions: on the one hand, The Temptation of St. Anthony, Salammbo, and two of the Trois Contes; on the other hand, Madame Bovary, L'Education Sentimentale, and the incomplete Bouvardand Pecuchet. We may call the tales in the first group romantic, because the subject-matter is remote in time and place, and becausein them Flaubert indulges his passion for splendor--for orientalscenery, for barbaric characters, the pomp of savage war and moresavage religion, events strange, terrible, atrocious. We may callthe stories in the other group realistic, because the subject-matteris contemporary life in Paris and the provinces, and because in themFlaubert indulges his hatred for mediocrity--for the humdrumexistence of the country doctor, the apothecary, the insipid clerk, the vapid sentimental woman, and the charlatans of science. But as amatter of fact, ALL his books are essentially constructed on thesame theory: all are just as "realistic" as Flaubert could makethem. 

Henry James called Madame Bovary a brilliantly successfulapplication of Flaubert's theory; he pronounced L'EducationSentimentale "elaborately and massively dreary"; and he brieflydismissed Salammbo as an accomplished work of erudition. Salammbo isindeed a work of erudition; years were spent in getting up itsarchaeological details. But Madame Bovary is also a work oferudition, and Bouvard and Pecuchet is a work of enormous erudition;a thousand volumes were read for the notes of the first volume andFlaubert is said to have killed himself by the labor of hisunfinished investigations. There is no important distinction to bemade between the method or the thoroughness with which he collectedhis facts in the one case or the other; and the story of the war ofthe mercenaries against the Carthaginians is evolved with the samealternation of picture and dramatic spectacle and the same hardmerciless externality that distinguish the evolution of EmmaBovary's history. 

We may go still farther than that towards wiping out the distinctionbetween Flaubert's "romantic" and his "realistic" works; and by thesame stroke what is illusory in the pretensions of the realists, namely, their aspiration to an "impersonal art. "

If we were seeking to prove that an author can put NOTHING BUTHIMSELF into his art, we should ask for no more impressiveillustions than precisely, Madame Bovary and Salammbo. These twomasterpieces disclose to reflection, no less patently than the worksof George Sand, their purpose and their meaning. And that purposeand meaning are not a whit less personal to Flaubert than thepurpose and meaning of Indiana, let us say, are personal to GeorgeSand. The "meaning" of Madame Bovary and Salammbo is, broadlyspeaking, Flaubert's sense of the significance--or, rather, of theinsignificance--of human life; and the "purpose" of the books is toexpress it. The most lyrical of idealists can do no more to revealherself. 

The demonstration afforded by a comparison of Salammbo and MadameBovary is particularly striking because the subject-matters aresuperficially so unlike. But take any characteristic series ofpictures or incidents from Salammbo: take the passing of thechildren through the fire to Moloch, or the description of theleprous Hanno, or the physical surrender of the priestess to hercountry's enemy, or the following picture of the crucified lion:

"They were marching through a wide defile, hedged in by two chainsof reddish hillocks, when a nauseous odor struck their nostrils, andthey believed that they saw something extraordinary at the top of acarob tree; a lion's head stood up above the foliage. 

"Running towards it, they found a lion attached to a cross by itsfour limbs, like a criminal; his enormous muzzle hung to his breast, and his forepaws, half concealed beneath the abundance of his mane, were widely spread apart, like a bird's wings in flight; under thetightly drawn skin, his ribs severally protruded and his hind legswere nailed together, but were slightly drawn up; black blood hadtrickled through the hairs, and collected in stalactites at the endof his tail, which hung straight down the length of the cross. Thesoldiers crowded around the beast, diverting themselves by callinghim 'Consul!' and 'Citizen of Rome!' and threw pebbles into his eyesto scatter the swarming gnats. "

And now take any characteristic series of pictures or incidents fromMadame Bovary: take Bovary's bungling and gruesome operations on theclub-footed ostler's leg, with the entire village clustering agape;take the picture of the eyeless, idiotic beggar on the road toRouen; or the scene in which Emma offers herself for three thousandfrancs to Rodolphe; or the following bit, only a bit, from thedetailed account of the heroine's last hours, after the arsenicalpoisoning:

"Emma's head was turned towards her right shoulder, the corner ofher mouth, which was open, seemed like a black hole at the lowerpart of her face; her two thumbs were bent into the palms of herhands; a kind of white dust besprinkled her lashes, and her eyeswere beginning to disappear in that viscous pallor that looks like athin web, as if spiders had spun it over. The sheet sunk in from herbreast to her knees, and then rose at the tips of her toes, and itseemed to Charles that infinite masses, an enormous load, wereweighing upon her. 

"The church clock struck two. They could hear the loud murmur of theriver flowing in the darkness at the foot of the terrace. MonsieurBournisien from time to time blew his nose noisily and Homais' penwas scratching over the paper. "

In these two detached pictures--the one from a so-called "romantic, "the other from a so-called "realistic" book--one readily observesthe likeness in the subjects, which are of a ghastly repulsiveness;the same minuteness of observation--e. G. , the lion's hind legs"slightly drawn up, " the woman's thumbs "bent into the palms of herhands"; the same careful notation of effect on the several senses;the same rhetorical heightening--e. G. , the "stalactites at the endof his tail, " the web in the woman's eyes "as if spiders had spun itover"; and finally, that celebrated detachment, that air as of amedical examiner, recording the results of an autopsy. What can weknow of such an author? All, or nearly all, that he knew of himself, provided we will searchingly ask ourselves what sort of mind issteadily attracted to the painting of such pictures, to therepresentation of such incidents, and what sort of mind expresses alifetime of brooding on the significance of life in two such booksas Madame Bovary and Salammbo. 

At its first appearance, Madame Bovary was prosecuted, thoughunsuccessfully, as offensive to public morals. In derision of thisfamous prosecution, Henry James with studious jauntiness, assertsthat in the heat of his first admiration he thought what anexcellent moral tract it would make. "It may be very seriouslymaintained, " he continues, "that M. Flaubert's masterpiece is thepearl of 'Sunday reading. '" As a work of fiction and recreation thebook lacks, in his opinion, one quite indispensable quality: itlacks charm. Well, there are momentary flashes of beauty and grace, dazzling bits of color, haunting melancholy cadences in everychapter of Flaubert; but a charming book he never wrote. A totalimpression of charm he never gave--he never could give; because histotal impression of life was not charming but atrocious. It isperhaps an accident, as has been suggested, that one can so readilyemploy Madame Bovary to illustrate that text on the "wages of sin. "Emma, to be sure, goes down the easy and alluring path to disgraceand ruin. But that is only an incident in the wider meaning ofFlaubert's fiction, a meaning more amply expressed in Salammbo, where not one foolish woman alone but thousands on thousands of men, women, and children, mingled with charging elephants and vipers, flounder and fight in indescribable welters of blood and filth, andgo down to rot in a common pit. If I read Flaubert's meaning right, all human history is there; you may show it by painting on broadcanvas a Carthaginian battle-scene or by photographing the detailsof a modern bedroom: a brief brightness, night and the odor ofcarrion, a crucified lion, a dying woman, the jeering of ribaldmercenaries, the cackle of M. Homais. It is all one. If Flaubertdeserved prosecution, it was not for making vice attractive, but forexpressing with invasive energy that personal and desperatelypessimistic conception of life by which he was almost overwhelmed. 

That a bad physical regimen, bad habits of work in excessivequantities, and the solitude of his existence were contributory toFlaubert's melancholy, his exacerbated egotism, and his pessimism issufficiently obvious in the letters. This Norman giant with hisaching head buried all day long in his arms, groping in anguish fora phrase, has naturally a kindly disposition towards variousindividuals of his species--is even capable of great generosity; butas he admits with a truth and pathos, deeply appealing to thematernal sympathies of his correspondent, he has no talent forliving. He has never been able, like richer and more resourcefulsouls, to reconcile being a man with being an author. He has madehis choice; he has renounced the cheerful sanities of the world:

"I pass entire weeks without exchanging a word with a human being;and at the end of the week it is not possible for me to recall asingle day nor any event whatsoever. I see my mother and my niece onSundays, and that is all. My only company consists of a band of ratsin the garret, which make an infernal racket above my head, when thewater does not roar or the wind blow. The nights are black as ink, and a silence surrounds me comparable to that of the desert. Sensitiveness is increased immeasurably in such a setting. I havepalpitations of the heart for nothing. 

"All that results from our charming profession. That is what itmeans to torment the soul and the body. But perhaps this torment isour proper lot here below. "

To George Sand, who wrote as naturally as she breathed and almost aseasily, seclusion and torment were by no means the necessaryconditions of literary activity. Enormously productive, with ahundred books to his half-a-dozen, she has never dedicated andconsecrated herself to her profession but has lived heartily and abit recklessly from day to day, spending herself in many directionsfreely, gaily, extravagantly. Now that she has definitely saidfarewell to her youth, she finds that she is twenty years younger;and now that she is, in a sense, dissipating her personality andliving in the lives of others, she finds that she is happier thanever before. "It can't be imperative to work so painfully"--such isthe burden of her earlier counsels to Flaubert; "spare yourself alittle, take some exercise, relax the tendons of your mind, indulgea little the physical man. Live a little as I do; and you will takeyour fatigues and illnesses and occasional dolours and dumps asincidents of the day's work and not magnify them into themountainous overshadowing calamities from which you deduce yourphilosophy of universal misery. " No advice could have been morewholesome or more timely. And with what pictures of her own busyfelicity she reenforces her advice! I shall produce three of themhere in order to emphasize that precious thing which George Sandloved to impart, and which she had the gift of imparting, namely, joy, the spontaneous joyousness of her own nature. The first passageis from a letter of June 14, 1867:

"I am a little remorseful to take whole days from your work, I whoam never bored with loafing, and whom you could leave for wholehours under a tree, or before two lighted logs, with the assurancethat I should find there something interesting. I know so well howto live OUTSIDE OF MYSELF. It hasn't always been like that. I alsowas young and subject to indignations. It is over! Since I havedipped into real nature, I have found there an order, a system, acalmness of cycles which is lacking in mankind, but which man can, up to a certain point, assimilate when he is not too directly atodds with the difficulties of his own life. When these difficultiesreturn, he must endeavor to avoid them; but if he has drunk the cupof the eternally true, he does not get too excited for or againstthe ephemeral and relative truth. "

The second passage is of June 21:

"I love everything that makes up a milieu, the rolling of thecarriages and the noise of the workmen in Paris, the cries of athousand birds in the country, the movement of the ships on thewaters. I love also absolute, profound silence, and, in short, Ilove everything that is around me, no matter where I am. "

The last passage gives a glimpse of the seventeenth of January, 1869, a typical day in Nohant:

"The individual named George Sand is well: he is enjoying themarvellous winter which reigns in Berry, gathering flowers, notinginteresting botanical anomalies, making dresses and mantles for hisdaughter-in-law, costumes for the marionettes, cutting out scenery, dressing dolls, reading music, but above all spending hours with thelittle Aurore, who is a marvellous child. There is not a moretranquil or a happier individual in his domestic life than this oldtroubadour retired from business, who sings from time to time hislittle song to the moon, without caring much whether he sings wellor ill, provided he sings the motif that runs in his head, and who, the rest of the time, idles deliciously. . . . This pale character hasthe great pleasure of loving you with all his heart, and of notpassing a day without thinking of the other old troubadour, confinedin his solitude of a frenzied artist, disdainful of all thepleasures of the world. "

Flaubert did "exercise" a little--once or twice--in compliance withthe injunctions of his "dear master"; but he rather resented theimplication that his pessimism was personal, that it had anyparticular connection with his peculiar temperament or habits. Hewished to think of himself as a stoic, quite indifferent about his"carcase. " His briefer black moods he might acknowledge hadtransitory causes. But his general and abiding conceptions ofhumanity were the result of dispassionate reflections. "You think, "he cries in half-sportive pique, "that because I pass my life tryingto make harmonious phrases, in avoiding assonances, that I too havenot my little judgments on the things of this world? Alas! Yes! andmoreover I shall burst, enraged at not expressing them. " And later:"Yes, I am susceptible to disinterested angers, and I love you allthe more for loving me for that. Stupidity and injustice make meroar, --and I howl in my corner against a lot of things 'that do notconcern me. '" "On the day that I am no longer in a rage, I shallfall flat as the marionette from which one withdraws the support ofthe stick. "

So far as Flaubert's pessimism has an intellectual basis, it restsupon his researches in human history. For Salammbo and TheTemptation of St. Anthony he ransacked ancient literature, devouredreligions and mythologies, and saturated himself in the works of theChurch Fathers. In order to get up the background of his EducationSentimentale he studied the Revolution of 1848 and its roots in theRevolution of 1789. He found, shall we say? what he was looking for--inexhaustible proofs of the cruelty and stupidity of men. After"gulping" down the six volumes of Buchez and Roux, he declares: "Theclearest thing I got out of them is an immense disgust for theFrench. . . . Not a liberal idea which has not been unpopular, not ajust thing that has not caused scandal, not a great man who has notbeen mobbed or knifed. 'The history of the human mind is the historyof human folly, ' as says M. Voltaire. . . . Neo-Catholicism on the onehand, and Socialism on the other, have stultified France. " Inanother letter of the same Period and similar provocation: "Howevermuch you fatten human cattle, giving them straw as high as theirbellies, and even gilding their stable, they will remain brutes, nomatter what one says. All the advance that one can hope for, is tomake the brute a little less wicked. But as for elevating the ideasof the mass, giving it a larger and therefore a less humanconception of God, I have my doubts. "

In addition to the charges of violence and cruelty, which he broughtagainst all antiquity as well as against modern times, much in thefashion of Swift or the older Mark Twain, Flaubert nursed four gravecauses of indignation, made four major charges of folly againstmodern "Christian" civilization. In religion, we have substitutedfor Justice the doctrine of Grace. In our sociologicalconsiderations we act no longer with discrimination but upon aprinciple of universal sympathy. In the field of art and literaturewe have abandoned criticism and research for the Beautiful in favorof universal puffery. In politics we have nullified intelligence andrenounced leadership to embrace universal suffrage, which is thelast disgrace of the human spirit. 

It must be acknowledged that Flaubert's arraignment of modernsociety possesses the characteristics commended by the late BarettWendell: it is marked in a high degree by "unity, mass, andcoherence. " It must be admitted also that George Sand possessed in ahigh degree the Pauline virtue of being "not easily provoked, " orshe never could have endured so patiently, so sweetly, Flaubert'sreiterated and increasingly ferocious assaults upon her own masterpassion, her ruling principle. George Sand was one whose entire lifesignally attested the power of a "saving grace, " resident in thecreative and recuperative energies of nature, resident in themagical, the miracle-working, powers of the human heart, the powersof love and sympathy. She was a modern spiritual adventurer who hadescaped unscathed from all the anathemas of the old theology; andshe abounded, like St. Francis, in her sense of the new dispensationand in her benedictive exuberance towards all the creatures of God, including not merely sun, moon, and stars and her sister the lambbut also her brother the wolf. On this principle she lovesFlaubert!--and archly asserts her arch-heresy in his teeth. Hecomplains that her fundamental defect is that she doesn't know howto "hate. " She replies, with a point that seems never really to havepierced his thick casing of masculine egotism:

"Artists are spoiled children and the best are great egotists. Yousay that I love them too well; I like them as I like the woods andthe fields, everything, everyone that I know a little and that Istudy continually. I make my life in the midst of all that, and as Ilike my life, I like all that nourishes it and renews it. They do mea lot of ill turns which I see, but which I no longer feel. I knowthat there are thorns in the hedges, but that does not prevent mefrom putting out my hands and finding flowers there. If all are notbeautiful, all are interesting. The day you took me to the Abbey ofSaint-Georges I found the scrofularia borealis, a very rare plant inFrance. I was enchanted; there was much----in the neighborhood whereI gathered it. Such is life!

"And if one does not take life like that, one cannot take it in anyway, and then how can one endure it? I find it amusing andinteresting, and since I accept EVERYTHING, I am so much happier andmore enthusiastic when I meet the beautiful and the good. If I didnot have a great knowledge of the species, I should not have quicklyunderstood you, or known you or loved you. "

Two years later the principles and tempers of both thesephilosophers were put to their severest trial. In 1870, George Sandhad opportunity to apply her doctrine of universal acceptance to thePrussians in Paris. Flaubert had opportunity to welcome scientificorganization in the Prussian occupation of his own home at Croisset. The first reaction of both was a quite simple consternation andrage, in which Flaubert cries, "The hopeless barbarism of humanityfills me with a black melancholy, " and George Sand, for the momentassenting, rejoins: "Men are ferocious and conceited brutes. " As thewar thickens around him and the wakened militancy of his compatriotspresses him hard, Flaubert becomes more and more depressed; heforebodes a general collapse of civilization--before the centurypasses, a conflict of races, "in which several millions of men killone another in one engagement. " With the curiously vengefulsatisfaction which mortals take in their own misery when it offersoccasion to cry "I told you so, " he exclaims: "Behold then, theNATURAL MAN. Make theories now! Boast the progress, theenlightenment and the good sense of the masses, and the gentlenessof the French people! I assure you that anyone here who ventured topreach peace would get himself murdered. "

George Sand in her fields at Nohant--not "above" but a little asidefrom the conflict--turns instinctively to her peasant doggedly, placidly, sticking at his plow; turns to her peasant with a kind ofintuition that he is a symbol of faith, that he holds the keys to aconsolation, which the rest of us blindly grope for: "He isimbecile, people say; no, he is a child in prosperity, a man indisaster, more of a man than we who complain; he says nothing, andwhile people are killing, he is sowing, repairing continually on oneside what they are destroying on the other. " Flaubert, who thinksthat he has no "illusions" about peasants or the "average man, "brings forward his own specific of a quite different nature: "Do youthink that if France, instead of being governed on the whole by thecrowd, were in the power of the mandarins, we should be where we arenow? If, instead of having wished to enlighten the lower classes, wehad busied ourselves with instructing the higher, we should not haveseen M. De Keratry proposing the pillage of the duchy of Baden. "

In the great war of our own time with the same foes, ourprofessional advocates of "preparedness, " our cheerful chemists, ourscientific "intellectuals"--all our materialistic thinkers hard-shell and soft-shell, --took the position of Flaubert, justpresented; reproached us bitterly for our slack, sentimentalpacificism; and urged us with all speed to emulate the scientificspirit of our enemy. There is nothing more instructive in thiscorrespondence than to observe how this last fond illusion fallsaway from Flaubert under the impact of an experience whichdemonstrated to his tortured senses the truth of the old Rabelaisianutterance, that "science without conscience is the ruin of thesoul. "

"What use, pray, " he cries in the last disillusion, "is science, since this people abounding in scholars commits abominations worthyof the Huns and worse than theirs, because they are systematic, cold-blooded, voluntary, and have for an excuse, neither passion norhunger?" And a few months later, he is still in mad anguish ofdesolation:

"I had some illusions! What barbarity! What a slump! I am wrathfulat my contemporaries for having given me the feelings of a brute ofthe twelfth century! I'm stifling in gall! These officers who breakmirrors with white gloves on, who know Sanskrit, and who flingthemselves on the champagne; who steal your watch and then send youtheir visiting card, this war for money, these civilized savagesgive me more horror than cannibals. And all the world is going toimitate them, is going to be a soldier! Russia has now four millionsof them. All Europe will wear a uniform. If we take our revenge, itwill be ferocious in the last degree; and, mark my word, we aregoing to think only of that, of avenging ourselves on Germany. "

Under the imminence of the siege of Paris, Flaubert had drilled men, with an out-flashing of the savage fighting spirit of his ancestors, of which he was more than half ashamed. But at heart he is moredismayed, more demoralized, more thoroughly prostrated than GeorgeSand. He has not fortitude actually to face the degree of depravitywhich he has always imputed to the human race, the baseness withwhich his imagination has long been easily and cynically familiar. As if his pessimism had been only a literary pigment, a resource ofthe studio, he shudders to find Paris painted in his own ebonycolors, and his own purely "artistic" hatred of the bourgeois, translated into a principle of action, expressing itself in thehorrors of the Commune, with half the population trying to stranglethe other half. Hatred, after all, contempt and hatred, are notquite the most felicitous watchwords for the use of human society. Like one whose cruel jest has been taken more seriously than he hadintended and has been turned upon his own head, Flaubert considersflight: "I cherish the following dream: of going to live in the sunin a tranquil country. " As a substitute for a physical retreat, heburies himself in a study of Buddhism, and so gradually returns tothe pride of his intellectual isolation. As the tumult in his sensessubsides, he even ventures to offer to George Sand the anodyne ofhis old philosophical despair: "Why are you so sad? Humanity offersnothing new. Its irremediable misery has filled me with sadness eversince my youth. And in addition I now have no disillusions. Ibelieve that the crowd, the common herd will always be hateful. Theonly important thing is a little group of minds always the same--which passes the torch from one to another. "

There we must leave Flaubert, the thinker. He never passes beyondthat point in his vision of reconstruction: a "legitimatearistocracy" established in contempt of the average man--with theAcademy of Sciences displacing the Pope. 

George Sand, amid these devastating external events, is beginning tofeel the insidious siege of years. She can no longer rally herspiritual forces with the "bright speed" that she had in the olddays. The fountain of her faith, which has never yet failed ofrenewal, fills more slowly. For weeks she broods in silence, fearingto augment her friend's dismay with more of her own, fearing toresume a debate in which her cause may be better than her argumentsand in which depression of her physical energy may diminish herpower to put up a spirited defence before the really indomitable"last ditch" of her position. When Flaubert himself makes amomentary gesture towards the white flag, and talks of retreat, sheseizes the opportunity for a short scornful sally. "Go to live inthe sun in a tranquil country! Where? What country is going to betranquil in this struggle of barbarity against civilization, astruggle which is going to be universal?" A month later she giveshim fair warning that she has no intention of acknowledging finaldefeat: "For me, the ignoble experiment that Paris is attempting oris undergoing, proves nothing against the laws of the eternalprogression of men and things, and, if I have gained any principlesin my mind, good or bad, they are neither shattered nor changed byit. For a long time I have accepted patience as one accepts the sortof weather there is, the length of winter, old age, lack of successin all its forms. " But Flaubert, thinking that he has detected inher public utterances a decisive change of front, privately urgesher in a finely figurative passage of a letter which denouncesmodern republicanism, universal suffrage, compulsory education, andthe press--Flaubert urges her to come out openly in renunciation ofher faith in humanity and her popular progressivistic doctrines. Imust quote a few lines of his attempt at seduction:

"Ah, dear good master, if you could only hate! That is what youlack, hate. In spite of your great Sphinx eyes, you have seen theworld through a golden colour. That comes from the sun in yourheart; but so many shadows have risen that now you are notrecognizing things any more. Come now! Cry out! Thunder! Take yourgreat lyre and touch the brazen string: the monsters will flee. Bedew us with drops of the blood of wounded Themis. "

That summons roused the citadel, but not to surrender, not tobetrayal. The eloquent daughter of the people caught up her greatlyre--in the public Reponse a un ami of October 3, 1871. But herfingers passed lightly over the "brazen string" to pluck again withold power the resonant golden notes. Her reply, with its directretorts to Flaubert, is not perhaps a very closely reasonedargument. In making the extract I have altered somewhat the order ofthe sentences:

"And what, you want me to stop loving? You want me to say that Ihave been mistaken all my life, that humanity is contemptible, hateful, that it always has been and always will be so? . . . What, then, do you want me to do, so as to isolate myself from my kind, from my compatriots, from the great family in whose bosom my ownfamily is only one ear of corn in the terrestrial field? . . . But itis impossible, and your steady reason puts up with the mostunreasonable of Utopias. In what Eden, in what fantastic Eldoradowill you hide your family, your little group of friends, yourintimate happiness, so that the lacerations of the social state andthe disasters of the country shall not reach them? . . . In vain youare prudent and withdraw, your refuge will be invaded in its turn, and in perishing with human civilization you will be no greater aphilosopher for not having loved, than those who threw themselvesinto the flood to save some debris of humanity. . . . The people, yousay! The people is yourself and myself. It would be useless to denyit. There are not two races. . . . No, no, people do not isolatethemselves, the ties of blood are not broken, people do not curse orscorn their kind. Humanity is not a vain word. Our life is composedof love, and not to love is to cease to live. "

This is, if you please, an effusion of sentiment, a chant of faith. In a world more and more given to judging trees by their fruits, weshould err if we dismissed this sentiment, this faith, too lightly. Flaubert may have been a better disputant; he had a talent forwriting. George Sand may have chosen her side with a truer instinct;she had a genius for living. This faith of hers sustained well theshocks of many long years, and this sentiment made life sweet. 

STUART P. SHERMAN

I. TO GEORGE SAND1863

Dear Madam, I am not grateful to you for having performed what you call a duty. The goodness of your heart has touched me and your sympathy has mademe proud. That is the whole of it. 

Your letter which I have just received gives added value to yourarticle [Footnote: Letter about Salammbo, January, 1863, Questionsd'art et de litterature. ] and goes on still further, and I do notknow what to say to you unless it be that _I_ QUITE FRANKLY LIKEYOU. 

It was certainly not I who sent you in September, a little flower inan envelope. But, strange to say, at the same time, I received inthe same manner, a leaf of a tree. 

As for your very cordial invitation, I am not answering yes or no, in true Norman fashion. Perhaps some day this summer I shallsurprise you. For I have a great desire to see you and to talk withyou. 

It would be very delightful to have your portrait to hang on thewall in my study in the country where I often spend long monthsentirely alone. Is the request indiscreet? If not, a thousand thanksin advance. Take them with the others which I reiterate. 

II. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERTParis, 15 March, 1864

Dear Flaubert, I don't know whether you lent me or gave me M. Taine's beautifulbook. In the uncertainty I am returning it to you. Here I have hadonly the time to read a part of it, and at Nohant, I shall have onlythe time to scribble for Buloz; but when I return, in two months, Ishall ask you again for this admirable work of which the scope is solofty, so noble. 

I am sorry not to have said adieu to you; but as I return soon, Ihope that you will not have forgotten me and that you will let meread something of your own also. 

You were so good and so sympathetic to me at the first performanceof Villemer that I no longer admire only your admirable talent, Ilove you with all my heart. 

George Sand

III. TO GEORGE SANDParis, 1866

Why of course I am counting on your visit at my own house. As forthe hindrances which the fair sex can oppose to it, you will notnotice them (be sure of it) any more than did the others. My littlestories of the heart or of the senses are not displayed on thecounter. But as it is far from my quarter to yours and as you mightmake a useless trip, when you arrive in Paris, give me a rendezvous. And at that we shall make another to dine informally tete-a-tete. 

I sent your affectionate little greeting to Bouilhet. 

At the present time I am disheartened by the populace which rushesby under my windows in pursuit of the fatted calf. And they say thatintelligence is to be found in the street!

IV. To M. Flobert (Justave) M. Of Letters Boulevard du Temple, 42, Paris Paris, 10 May, 1866

[The postage stamp bears the mark Palaiseau 9 May, '66. ]

M. Flobaire, You must be a truly dirty oaf to have taken my name andwritten a letter with it to a lady who had some favors for me whichyou doubtless received in my place and inherited my hat in place ofwhich I have received yours which you left there. It is the lownessof that lady's conduct and of yours that make me think that shelacks education entirely and all those sentiments which she ought tounderstand. If you are content to have written Fanie and SalkenpeauI am content not to have read them. You mustn't get excited aboutthat, I saw in the papers that there were outrages against theReligion in whose bosom I have entered again after the troubles Ihad with that lady when she made me come to my senses and repent ofmy sins with her and, in consequence if I meet you with her whom Icare for no longer you shall have my sword at your throat. That willbe the Reparation of my sins and the punishment of your infamy atthe same time. That is what I tell you and I salute you. 

Coulard

At Palaiseau with the Monks

They told me that I was well punished for associating with the girlsfrom the theatre and with aristocrats. 

V. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT1866

Sir, After the most scrupulous combined searches I found at last the bodyof my beloved brother. You are in belles-lettres and you would havebeen struck by the splendor of that scene. The corpse which was aBrother extended nonchalantly on the edge of a foul ditch. I forgotmy sorrow a moment to contemplate he was good this young man whomthe matches killed, but the real guilty one was that woman whompassions have separated in this disordered current in which ourunhappy country is at the moment when it is more to be pitied thanblamed for there are still men who have a heart. You who expressyourself so well tell that siren that she has destroyed a greatcitizen. I don't need to tell you that we count on you to dig hisnoble tomb. Tell Silvanit also that she can come notwithstanding foreducation obliges me to offer her a glass of wine. I have the honorto salute you. 

I also have the honor to salute Silvanit for whom I am a brothermuch to be pitied. 

Goulard the elder

Have the goodness to transmit to Silvanit the last wishes of my poorTheodore. [Footnote: Letter written by Eugene Lambert. ]

VI. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERTPalaiseau 14 May, 1866

This is not a letter from Goulard. He is dead! The false Goulardkilled him by surpassing him in the real and the comic. But thisfalse Goulard also does not deny himself anything, the rascal!

Dear friend, I must tell you that I want to dedicate to you my novelwhich is just coming out. But as every one has his own ideas on thesubject--as Goulard would say--I would like to know if you permit meto put at the head of my title page simply: to my friend GustaveFlaubert. I have formed the habit of putting my novels under thepatronage of a beloved name. I dedicated the last to Fromentin. 

I am waiting until it is good weather to ask you to come to dine atPalaiseau with Goulard's Sirenne, and some other Goulards of yourkind and of mine. Up to now it has been frightfully cold and it isnot worth the trouble to come to the country to catch a cold. 

I have finished my novel, and you?

I kiss the two great diamonds which adorn your face. 

Jorje Sens

The elder Goulard is my little Lambert, it seems to me that he isquite literary in that way. 

VII. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERTPalaiseau, Wednesday, 16 May, 1866

Well, my dear friend, since you are going away, and as in afortnight, I am going to Berry for two or three months, do try tofind time to come tomorrow Thursday. You will dine with dear andinteresting Marguerite Thuillier who is also going away. 

Do come to see my hermitage and Sylvester's. By leaving Paris, garede Sceaux, at I o'clock, you will be at my house at 2 o'clock, or byleaving at 5, you will be there at 6, and in the evening you couldleave with my strolling players at 9 or 10. Bring the copy. [Footnote: This refers to Monsieur Sylveitre, which had justappeared. ] Put in it all the criticisms which occur to you. Thatwill be very good for me. People ought to do that for each other asBalzac and I used to do. That doesn't make one person alter theother; quite the contrary, for in general, one gets more determinedin one's moi, one completes it, explains it better, entirelydevelops it, and that is why friendship is good, even in literature, where the first condition of any worth is to be one's self. 

If you can not come--I shall have a thousand regrets, but then I amdepending upon you Monday before dinner. Au revoir and thank you forthe fraternal permission of dedication. 

G. Sand

VIII. TO GEORGE SANDParis, 17 or 18 May, 1866

Don't expect me at your house on Monday. I am obliged to go toVersailles on that day. But I shall be at Magny's. 

A thousand fond greetings from your

G. Flaubert

IX. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERTNohant, 31 July, 1866

My good dear comrade, Will you really be in Paris these next few days as you led me tohope? I leave here the 2nd. What good luck if I found you at dinneron the following Monday. And besides, they are putting on a play[Footnote: Les Don Juan de village. ] by my son and me, on the 10th. Could I possibly get along without you on that day? I shall feelsome EMOTION this time because of my dear collaborator. Be a goodfriend and try to come! I embrace you with all my heart in thathope. 

The late Goulard, G. Sand. 

X. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERTParis, 4 Aug. , 1866

Dear friend, as I'm always out, I don't want you to come and findthe door shut and me far away. Come at six o'clock and dine with meand my children whom I expect tomorrow. We dine at Magny's always at6 o'clock promptly. You will give us 'a sensible pleasure' as usedto say, as would have said, alas, the unhappy Goulard. You are anexceedingly kind brother to promise to be at Don Juan. For that Ikiss you twice more. 

G. Sand

Saturday evening. 

XI. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT

It is next THURSDAY, I wrote you last night, and our letters must have crossed. 

Yours from the heart, G. Sand

Sunday, 5 August, 1866. 

XII. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERTParis, Wednesday evening, 22 August, 1866

My good comrade and friend, I am going to see Alexandre at Saint-Valery Saturday evening. I shall stay there Sunday and Monday, Ishall return Tuesday to Rouen and go to see you. Tell me how thatstrikes you. I shall spend the day with you if you like, returningto spend the night in Rouen, if I inconvenience you as you aresituated, and I shall leave Wednesday morning or evening for Paris. A word in response at once, by telegraph if you think that youranswer would not reach me by post before Saturday at 4 o'clock. 

I think that I shall be all right but I have a horrid cold. If itgrows too bad, I shall telegraph that I can not stir; but I havehopes, I am already better. 

I embrace you. 

G. Sand

XIII. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERTSaint-Valery, 26 August, 1866 Monday, 1 A. M. 

Dear friend, I shall be in Rouen on Tuesday at 1 o'clock, I shallplan accordingly. Let me explore Rouen which I don't know, or showit to me if you have the time. I embrace you. Tell your mother howmuch I appreciate and am touched, by the kind little line which shewrote to me. 

G. Sand

XIV. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT, at CroisssetParis, 31 August, 1866

First of all, embrace your good mother and your charming niece forme. I am really touched by the kind welcome I received in yourclerical setting, where a stray animal of my species is an anomalythat one might find constraining. Instead of that, they received meas if I were one of the family and I saw that all that greatpoliteness came from the heart. Remember me to all the very kindfriends. I was truly exceedingly happy with you. And then, you, youare a dear kind boy, big man that you are, and I love you with allmy heart. My head is full of Rouen, of monuments and queer houses. All of that seen with you strikes me doubly. But your house, yourgarden, your CITADEL, it is like a dream and it seems to me that Iam still there. 

I found Paris very small yesterday, when crossing the bridges. 

I want to start back again. I did not see you enough, you and yoursurroundings; but I must rush off to the children, who are callingand threatening me. I embrace you and I bless you all. 

G. Sand

Paris, Friday. 

On going home yesterday, I found Couture to whom I said on yourbehalf that HIS portrait of me was, according to you, the best thatanyone had made. He was not a little flattered. I am going to huntup an especially good copy to send you. 

I forgot to get three leaves from the tulip tree, you must send themto me in a letter, it is for something cabalistic. 

XV. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERTParis, 2 September, 1866

Send me back the lace shawl. My faithful porter will forward it tome wherever I am. I don't know yet. If my children want to go withme into Brittany, I shall go to fetch them, if not I shall go onalone wherever chance leads me. In travelling, I fear onlydistractions. But I take a good deal on myself and I shall end byimproving myself. You write me a good dear letter which I kiss. Don't forget the three leaves from the tulip tree. They are askingme at the Odeon to let them perform a fairy play: la Nuit de Noelfrom the Theatre de Nohant, I don't want to, it's too small a thing. But since they have that idea, why wouldn't they try your fairyplay? Do you want me to ask them? I have a notion that this would bethe right theatre for a thing of that type. The management, Chillyand Duquesnel, wants to have scenery and MACHINERY and yet keep itliterary. Let us discuss this when I return here. 

You still have the time to write to me. I shall not leave for threedays yet. Love to your family. 

G. S. 

Sunday evening

I forgot! Levy promises to send you my complete works, they areendless. You must stick them on a shelf in a corner and dig intothem when your heart prompts you. 

XVI. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT, at CroisssetNohant, 21 September, 1866

I have just returned from a twelve days trip with my children, andon getting home I find your two letters. That fact, added to the joyof seeing Mademoiselle Aurore again, fresh and pretty, makes mequite happy. And you my Benedictine, you are quite alone in yourravishing monastery, working and never going out? That is what itmeans TO HAVE ALREADY gone out too much. Monsieur craves Syrias, deserts, dead seas, dangers and fatigues! But nevertheless he canmake Bovarys in which every little cranny of life is studied andpainted with mastery. What an odd person who can also compose thefight between the Sphinx and the Chimaera! You are a being quiteapart, very mysterious, gentle as a lamb with it all. I have had agreat desire to question you, but a too great respect for you hasprevented me; for I know how to make light only of my owncalamities, while those which a great mind has had to undergo so asto be in a condition to produce, seem to me like sacred things whichshould not be touched roughly nor thoughtlessly. 

Sainte-Beuve, who loves you all the same, claims that you arehorribly vicious. But perhaps he may see with somewhat unclean eyes, like this learned botanist who asserts that the germander is ofDIRTY yellow color. The observation was so false, that I could notrefrain from writing on the margin of his book: IT IS BECAUSE YOUHAVE DIRTY EYES. 

I suppose that a man of intelligence may have great curiosity. Ihave not had it, lacking the courage. I have preferred to leave mymind incomplete, that is my affair, and every one is free to embarkeither on a great ship in full sail, or on a fisherman's vessel. Theartist is an explorer whom nothing ought to stop, and who doesneither good nor ill when turning to the right or to the left. Hisend justifies all. 

It is for him to know after a little experience, what are theconditions of his soul's health. As for me, I think that yours is ina good condition of grace, since you love to work and to be alone inspite of the rain. 

Do you know that, while there has been a deluge everywhere, we havehad, except a few downpours, fine sunshine in Brittany? A horriblewind on the shore, but how beautiful the high surf! and since thebotany of the coast carried me away, and Maurice and his wife have apassion for shellfish, we endured it all gaily. But on the whole, Brittany is a famous see-saw. 

However, we are a little fed up with dolmens and menhirs and we havefallen on fetes and have seen costumes which they said had beensuppressed but which the old people still wear. Well! These men ofthe past are ugly with their home-spun trousers, their long hair, their jackets with pockets under the arms, their sottish air, halfdrunkard, half saint. And the Celtic relics, uncontestably curiousfor the archaeologist, have naught for the artist, they are badlyset, badly composed, Carnac and Erdeven have no physiognomy. Inshort, Brittany shall not have my bones! I prefer a thousand timesyour rich Normandy, or, in the days when one has dramas in his HEAD, a real country of horror and despair. There is nothing in a countrywhere priests rule and where Catholic vandalism has passed, razingmonuments of the ancient world and sowing the plagues of the future. 

You say US a propos of the fairy play. I don't know with whom youhave written it, but I still fancy that it ought to succeed at theOdeon under its present management. If I was acquainted with it, Ishould know how to accomplish for you what one never knows how to dofor one's self, namely, to interest the directors. Anything of yoursis bound to be too original to be understood by that coarse Dumaine. Do have a copy at your house, and next month I shall spend a daywith you in order to have you read it to me. Le Croisset is so nearto Palaiseau!--and I am in a phase of tranquil activity, in which Ishould love to see your great river flow, and to keep dreaming inyour orchard, tranquil itself, quite on top of the cliff. But I amjoking, and you are working. You must forgive the abnormalintemperance of one who has just been seeing only stones and has notperceived even a pen for twelve days. 

You are my first visit to the living on coming out from the completeentombment of my poor Moi. Live! There is my oremus and mybenediction and I embrace you with all my heart. 

G. Sand

XVII. TO GEORGE SANDCroisset, 1866

I a mysterious being, dear master, nonsense! I think that I amsickeningly platitudinous, and I am sometimes exceedingly bored withthe bourgeois which I have under my skin. Sainte-Beuve, betweenourselves, does not know me at all, no matter what he says. I evenswear to you (by the smile of your grandchild) that I know few menless vicious than I am. I have dreamed much and have done verylittle. What deceives the superficial observer is the lack ofharmony between my sentiments and my ideas. If you want myconfession, I shall make it freely to you. The sense of thegrotesque has restrained me from an inclination towards a disorderlylife. I maintain that cynicism borders on chastity. We shall havemuch to say about it to each other (if your heart prompts you) thefirst time we see each other. 

Here is the program that I propose to you. My house will be full anduncomfortable for a month. But towards the end of October or thebeginning of November (after Bouilhet's play) nothing will preventyou, I hope, from returning here with me, not for a day, as you say, but for a week at least. You shall have "your little table andeverything necessary for writing. " Is it agreed?

As for the fairy play, thanks for your kind offers of service. Ishall get hold of the thing for you (it was done in collaborationwith Bouilhet). But I think it is a trifle weak and I am tornbetween the desire of gaining a few piasters and the shame ofshowing such a piece of folly. 

I think that you are a little severe towards Brittany, not towardsthe Bretons who seem to me repulsive animals. A propos of Celticarchaeology, I published in L'Artiste in 1858, a rather good hoax onthe shaking stones, but I have not the number here and I don'tremember the month. 

I read, straight through, the 10 volumes of Histoire de ma vie, ofwhich I knew about two thirds but only fragmentarily. What struck memost was the life in the convent. I have a quantity of observationsto make to you which occurred to me. 

XVIII. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERTNohant, 28 September, 1866

It is agreed, dear comrade and good friend. I shall do my best to bein Paris for the performance of your friend's play, and I shall domy fraternal duty there as usual; after which we shall go to yourhouse and I shall stay there a week, but on condition that you willnot put yourself out of your room. To be an inconvenience distressesme and I don't need so much bother in order to sleep. I sleepeverywhere, in the ashes, or under a kitchen bench, like a stabledog. Everything shines with spotlessness at your house, so one iscomfortable everywhere. I shall pick a quarrel with your mother andwe shall laugh and joke, you and I, much and more yet. If it's goodweather, I shall make you go out walking, if it rains continually, we shall roast our bones before the fire while telling our heartpangs. The great river will run black or grey under the windowsaying always, QUICK! QUICK! and carrying away our thoughts, and ourdays, and our nights, without stopping to notice such small things. 

I have packed and sent by EXPRESS a good proof of Couture's picture, signed by the engraver, my poor friend, Manceau. It is the best thatI have and I have only just found it. I have sent with it aphotograph of a drawing by Marchal which was also like me; but onechanges from year to year. Age gives unceasingly another characterto the face of people who think and study, that is why theirportraits do not look like one another nor like them for long. Idream so much and I live so little, that sometimes I am only threeyears old. But, the next day I am three hundred, if the dream hasbeen sombre. Isn't it the same with you? Doesn't it seem at moments, that you are beginning life without even knowing what it is, and atother times don't you feel over you the weight of several thousandcenturies, of which you have a vague remembrance and a sorrowfulimpression? Whence do we come and whither do we go? All is possiblesince all is unknown. 

Embrace your beautiful, good mother for me. I shall give myself atreat, being with you two. Now try to find that hoax on the Celticstones; that would interest me very much. When you saw them, hadthey opened the galgal of Lockmariaker and cleared away the groundnear Plouharnel?

Those people used to write, because there are stones covered withhieroglyphics, and they used to work in gold very well, because verybeautifully made torques [Footnote: Gallic necklaces. ] have beenfound. 

My children, who are, like myself, great admirers of you, send youtheir compliments, and I kiss your forehead, since Sainte-Beuvelied. 

G. Sand

Have you any sun today? Here it is stifling. The country is lovely. When will you come here?

XIX. TO GEORGE SANDCroisset, Saturday evening, . . . 1866

Good, I have it, that beautiful, dear and famous face! I am going tohave a large frame made and hang it on my wall, being able to say, as did M. De Talleyrand to Louis Philippe: "It is the greatest honorthat my house has received"; a poor phrase, for we two are worthmore than those two amiable men. 

Of the two portraits, I like that of Couture's the better. As forMarchal's he saw in you only "the good woman, " but I who am an oldRomantic, find in the other, "the head of the author" who made medream so much in my youth. 

XX. TO GEORGE SANDCroisset, Saturday evening, 1866

Your sending the package of the two portraits made me think that youwere in Paris, dear master, and I wrote you a letter which iswaiting for you at rue des Feuillantines. 

I have not found my article on the dolmens. But I have my manuscript(entire) of my trip in Brittany among my "unpublished works. " Weshall have to gabble when you are here. Have courage. 

I don't experience, as you do, this feeling of a life which isbeginning, the stupefaction of a newly commenced existence. It seemsto me, on the contrary, that I have always lived! And I possessmemories which go back to the Pharaohs. I see myself very clearly atdifferent ages of history, practising different professions and inmany sorts of fortune. My present personality is the result of mylost personalities. I have been a boatman on the Nile, a leno inRome at the time of the Punic wars, then a Greek rhetorician inSubura where I was devoured by insects. I died during the Crusadefrom having eaten too many grapes on the Syrian shores, I have beena pirate, monk, mountebank and coachman. Perhaps also even emperorof the East?

Many things would be explained if we could know our real genealogy. For, since the elements which make a man are limited, should not thesame combinations reproduce themselves? Thus heredity is a justprinciple which has been badly applied. 

There is something in that word as in many others. Each one takes itby one end and no one understands the other. The science ofpsychology will remain where it lies, that is to say in shadows andfolly, as long as it has no exact nomenclature, so long as it isallowed to use the same expression to signify the most diverseideas. When they confuse categories, adieu, morale!

Don't you really think that since '89 they wander from the point?Instead of continuing along the highroad which was broad andbeautiful, like a triumphal way, they stray off by little sidepathsand flounder in mud holes. Perhaps it would be wise for a littlewhile to return to Holbach. Before admiring Proudhon, supposing oneknew Turgot? But le Chic, that modern religion, what would become ofit!

Opinions chic (or chiques): namely being pro-Catholicism (withoutbelieving a word of it) being pro-Slavery, being pro-the House ofAustria, wearing mourning for Queen Amelie, admiring Orphee auxEnfers, being occupied with Agricultural Fairs, talking Sport, acting indifferent, being a fool up to the point of regretting thetreaties of 1815. That is all that is the very newest. 

Oh! You think that because I pass my life trying to make harmoniousphrases, in avoiding assonances, that I too have not my littlejudgments on the things of this world? Alas! Yes! and moreover Ishall burst, enraged at not expressing them. 

But a truce to joking, I should finally bore you. 

The Bouilhet play will open the first part of November. Then in amonth we shall see each other. 

I embrace you very warmly, dear master. 

XXI. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT, at CroissetNohant, Monday evening, 1 October, 1866

Dear friend, Your letter was forwarded to me from Paris. It isn't lost. I thinktoo much of them to let any be lost. You don't speak to me of thefloods, therefore I think that the Seine did not commit any folliesat your place and that the tulip tree did not get its roots wet. Ifeared lest you were anxious and wondered if your bank was highenough to protect you. Here we have nothing of that sort to beafraid of; our streams are very wicked, but we are far from them. 

You are happy in having such clear memories of other existences. Much imagination and learning--those are your memories; but if onedoes not recall anything distinct, one has a very lively feeling ofone's own renewal in eternity. I have a very amusing brother whooften used to say "at the time when I was a dog. . . . " He thoughtthat he had become man very recently. I think that I was vegetableor mineral. I am not always very sure of completely existing, andsometimes I think I feel a great fatigue accumulated from havinglived too much. Anyhow, I do not know, and I could not, like you, say, "I possess the past. "

But then you believe that one does not really die, since one LIVESAGAIN? If you dare to say that to the Smart Set, you have courageand that is good. I have the courage which makes me pass for animbecile, but I don't risk anything; I am imbecile under so manyother counts. 

I shall be enchanted to have your written impression of Brittany, Idid not see enough to talk about. But I sought a general impressionand that has served me for reconstructing one or two pictures whichI need. I shall read you that also, but it is still an unformedmass. 

Why did your trip remain unpublished? You are very coy. You don'tfind what you do worth being described. That is a mistake. All thatissues from a master is instructive, and one should not fear to showone's sketches and drawings. They are still far above the reader, and so many things are brought down to his level that the poor devilremains common. One ought to love common people more than oneself, are they not the real unfortunates of the world? Isn't it the peoplewithout taste and without ideals who get bored, don't enjoy anythingand are useless? One has to allow oneself to be abused, laughed at, and misunderstood by them, that is inevitable. But don't abandonthem, and always throw them good bread, whether or not they preferfilth; when they are sated with dirt they will eat the bread; but ifthere is none, they will eat filth in secula seculorum. 

I have heard you say, "I write for ten or twelve people only. " Onesays in conversation, many things which are the result of theimpression of the moment; but you are not alone in saying that. Itwas the opinion of the Lundi or the thesis of that day. I protestedinwardly. The twelve persons for whom you write, who appreciate you, are as good as you are or surpass you. You never had any need ofreading the eleven others to be yourself. But, one writes for allthe world, for all who need to be initiated; when one is notunderstood, one is resigned and recommences. When one is understood, one rejoices and continues. There lies the whole secret of ourpersevering labors and of our love of art. What is art without thehearts and minds on which one pours it? A sun which would notproject rays and would give life to no one. 

After reflecting on it, isn't that your opinion? If you areconvinced of that, you will never know disgust and lassitude, and ifthe present is sterile and ungrateful, if one loses all influence, all hold on the public, even in serving it to the best of one'sability, there yet remains recourse to the future, which supportscourage and effaces all the wounds of pride. A hundred times inlife, the good that one does seems not to serve any immediate use;but it keeps up just the same the tradition of wishing well anddoing well, without which all would perish. 

Is it only since '89 that people have been floundering? Didn't theyhave to flounder in order to arrive at '48 when they floundered muchmore, but so as to arrive at what should be? You must tell me howyou mean that and I will read Turgot to please you. I don't promiseto go as far as Holbach, ALTHOUGH HE HAS SOME GOOD POINTS, THERUFFIAN!

Summon me at the time of Bouilhet's play. I shall be here, workinghard, but ready to run, and loving you with all my heart. Now that Iam no longer a woman, if the good God was just, I should become aman; I should have the physical strength and would say to you: "Comelet's go to Carthage or elsewhere. " But there, one who has neithersex nor strength, progresses towards childhood, and it is quiteotherwhere that one is renewed; WHERE? I shall know that before youdo, and, if I can, I shall come back in a dream to tell you. 

XXII. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERTNohant, 19 October

Dear friend, they write me from the Odeon that Bouilhet's play is onthe 27th. I must be in Paris the 26th. Business calls me in anyevent. I shall dine at Magny's on that day, and the next, and theday after that. Now you know where to find me, for I think that youwill come for the first performance. Yours always, with a fullheart, G. Sand

XXIII. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERTNohant, 23 October, 1866

Dear friend, since the play is on the 29th I shall give two moredays to my children and I leave here the 28th. You have not told meif you will dine with me and your friend on the 29th informally, atMagny's at whatever hour you wish. Let me find a line at 97 rue desFeuillantines, on the 28th. 

Then we shall go to your house, the day you wish. My chief talk withyou will be to listen to you and to love you with all my heart. Ishall bring what I have "ON THE STOCKS. " That will GIVE ME COURAGE, as they say here, to read to you my EMBRYO. If I could only carrythe sun from Nohant. It is glorious. 

I embrace and bless you. 

G. Sand

XXIV. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERTParis, 10 November, 1866

On reaching Paris I learn sad news. Last evening, while we weretalking--and I think that we spoke of him day before yesterday--myfriend Charles Duveyrier died, a most tender heart and a most naivespirit. He is to be buried tomorrow. He was one year older than Iam. My generation is passing bit by bit. Shall I survive it? I don'tardently desire to, above all on these days of mourning andfarewell. It is as God wills, provided He lets me always love inthis world and in the next. 

I keep a lively affection for the dead. But one loves the livingdifferently. I give you the part of my heart that he had. Thatjoined to what you have already, makes a large share. It seems to methat it consoles me to make that gift to you. From a literary pointof view he was not a man of the first rank, one loved him for hisgoodness and spontaneity. Less occupied with affairs and philosophy, he would have had a charming talent. He left a pretty play, MichelPerrin. 

I travelled half the way alone, thinking of you and your mother atCroisset and looking at the Seine, which thanks to you has become afriendly GODDESS. After that I had the society of an individual withtwo women, as ordinary, all of them, as the music at the pantomimethe other day. Example: "I looked, the sun left an impression liketwo points in my eyes. " HUSBAND: "That is called luminous points, "and so on for an hour without stopping. 

I shall do all sorts of errands for the house, for I belong to it, do I not? I am going to sleep, quite worn out; I wept unrestrainedlyall the evening, and I embrace you so much the more, dear friend. Love me MORE than before, because I am sad. 

G. Sand

Have you a friend among the Rouen magistrates? If you have, writehim a line to watch for the NAME Amedee Despruneaux. It is a civilcase which will come up at Rouen in a few days. Tell him that thisDespruneaux is the most honest man in the world; you can answer forhim as for me. In doing this, if the thing is feasible, you will dome a personal favor. I will do the same for any friend of yours. 

XXV. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT11 November, 1866

I send you my friend Despruneaux in person. If you know a judge ortwo, --or if your brother could give him a word of support, doarrange it, I kiss you three times on each eye. 

G. Sand

Five minutes' interview and that's all the inconvenience. Paris, Sunday

XXVI. TO GEORGE SANDMonday night

You are sad, poor friend and dear master; it was you of whom Ithought on learning of Duveyrier's death. Since you loved him, I amsorry for you. That loss is added to others. How we keep these deadsouls in our hearts. Each one of us carries within himself hisnecropolis. 

I am entirely UNDONE since your departure; it seems to me as if Ihad not seen you for ten years. My one subject of conversation withmy mother is you, everyone here loves you. Under what star were youborn, pray, to unite in your person such diverse qualities, sonumerous and so rare?

I don't know what sort of feeling I have for you, but I have aparticular tenderness for you, and one I have never felt for anyone, up to now. We understood each other, didn't we, that was good. 

I especially missed you last evening at ten o'clock. There was afire at my wood-seller's. The sky was rose color and the Seine thecolor of gooseberry sirup. I worked at the engine for three hoursand I came home as worn out as the Turk with the giraffe. 

A newspaper in Rouen, le Nouvelliste, told of your visit to Rouen, so that Saturday after leaving you I met several bourgeois indignantat me for not exhibiting you. The best thing was said to me by aformer sub-prefect: "Ah! if we had known that she was here . . . Wewould have . . . We would have . . . " he hunted five minutes for theword; "we would have smiled for her. " That would have been verylittle, would it not?

To "love you more" is hard for me--but I embrace you tenderly. Yourletter of this morning, so melancholy, reached the BOTTOM of myheart. We separated at the moment when many things were on the pointof coming to our lips. All the doors between us two are not yetopen. You inspire me with a great respect and I do not dare toquestion you. 

XXVII. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT, at CroissetParis, 13 November, 1866 Night from Tuesday to Wednesday

I have not yet read my play. I have still something to do over. Nothing pressing. Bouilhet's play goes admirably well, and they toldme that my little friend Cadol's [Footnote: Edward Cadol, a dramaticauthor and a friend of Maurice Sand. ] play would come next. And, fornothing in the world, do I want to step on the body of that child. That puts me quite a distance off and does not annoy me--NOR INJUREME AT ALL. What style! Luckily I am not writing for Buloz. 

I saw your friend last evening in the foyer at the Odeon. I shookhands with him. He had a happy look. And then I talked withDuquesnel about the fairy play. He wants very much to know it. Youhave only to present yourself when ever you wish to busy yourselfwith it. You will be received with open arms. 

Mario Proth will give me tomorrow or next day the exact date on thetransformation of the journal. Tomorrow I shall go out and buy yourdear mother's shoes. Next week I am going to Palaiseau and I shallhunt up my book on faience. If I forget anything, remind me of it. 

I have been ill for two days. I am cured. Your letter does my heartgood. I shall answer all the questions quite nicely, as you haveanswered mine. One is happy, don't you think so, to be able torelate one's whole life? It is much less complicated than thebourgeois think, and the mysteries that one can reveal to a friendare always the contrary of what indifferent ones suppose. 

I was very happy that week with you: no care, a good nesting-place alovely country, affectionate hearts and your beautiful and frankface which has a somewhat paternal air. Age has nothing to do withit. One feels in you the protection of infinite goodness, and oneevening when you called your mother "MY DAUGHTER, " two tears came inmy eyes. It was hard to go away, but I hindered your work, andthen, --and then, --a malady of my old age is, not being able to keepstill. I am afraid of getting too attached and of wearying others. The old ought to be extremely discreet. From a distance I can tellyou how much I love you without the fear of repetition. You are oneof the RARE BEINGS remaining impressionable, sincere, loving art, not corrupted by ambition, not drunk with success. In short you willalways be twenty-five years of age because of all sorts of ideaswhich have become old-fashioned according to the senile young men oftoday. With them, I think it is decidedly a pose, but it is sostupid! If it is a weakness, it is still worse. They are MEN OFLETTERS and not MEN. Good luck to the novel! It is exquisite; butoddly enough there is one entire side of you which does not betrayitself in what you do, something that you probably are ignorant of. That will come later, I am sure of it. 

I embrace you tenderly, and your mother too, and the charming niece![Footnote: Madame Caroline Commanville. ] Ah! I forgot, I saw Couturethis evening; he told me that in order to be nice to you, he wouldmake your portrait in crayon like mine for whatever price you wishto arrange. You see I am a good commissioner, use me. 

XXVIII. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT16 November, 1866

Thanks, dear friend of my heart, for all the trouble that I gave youwith my Berrichon Despruneaux. They are friends from the oldcountry, a whole adorable family of fine people, fathers, children, wives, nephews, all in the close circle at Nohant. He must have beenMOVED at seeing you. He looked forward to it, all personal interestaside. And I who am not practical, forgot to tell you that thejudgment would not be given for a fortnight. That in consequence anypreceding within the next two weeks would be extremely useful. If hegains his suit relative to the constructions at Yport, he willsettle there and I shall realize the plan formed long since of goingevery year to his house; he has a delicious wife and they have lovedme a long time. You then are threatened with seeing me oftenscratching at your gate in passing, giving you a kiss on theforehead, crying courage for your labor and running on. I am stillawaiting our information on the journal. It seems that it is alittle difficult to be exact for '42. I have asked for the mostscrupulous exactitude. 

For two days I have been taking out to walk my Cascaret, [Footnote:Francis Laur. ] the little engineer of whom I told you. He has becomevery good looking, the ladies lift their lorgnons at him, and itdepends only on him to attain the dignity of a negro "giraffier, "but he loves, he is engaged, he has four years to wait, to work tomake himself a position, and he has made a vow. You would tell himthat he is stupid, I preach to him, on the contrary, my oldtroubadour doctrine. 

Morality aside, I don't think that the children of this day havesufficient force to manage at the same time, science anddissipation, cocottes and engagements. The proof is that nothingcomes from young Bohemia any longer. Good night, friend, work well, sleep well. Walk a little for the love of God and of me. Tell yourjudges who promised me a smile, to smile on my Berrichon. 

XXIX. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT16 November, 1866

Don't take any further steps. Contrary to all anticipations, Despruneaux has gained his suit during the session. 

Whether you have done it or not, he is none the less grateful aboutit and charges me to thank you with all his good and honest heart. 

Bouilhet goes from better to better. I have just seen the directorswho are delighted. 

I love you and embrace you. 

Think sometimes of your old troubadour. Friday

G. Sand

XXX. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT18 November (?), 1866

I think that I shall give you pleasure and joy when I tell you thatLa Conjuration d'Ambroise, thus says my porter, is announced as areal money-maker. There was a line this evening as at Villemer, andMagny which is also a barometer, shows fair weather. 

So be content, if that keeps up, Bouilhet is a success. Sunday

G. S. 

XXXI. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERTPalaiseau, 22 November, 1866

I think that it will bring me luck to say good evening to my dearcomrade before starting to work. 

I am QUITE ALONE in my little house. The gardener and his familylive in the pavilion in the garden and we are the last house at theend of the village, quite isolated in the country, which is aravishing oasis. Fields, woods, appletrees as in Normandy; not agreat river with its steam whistles and infernal chain; a littlestream which runs silently under the willows; a silence . . . Ah! itseems to me that I am in the depths of the virgin forest: nothingspeaks except the little jet of the spring which ceaselessly pilesup diamonds in the moonlight. The flies sleeping in the corners ofmy room, awaken at the warmth of my fire. They had installedthemselves there to die, they come near the lamp, they are seizedwith a mad gaiety, they buzz, they jump, they laugh, they even havefaint inclinations towards love, but it is the hour of death andpaf! in the midst of the dance, they fall stiff. It is over, farewell to dancing!

I am sad here just the same. This absolute solitude, which hasalways been vacation and recreation for me, is shared now by a deadsoul [Footnote: Alexandre Manceau, the engraver, a friend ofMaurice Sand. ] who has ended here, like a lamp which is going out, yet which is here still. I do not consider him unhappy in the regionwhere he is dwelling; but the image that he has left near me, whichis nothing more than a reflection, seems to complain because ofbeing unable to speak to me any more. 

Never mind! Sadness is not unhealthy. It prevents us from drying up. And you dear friend, what are you doing at this hour? Grubbing also, alone also; for your mother must be in Rouen. Tonight must bebeautiful down there too. Do you sometimes think of the "oldtroubadour of the Inn clock, who still sings and will continue tosing perfect love?" Well! yes, to be sure! You do not believe inchastity, sir, that's your affair. But as for me, I say that SHE HASSOME GOOD POINTS, THE JADE!

And with this, I embrace you with all my heart, and I am going to, if I can, make people talk who love each other in the old way. 

You don't have to write to me when you don't feel like it. No realfriendship without ABSOLUTE liberty. 

In Paris next week, and then again to Palaiseau, and after that toNohant. I saw Bouilhet at the Monday performance. I am CRAZY aboutit. But some of us will applaud at Magny's. I had a cold sweatthere, I who am so steady, and I saw everything quite blue. 

XXXII. TO GEORGE SANDCroisset, Tuesday

You are alone and sad down there, I am the same here. 

Whence come these attacks of melancholy that overwhelm one at times?They rise like a tide, one feels drowned, one has to flee. I lieprostrate. I do nothing and the tide passes. 

My novel is going very badly for the moment. That fact added to thedeaths of which I have heard; of Cormenin (a friend of twenty-fiveyears' standing), of Gavarni, and then all the rest, but that willpass. You don't know what it is to stay a whole day with your headin your hands trying to squeeze your unfortunate brain so as to finda word. Ideas come very easily with you, incessantly, like a stream. With me it is a tiny thread of water. Hard labor at art is necessaryfor me before obtaining a waterfall. Ah! I certainly know THEAGONIES OF STYLE. 

In short I pass my life in wearing away my heart and brain, that isthe real TRUTH about your friend. 

You ask him if he sometimes thinks of his "old troubadour of theclock, " most certainly! and he mourns for him. Our nocturnal talkswere very precious (there were moments when I restrained myself inorder not to KISS you like a big child). 

Your ears ought to have burned last night. I dined at my brother'swith all his family. There was hardly any conversation except aboutyou, and every one sang your praises, unless perhaps myself, Islandered you as much as possible, dearly beloved master. 

I have reread, a propos of your last letter (and by a very naturalconnection of ideas), that chapter of father Montaigne's entitled"some lines from Virgil. " What he said of chastity is precisely whatI believe. It is the effort that is fine and not the abstinence initself. Otherwise shouldn't one curse the flesh like the Catholics?God knows whither that would lead. Now at the risk of repetition andof being a Prudhomme, I insist that your young man is wrong. [Footnote: Refers to Francis Laur. ] If he is temperate at twentyyears old, he will be a cowardly roue at fifty. Everything has itscompensations. The great natures which are good, are aboveeverything generous and don't begrudge the giving of themselves. Onemust laugh and weep, love, work, enjoy and suffer, in short vibrateas much as possible in all his being. 

That is, I think, the real human existence. 

XXXIII. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT, at CroissetPalaiseau, 29 November, 1866

One need not be spiritualist nor materialist, you say, but oneshould be a naturalist. That is a great question. 

My Cascaret, that is what I call the little engineer, will decide itas he thinks best. He is not stupid and he will have many ideas, deductions and emotions before realizing the prophecy that you make. I do not catechise him without reserve, for he is stronger than I amon many points, and it is not Catholic spiritualism that stifleshim. But the question by itself is very serious, and hovers aboveour art, above us troubadours, more or less clock-bearing orclockshaped. 

Treat it in an entirely impersonal way; for what is good for onemight be quite the reverse for another. Let us ask ourselves inmaking an abstract of our tendencies or of our experiences, if thehuman being can receive and seek its own full physical developmentwithout intellectual suffering. Yes, in an ideal and rationalsociety that would be so. But, in that in which we live and withwhich we must be content, do not enjoyment and excess go hand inhand, and can one separate them or limit them, unless one is a sageof the first class? And if one is a sage, farewell temptation whichis the father of real joys. 

The question for us artists, is to know if abstinence strengthens usor if it exalts us too much, which state would degenerate intoweakness, --You will say, "There is time for everything and powerenough for every dissipation of strength. " Then you make adistinction and you place limits, there is no way of doingotherwise. Nature, you think, places them herself and prevents usfrom abusing her. Ah! but no, she is not wiser than we who are alsonature. 

Our excesses of work, as our excesses of pleasure, kill uscertainly, and the more we are great natures, the more we passbeyond bounds and extend the limits of our powers. 

No, I have no theories. I spend my life in asking questions and inhearing them answered in one way or another without any victoriouslyconclusive reply ever being given me. I await the brilliance of anew state of my intellect and of my organs in a new life; for, inthis one, whosoever reflects, embraces up to their lastconsequences, the limits of pro and con. It is Monsieur Plato, Ithink, who asked for and thought he held the bond. He had it no morethan we. However, this bond exists, since the universe subsistswithout the pro and con, which constitute it, reciprocallydestroying each other. What shall one call it in material nature?EQUILIBRIUM, that will do, and for spiritual nature? MODERATION, relative chastity, abstinence from excess, whatever you want, butthat is translated by EQUILIBRIUM; am I wrong, my master?

Consider it, for in our novels, what our characters do or do not do, rests only on that. Will they or will they not possess the object oftheir ardent desires? Whether it is love or glory, fortune orpleasure, ever since they existed, they have aspired to one end. Ifwe have a philosophy in us, they walk right according to us; if wehave not, they walk by chance, and are too much dominated by theevents which we put in the way of their legs. Imbued by our ownideas and ruled by fatality, they do not always appear logical. Should we put much or little of ourselves in them? Shouldn't we putwhat society puts in each one of us?

For my part, I follow my old inclination, I put myself in the skinof my good people. People scold me for it, that makes no difference. You, I don't really know if by method or by instinct, take anothercourse. What you do, you succeed in; that is why I ask you if wediffer on the question of internal struggles, if the hero ought tohave any or if he ought not to know them. 

You always astonish me with your painstaking work; is it a coquetry?It does not seem labored. What I find difficult is to choose out ofthe thousand combinations of scenic action which can varyinfinitely, the clear and striking situation which is not brutal norforced. As for style, I attach less importance to it than you do. 

The wind plays my old harp as it lists. It has its HIGH NOTES, itsLOW NOTES, its heavy notes--and its faltering notes, in the end itis all the same to me provided the emotion comes, but I can findnothing in myself. It is THE OTHER who sings as he likes, well orill, and when I try to think about it, I am afraid and tell myselfthat I am nothing, nothing at all. But a great wisdom saves us; weknow how to say to ourselves, "Well, even if we are absolutelynothing but instruments, it is still a charming state and like noother, this feeling oneself vibrate. "

Now, let the wind blow a little over your strings. I think that youtake more trouble than you need, and that you ought to let THE OTHERdo it oftener. That would go just as well and with less fatigue. 

The instrument might sound weak at certain moments, but the breezein continuing would increase its strength. You would do afterwardswhat I don't do, what I should do. You would raise the tone of thewhole picture and would cut out what is too uniformly in the light. 

Vale et me ama. 

XXXIV. TO GEORGE SANDSaturday morning

Don't bother yourself about the information relative to thejournals. That will occupy little space in my book and I have timeto wait. But when you have nothing else to do, jot down on paperwhatever you can recall of '48. Then you can develop it in talking. I don't ask you for copy of course, but to collect a little of yourpersonal memories. 

Do you know an actress at the Odeon who plays Macduff in Macbeth?Dugueret? She would like to have the role of Nathalie in Mont-reveche. She will be recommended to you by Girardin, Dumas and me. Isaw her yesterday in Faustine, in which she showed talent. Myopinion is that she has intelligence and that one could profit byher. 

If your little engineer has made a VOW, and if that vow does notcost him anything, he is right to keep it; if not, it is pure folly, between you and me. Where should liberty exist if not in passion?

Well! no, IN MY DAY we didn't take such vows and we loved! andswaggeringly. But all participated in a great eclecticism and whenone strayed FROM LADIES it was from pride, in defiance of one'sself, and for effect. In short, we were Red Romantics, perfectlyridiculous to be sure, but in full bloom. The little good whichremains to me comes from that epoch. 

XXXV. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERTPalaiseau, 30 November, 1866

There would be a good deal to say on all that, my comrade. MyCascaret, that is to say, the fiance in question, keeps himself forhis fiancee. She said to him, "Let us wait till you haveaccomplished certain definite work, " and he works. She said to him, "Let us keep ourselves pure for each other, " and he keeps himselfpure. It is not that he is choked by Catholic spiritualism; but hehas a high ideal of love, and why counsel him to go and lose it whenhis conscience and his honor depend on keeping it?

There is an equilibrium which Nature, our ruler, herself puts in ourinstincts, and she sets the limit to our appetites. Great naturesare not the most robust. We are not developed in all our senses by avery logical education. We are compressed in every way, and wethrust out our roots and branches when and how we can. Great artistsare often weak also, and many are impotent. Some too strong indesire are quickly exhausted. In general I think that we have toointense joys and sorrows, we who work with our brains. The laborerwho works his land and his wife hard by day and night is not aforceful nature. His brain is very feeble. You say to develop one'sself in every direction? Come, not all at the same time, not withoutrest. 

Those who brag of that, are bluffing a bit, or IF THEY DOeverything, do everything ill. If love for them is a little bread-and-butter and art a little pot-boiler, all right; but if theirpleasure is great, verging on the infinite, and their work eager, verging on enthusiasm, they do not alternate these as in sleepingand waking. 

As for me, I don't believe in these Don Juans who are Byrons at thesame time. Don Juan did not make poems and Byron made, so they say, very poor love. He must have had sometimes--one can count suchemotions in one's life--a complete ecstasy of heart, mind andsenses. He knew enough about them to be one of the poets of love. Nothing else is necessary for the instrument of our vibration. Thecontinual wind of little appetites breaks them. 

Try some day to write a novel in which the artist (the real artist)is the hero, you will see what great, but delicate and restrained, vigor is in it, how he will see everything with an attentive eye, curious and tranquil, and how his infatuations with the things heexamines and delves into, will be rare and serious. You will seealso how he fears himself, how he knows that he can not surrenderhimself without exhaustion, and how a profound modesty in regard tothe treasures of his soul prevents him from scattering and wastingthem. 

The artist is such a fine type to do, that I have never dared reallyto do him. I do not consider myself worthy to touch that beautifuland very complicated figure; that is aiming too high for a merewoman. But if it could certainly tempt you some day, it would beworth while. 

Where is the model? I don't know, I have never REALLY known any onewho did not show some spot in the sunlight, I mean some side wherethe artist verged on the Philistine. Perhaps you have not that spot;you ought to paint yourself. As for me I have it. I loveclassifications, I verge on the pedagogue. I love to sew and to carefor children, I verge on the servant. I am easily distracted andverge on the idiot. And then I should not like perfection; I feel itbut I shouldn't know how to show it. 

But one could give him some faults in his nature. What ones? Weshall hunt for them some day. That is not really what you areworking on now and I ought not to distract you from it. 

Be less cruel to yourself. Go ahead and when the afflatus shall haveproduced everything you must elevate the general tone and cut outwhat ought not to come down front stage. Can't that be done? Itseems to me that it can. What you do appears so easy, so abundant!It is a perpetual overflow, I do not understand your anguish. Goodnight, dear brother, my love to all yours. I have returned to mysolitude at Palaiseau, I love it. I leave it for Paris, Monday. Iembrace you warmly. Good luck to your work. 

G. Sand

XXXVI. Monsieur Gustave Flobert at Croisset, Rouen [The postage stamp bears the mark, Paris, 4, December, 1866]

Sir the noise that you make in literature by your distinguishedtalent I also made in my day in the manner that my means permittedme I began in 1804 under the auspices of the celebrated Madame Saquiand bore off palms and left memories in the annals of the tight-ropeand coregrafie balancer in all countries where I have been thereappreciated by generals and other officers of the Empire by whom Ihave been solicited up to an advanced age so that wives of prefectsand ministers could not have been complimented about it I have readyour distinguished works notably Madame Bovarie of which I think Iam capable of being a model to you when she breaks the chains of herfeet to go where her heart calls her. I am well preserved for myadvanced age and if you have a repugnance for an artist inmisfortune, I should be content with your ideal sentiments. You canthen count on my heart not being able to dispose of my person beingmarried to a man of light character who squandered my wax cabinetwherein were all figures of celebrities, kings, emperors, ancientand modern and celebrated crimes, which if I had had your permissionabout it you would have been placed in the number I had then a placein the railroad substation to have charge of the cabinets which thejealousy of my rival made me lose, it is in these sentiments that Iwrite you if you deign to write the history of my unhappy life youalone would be worthy of it and would see in it things of which youwould be worthy of appreciating I shall present myself at your housein Rouen whose address I had from M. Bouilhet who knows me wellhaving come to see me in his youth he will tell you that I have thephthisic still agreeably and always faithful to all who knew mewhether in the civil or in the military and in these sentiments forlife your affectionate

Victoire Potelet

called Marengo Lirondelle widow DodinRue Lanion, 47, Belleville. 

XXXVII. TO GEORGE SANDWednesday night, 5th December, 1866

Oh! how lovely the letter of Marengo the Swallow is! Seriously, Ithink it a masterpiece, not a word which is not a word of genius. Ihave laughed aloud many times. I thank you very dear master, you areas good as can be. 

You never tell me what you are doing. How far has the play gone?

I am not at all surprised that you don't understand my literaryagonies. I don't understand them myself. But they existnevertheless, and violent ones. 

I don't in the least know how to set to work to write, and I beginby expressing only the hundredth part of my ideas after infinitegropings. Not one who seizes the first impulse, your friend, no! notat all! Thus for entire days I have polished and re-polished aparagraph without accomplishing anything. I feel like weeping attimes. You ought to pity me!

As for our subject under discussion (a propos of your young man), what you write me in your last letter is so my way of thinking, thatI have not only practised it but preached it. Ask Theo. However, letus understand one another. Artists (who are priests) risk nothing inbeing chaste; on the contrary. But the bourgeois, what is the use init for them? Of course there must be certain ones among humanity whostick to chastity. Happy indeed those who don't depart from it. 

I don't agree with you that there is anything worth while to be donewith the character of the IDEAL ARTIST; he would be a monster. Artis not made to paint the exceptions, and I feel an unconquerablerepugnance to putting on paper something from out of my heart. Ieven think that a novelist HASN'T THE RIGHT TO EXPRESS HIS OPINIONon any subject whatsoever. Has the good God ever uttered it, hisopinion? That is why there are not a few things that choke me whichI should like to spit out, but which I swallow. Why say them, infact! The first comer is more interesting than Monsieur GustaveFlaubert, because he is more GENERAL and therefore more typical. 

Nevertheless, there are days when I consider myself belowimbecility. I have still a globe of goldfish and that amuses me. They keep me company while I dine. Is it stupid to be interested insuch simple things? Adieu, it is late, I have an aching head. 

I embrace you. 

XXXVIII. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT, at Paris December, 1866

"Not put one's heart into what one writes?" I don't understand atall, oh! not at all! As for me, I think that one can not putanything else into it. Can one separate one's mind from one's heart?Is it something different? Can sensation itself limit itself? Canexistence divide itself? In short, not to give oneself entirely toone's work, seems to me as impossible as to weep with something elsethan one's eyes, and to think with something else than one's brain. 

What was it you meant? You must tell me when you have the time. 

XXXIX. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERTParis, 8 December, 1866

You ask me what I am doing? Your old troubadour is content thisevening. He has passed the night in re-doing a second act which didnot go properly and which has turned out well, so well that mydirectors are delighted, and I have good hopes of making the endeffective--it does not please me yet, but one must pull it through. In short, I have nothing to tell you about myself which is veryinteresting. When one has the patience of an ox and the wrist brokenfrom crushing stones well or badly, one has scarcely any unexpectedevents or emotions to recount. My poor Manceau called me the ROAD-MENDER, and there is nothing less poetic than those beings. 

And you, dear friend, are you experiencing the anguish and labors ofchildbirth? That is splendid and youthful. Those who want them don'talways get them!

When my daughter-in-law brings into the world dear little children, I abandon myself to such labor in holding her in my arms that itreacts on me, and when the infant arrives, I am sicker than she is, and even seriously so. I think that your pains now react on me, andI have a headache on account of them. But alas! I cannot assist atany birth and I almost regret the time when one believed it hasteneddeliverances to burn candles before an image. 

I see that that rascal Bouilhet has betrayed me; he promised me tocopy the Marengo letter in a feigned hand to see if you would betaken in by it. People have written to me seriously things likethat. How good and kind your great friend is. He is adored at theOdeon, and this evening they told me that his play was going betterand better. I went to hear it again two or three days ago and I waseven more delighted with it than the first time. 

Well, well, let's keep up our heart, whatever happens, and when yougo to rest remember that someone loves you. Affectionate regards toyour mother, brother and niece. 

G. Sand

XL. TO GEORGE SANDCroisset, Saturday night

I have seen Citizen Bouilhet, who had a real ovation in his owncountry. His compatriots who had absolutely ignored him up to then, from the moment that Paris applauded him, screamed with enthusiasm. --He will return here Saturday next, for a banquet that they aregiving him, --80 covers, at least. 

As for Marengo the Swallow, he kept your secret so well, that heread the letter in question with an astonishment which duped me. 

Poor Marengo! she is a figure! and one that you ought to put in abook. I wonder what her memoirs would be, written in that style?--Mine (my style) continues to give me no small annoyance. I hope, however, in a month, to have crossed the most barren tract. But atthe moment I am lost in a desert; well, by the grace of God, so muchthe worse for me! How gladly I shall abandon this sort of thing, never to return to it to my dying day! Depicting the modern Frenchbourgeois is a stench in my nostrils! And then won't it be timeperhaps to enjoy oneself a bit in life, and to choose subjectspleasant to the author?

I expressed myself badly when I said to you that "one should notwrite from the heart. " I meant to say: not put one's personalityinto the picture. I think that great art is scientific andimpersonal. One should, by an effort of mind, put oneself into one'scharacters and not create them after oneself. That is the method atleast; a method which amounts to this: try to have a great deal oftalent and even of genius if you can. How vain are all the poetictheories and criticisms!--and the nerve of the gentlemen who composethem sickens me. Oh! nothing restrains them, those boneheads!

Have you noticed that there is sometimes in the air a current ofcommon ideas? For instance, I have just read my friend Du Camp's newnovel: Forces Perdues. It is very like what I am doing, in manyways. His book is very naive and gives an accurate idea of the menof our generation having become real fossils to the young men oftoday. The reaction of '48 opened a deep chasm between the twoFrances. 

Bouilhet told me that you had been seriously ill at one of therecent Magny's, although you do pretend to be a "woman of wood. " Oh!no you are not of wood, dear good great heart! "Beloved oldtroubadour, " would it not perhaps be opportune to rehabilitate himat the Theatre Almanzor? I can see him with his toque and his guitarand his apricot tunic howling at the black-gowned students from thetop of a rock. The talk would be fine. Now, good night; I kiss youon both cheeks tenderly. 

XLI. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERTParis, 7 December, 1866

Something like a week ago someone came to my house in the morning toask me the address of the bootmaker, my maid did not want to awakenme, and it was not until noon that I read the letter; the bearersaid he came from the Hotel Helder on the rue Helder. I answered atonce that Simonin lived at 15 rue Richelieu, I wrote to your motherthinking that it was she who wrote to me. I see that she did notreceive my note and I don't understand about it, but it is not myfault. 

Your old Troubadour is sick as a dog again today, but it will notprevent him from going to Magny's this evening. He could not die inbetter company; although he would prefer the edge of a ditch in thespring. 

Everything else goes well and I leave for Nohant on Saturday. I amtrying hard to push the entomological work which Maurice ispublishing. It is very fine. 

I am doing for him what I have never done for myself. I am writingto the newspaper men. 

I shall recommend Mademoiselle Bosquet to whom I can, but thatappeals to another public, and I don't stand in as well with theliterary men as I do with the scholars. But certainly Marengo theSwallow MUST BE DONE and the apricot troubadour also. All that wasof the Cadios of the revolution who began to be or who wanted to besomething, no matter what. I am of the last comers and you othersborn of us, you are between the illusions of my time and the crudedeception of the new times. It is quite natural that Du Camp shouldgo parallel with you in a series of observations and ideas, thatdoes not mean anything. There will be no resemblance. 

Oh no! I have not found a title for you, it is too serious, and thenI should need to know everything. In any case I am no good today todo anything except to draw up my epitaph. Et in Arcadia ego, youknow, I love you, dear friend brother, and bless you with all myheart. 

G. SandMonday. 

XLII. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT, at CroisssetParis, 9 January, 1867

Dear comrade, Your old troubadour has been tempted to bite the dust. He is stillin Paris. He should have left the 25th of December; his trunk wasstrapped; your first letter was awaiting him every day at Nohant. Atlast he is all ready to leave and he goes tomorrow with his sonAlexandre [Footnote: Alexandre Dumas fils. ] who is anxious toaccompany him. 

It is stupid to be laid on one's back and to lose consciousness forthree days and to get up as enfeebled as if one had done somethingpainful and useful. It was nothing after all, except temporaryimpossibility of digesting anything whatever. Cold, or weakness, orwork, I don't know. I don't think of it any longer. Sainte-Beuve ismuch more disquieting, somebody have written you about it. He isbetter also, but there will be serious trouble, and on account ofthat, accidents to look out for. I am very saddened and anxiousabout it. 

I have not worked for two weeks; so my task has not progressed verymuch, and as I don't know if I am going to be in shape very soon, Ihave given the Odeon A VACATION. They will take me when I am ready. I think of going a little to the south when I have seen my children. The plants of the coast are running through my head. I amprodigiously uninterested in anything which is not my little idealof peaceful work, country life, and of tender and pure friendship. Ireally think that I am not going to live a long time, although I amquite cured and well. I get this warning from the great calm, CONTINUALLY CALMER, which exists in my formerly agitated soul. Mybrain only works from synthesis to analysis, and formerly it was thecontrary. Now, what presents itself to my eyes when I awaken is theplanet; I have considerable trouble in finding again there the MOIwhich interested me formerly, and which I begin to' call YOU in theplural. It is charming, the planet, very interesting, very curiousbut rather backward, and as yet somewhat unpractical; I hope to passinto an oasis with better highways and possible to all. One needs somuch money and resources in order to travel here! and the time lostin order to procure. These necessaries is lost to study and tocontemplation. It seems to me that there is due me something lesscomplicated, less civilized, more naturally luxurious, and moreeasily good than this feverish halting-place. Will you come into theland, of my dreams, if I succeed in finding the road? Ah! who canknow?

And the novel, is it getting on? Your courage has not declined?Solitude does not weigh on you? I really think that it is notabsolute, and that somewhere there is a sweetheart who comes andgoes, or who lives near there. But there is something of theanchorite in your life just the same, and if envy your situation. Asfor me, I am too alone at Palaiseau, with a dead soul; not aloneenough at Nohant, with the children whom I love too much to belongto myself, --and at Paris, one does not know what one is, one forgetsoneself entirely for a thousand things which are not worth any morethan oneself. I embrace you with all my heart, dear friend; rememberme to your mother, to your dear family, and write me at Nohant, thatwill do me good. 

The cheeses? I don't know at all, it seems to me that they spoke tome of them, but I don't remember at all. I will tell you that fromdown there. 

XLIII. TO GEORGE SANDCroisset, Saturday night

No, dear master, you are not near your end. So much the worse foryou perhaps. But you will live to be old, very old, as giants live, since you are of that race: only you MUST rest. One thing astonishesme and that is that you have not died twenty times over, havingthought so much, written so much and suffered so much. Do go then, since you have the desire, to the Mediterranean. Its azure skyquiets and invigorates. There are the Countries of Youth, such asthe Bay of Naples. Do they make one sadder sometimes? I do not know. 

Life is not easy! What a complicated and extravagant affair! I knowsomething about that. One must have money for everything! So thatwith a modest revenue and an unproductive profession one has to makeup one's mind to have but little. So I do! The habit is formed, butthe days that work does not go well are not amusing. Yes indeed! Iwould love to follow you into another planet. And a propos of money, it is that which will make our planet uninhabitable in the nearfuture, for it will be impossible to live here, even for the rich, without looking after one's property; one will have to spend severalhours a day fussing over one's INCOME. Charming! I continue to fussover my novel, and I shall go to Paris when I reach the end of mychapter, towards the middle of next month. 

And whatever you suspect, no "lovely lady" comes to see me. Lovelyladies have occupied my mind a good deal, but have taken up verylittle of my time. Applying the term anchorite to me is perhaps ajuster comparison than you think. 

I pass entire weeks without exchanging a word with a human being, and at the end of the week it is not possible for me to recall asingle day nor any event whatsoever. I see my mother and my niece onSundays, and that is all. My only company consists of a band of ratsin the garret, which make an infernal racket above my head, when thewater does not roar or the wind blow. The nights are black as ink, and a silence surrounds me comparable to that of the desert. Sensitiveness is increased immeasurably in such a setting. I havepalpitations of the heart for nothing. 

All that results from our charming profession. That is what it meansto torment the soul and the body. But perhaps this torment is ourproper lot here below?

I told you, didn't I, that I had reread Consuelo and the Comtesse deRudolstadt; it took me four days. We must discuss them at length, when you are willing. Why am I in love with Siverain? Perhapsbecause I am of both sexes. 

XLIV. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT at CroisssetNohant, 15 January, 1867

Here I am at home, fairly strong except for several hours during theevening. Yet, THAT WILL PASS. THE EVIL OR HE WHO ENDURES IT, my oldcure used to say, CAN NOT LAST. I received your letter this morning, dear friend of my heart. Why do I love you more than most of theothers, even more than old and well-tried friends? I am asking, formy condition at this hour, is that of being

THOU WHO GOEST SEEKING, AT SUNSET, FORTUNE! . . . 

Yes, intellectual fortune, LIGHT! Oh well, here it is: one gets, being old, at the sunset of life, --which is the most beautiful hourof tones and reflections, --a new idea of everything and of affectionabove all. 

In the age of power and of personality, one tests one's friends asone tests the earth, from the point of view of reciprocity. Onefeels oneself solid, one wants to find that which bears one or leadsone, solid. But, when one feels the intensity of the moi fleeing, one loves persons and things for what they are in themselves, forwhat they represent in the eyes of one's soul, and not at all forwhat they add further to one's destiny. It is like the picture orthe statue which one would like to own, when one dreams at the sametime of a beautiful house of one's own in which to put it. 

But one has passed through green Bohemia without gathering anythingthere; one has remained poor, sentimental and troubadourish. Oneknows very well that it will always be the same, and that one willdie without a hearth or a home. Then one thinks of the statue, ofthe picture which one would not know what to do with and which onewould not know where to place with due honor, if one owned it. Oneis content to know that they are in some temple not profaned by coldanalysis, a little far from the eye, and one loves them so much themore. One says: I will go again to the country where they are. Ishall see again and I shall love always that which has made me loveand understand them. The contact of my personality will not havechanged them, it will not be myself that I shall love in them. 

And it is thus, truly, that the ideal which one does not dream ofgrasping, fixes itself in one because it remains ITSELF. That is allthe secret of the beautiful, of the only truth, of love, friendship, of art, of enthusiasm, and of faith. Consider it, you will see. 

That solitude in which you live would be delicious to me in fineweather. In winter I find it stoical, and am forced to recall tomyself that you have not the moral need of locomotion AS A HABIT. Iused to think that was another expenditure of strength during thisseason of being shut in;--well, it is very fine, but it must notcontinue indefinitely; if the novel has to last longer, you mustinterrupt it, or vary it with distractions. Really, my dear friend, think of the life of the body, which gets upset and nervous when yousubdue it too much. When I was ill in Paris, I saw a physician, verymad, but very intelligent, who said very true things on thatsubject. He said that I SPIRITUALIZED myself in a disquietingmanner, and when I told him, exactly, a propos of you, that onecould abstract oneself from everything except work, and have morerather than less strength, he answered that the danger was as greatin accumulating as in losing, and a propos of this, many excellentthings which I wish I could repeat to you. 

Besides, you know them, but you never pay any attention to them. Then this work which you abuse so in words, is a passion, and agreat one! Now, I shall tell you what you tell me. For our sake andfor the sake of your old troubadour, do SPARE yourself a little. 

Consuelo, La Comtesse de Rudolstadt, what are they? Are they mine? Idon't recall a single word in them. You are reading that, you? Areyou really amused? Then I shall read them one of these days and Ishall love myself if you love me. 

What is being hysterical? I have perhaps been that also, I amperhaps; but I don't know anything about it, never having profoundlystudied the thing, and having heard of it without having studied it. Isn't it an uneasiness, an anguish caused by the desire of animpossible SOMETHING OR OTHER? In that case, we are all attacked byit, by this strange illness, when we have imagination; and whyshould such a malady have a sex?

And still further, there is this for those strong in anatomy: THEREIS ONLY ONE SEX. A man and a woman are so entirely the same thing, that one hardly understands the mass of distinctions and of subtlereasons with which society is nourished concerning this subject. Ihave observed the infancy and the development of my son and mydaughter. My son was myself, therefore much more woman, than mydaughter, who was an imperfect man. 

I embrace you. Maurice and Lina who have tasted your cheese, sendyou their regards, and Mademoiselle Aurore cries to you, WAIT, WAIT, WAIT! That is all that she knows how to say while laughing like acrazy person; for, at heart she is serious, attentive, clever withher hands as a monkey and amusing herself better with games sheinvents, than with those one suggests to her. I think that she willhave a mind of her own. 

If I do not get cured here, I shall go to Cannes, where some friendsare urging me to come. But I can not yet mention it to my children. When I am with them it is not easy to move. There is passion andjealousy. And all my life has been like that, never my own! Pityyourself then, you who belong to yourself!

XLV. TO GEORGE SANDWednesday evening

I have followed your counsel, dear master, I have EXERCISED!!! Am Inot splendid; eh?

Sunday night, at eleven o'clock, there was such lovely moonlightalong the river and on the snow that I was taken with an itch formovement, and I walked for two hours and a half imagining all sortsof things, pretending that I was travelling in Russia or in Norway. When the tide came in and cracked the cakes of ice in the Seine andthe thin ice which covered the stream, it was, without anyexaggeration, superb. Then I thought of you and I missed you. 

I don't like to eat alone. I have to associate the idea with someonewith the things that please me. But this someone is rare. I toowonder why I love you. Is it because you are a great man or acharming being? I don't know. What is certain is that I experience aPARTICULAR sentiment for you and I cannot define it. 

And a propos of this, do you think (you who are a master ofpsychology), that one can love two people in the same way and thatone can experience two identical sensations about them? I don'tthink so, since our individuality changes at every moment of itsexistence. 

You write me lovely things about "disinterested affection. " That istrue, so is the opposite! We make God always in our own image. Atthe bottom of all our loves and all our admirations we findourselves again: ourselves or something approaching us. What is thedifference if the OURSELVES is good!

My moi bores me for the moment. How this fool weighs on my shouldersat times! He writes too slowly and is not bluffing at all when hecomplains of his work. What a task! and what a devil of an idea tohave sought such a subject! You should give me a recipe for goingfaster: and you complain of seeking a fortune! You! I have receiveda little note from Saint-Beuve which reassures about his health, butit is sad. He seemed to me depressed at not being able to haunt thedells of Cyprus. He is within the truth, or at least within his owntruth, which amounts to the same thing. I shall be like him perhaps, when I am his age. However, I think not. Not having had the sameyouth, my old age will be different. 

That reminds me that I once dreamed a book on Saint Perrine. Champfleury treated that subject badly. For I don't see that he iscomic: I should have made him atrocious and lamentable. I think thatthe heart does not grow old; there are even people whose hearts growbigger with age. I was much drier and more bitter twenty years agothan now. I am feminized and softened by wear, as others get harder, and that makes me INDIGNANT. I feel that I am becoming a COW, ittakes nothing to move me; everything troubles and agitates me, everything is to me as the north wind is to the reed. 

A word from you, which I remembered, has made me reread now the FairMaid of Perth. It is a good story, whatever one says about it. Thatfellow decidedly had an imagination. 

Well, adieu. Think of me. I send you my best love. 

XLVI. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT, at CroisssetNohant, 1867

Bah! zut! troulala! Well! well! I am not sick any more, or at leastI am only half sick. The air of the country restores me, orpatience, or THE OTHER person, the one who wants to work again andto produce. What is my illness? Nothing. Everything is all right, but I have something that they call anemia, an effect without atangible cause, a breakdown which has been threatening for severalyears, and which became noticeable at Palaiseau, after my returnfrom Croisset. An emaciation that is too rapid to be within reason, a pulse too slow, too feeble, an indolent or capricious stomach, with a sensation of stifling and a fondness for inertia. I was notable to keep a glass of water on my poor stomach for several days, and that brought me so low that I thought I was hardly curable; but, all is getting on, and I have even been working since yesterday. 

You, dear, you go walking in the night, in the snow. That issomething which for an exceptional excursion, is rather foolish andmight indeed make you ill also. Good Heavens! It is not the moon, itis the sun that I advise; we are not owls, OBVIOUSLY! We have justhad three spring days. I wager that you have not climbed up to mydear orchard which is so pretty and which I love so much. If it wasonly in remembrance of me, you ought to climb up every fine day atnoon. Your work would flow more abundantly afterward and you wouldregain the time you lost and more too. 

Then you are worrying about money? I don't know what that is, sinceI have not a sou in the world. I live by my day, work as does theproletarian; when I can no longer do my day's work, I shall bepacked up for the other world, and then I shall have no more need ofanything. But you must live. How can you live by your pen if youalways let yourself be duped and shorn? It is not I who can teachyou how to protect yourself But haven't you a friend who knows howto act for you? Alas, yes, the world is going to the devil in thatrespect; and I was talking of you, the other day, to a very dearfriend, while I was showing him the artist, a personage become sorare, and cursing the necessity of thinking of the material side oflife. I send you the last page of his letter; you will see that youhave in him a friend whom you did not suspect, and whose name willsurprise you. 

No, I shall not go to Cannes, in spite of a strong temptation!Imagine, I received a little box filled with flowers gathered out-doors, five or six days ago; for the package followed me to Parisand to Palaiseau. Those flowers are adorably fresh, they smellsweetly, they are as pretty as anything. --Ah! to go, go at once tothe country of the sun. But I have no money, and besides I have notime. My illness has delayed me and put me off. Let us stay here. AmI not well? If I can't go to Paris next month, won't you come to seeme here? Certainly, it is an eight hours' journey. You can not seethis ancient nook. You owe me a week, or I shall believe that I lovea big ingrate who does not pay me back. 

Poor Sainte-Beuve! More unhappy than we, he who has never had anygreat disappointments and who has no longer any material worries. Hebewails what is the least regrettable and the least serious in lifeunderstood as he understood it! And then very proud, having been aJansenist, his heart has cooled in that direction. Perhaps theintelligence was developed, but that does not suffice to make uslive, and does not teach us how to die. Barbes, who has expected fora long time that a stroke would carry him off, is gentle andsmiling. It does not seem to him, and it does not seem to hisfriends, that death will separate him from us. He who quite goesaway, is he who believes he ends and does not extend a hand so thatanyone can follow him or rejoin him. 

And good-night, dear friend of my heart. They are ringing for theperformance. Maurice regales us this evening with marionettes. Theyare very amusing, and the theatre is so pretty! A real artist'sjewel. Why aren't you here? It is horrid not to live next door tothose one loves. 

XLVII. TO GEORGE SANDWednesday

I received yesterday your son's book. I shall start it when I havegotten rid of less amusing readings, probably. Meanwhile, don'tthank him any the less, dear master. 

First, let's talk of you; "arsenic. " I am sure of it! You must drinkiron, walk, and sleep, and go to the south, no matter what it costs, there! Otherwise the WOODEN WOMAN will break down. As for money, weshall find it; and as for the time, take it. You won't do anythingthat I advise, of course. Oh! well, you are wrong, and you hurt me. 

No, I have not what you call worries about money; my revenues arevery small, but they are sure. Only, as it is your friend's habit toanticipate them he finds himself short at times, and he grumbles "inthe silence of his closet, " but not elsewhere. Unless I haveextraordinary reverses, I shall have enough to feed me and warm meuntil the end of my days. My heirs are or will be rich (for it is Iwho am the poor one of the family). Then, zut!

As for gaining money by my pen, that is an aspiration that I havenever had, recognizing that I was radically incapable of it. 

I have to live as a small retired countryman, which is not veryamusing. But so many others who are worth more than I am not havingthe land, it would be unfair for me to complain. Accusing Providenceis, moreover a mania so common, that one ought to refrain from itthrough simple good taste. 

Another word about money and one that shall be quite betweenourselves. I can, without being inconvenienced at all, as soon as Iam in Paris, that is to say from the 20th to the 23rd of the presentmonth, lend you a thousand francs, if you need them in order to goto Cannes. I make you this proposition bluntly, as I would toBouilhet, or any other intimate friend. Come, don't stand onceremony!

Between people in society, that would not be correct, I know that, but between troubadours many things are allowable. 

You are very kind with your invitation to go to Nohant. I shall go, for I want very much to see your house. I am annoyed not to know itwhen I think of you. But I shall have to put off that pleasure tillnext summer. Now I have to stay some time in Paris. Three months arenot too long for all I want to do there. 

I send you back the page from the letter of your friend Barbes, whose real biography I know very imperfectly. All I know of him isthat he is honest and heroic. Give him a hand-shake for me, to thankhim for his sympathy. Is he, BETWEEN OURSELVES, as intelligent as heis good?

I feel the importance now, of getting men of that class to be ratherfrank with me. For I am going to start studying the Revolution of'48. You have promised me to hunt in your library at Nohant for (1)an article of yours on faience; (2) a novel by father X---, aJesuit, on the Holy Virgin. 

But what sternness for the father Beuve who is neither Jesuit norvirgin! He regrets, you say, "what is the least regrettable, understood as he understood it. " Why so? Everything depends upon theintensity that one puts on the thing. 

Men always find that the most serious thing of their existence isenjoyment. 

Woman for us all is the highest point of the infinite. That is notnoble, but that is the real depth of the male. They exaggerate thatunmercifully, God be thanked, for literature and for individualhappiness also. 

Oh! I have missed you so much. The tides are superb, the windgroans, the river foams and overflows. It blows from the ocean, which benefits one. 

XLVIII. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT, at ParisNohant, 8 February, 1867

No, I am not Catholic, but I reject monstrosities. I say that thehideous old man who buys young girls does not make love and thatthere is in it neither death nor birth, nor infinity, nor male norfemale. It is a thing against nature; for it is not desire thatdrives the young girl into the arms of the ugly old man, and wherethere is not liberty nor reciprocity there is an attack against holynature. Therefore that which he regrets is not regrettable, unlesshe thinks that his little cocottes will regret his person, and I askyou if they will regret anything else than their dirty wages? Thatwas the gangrene in this great and admirable mind, so lucid and sowise on all other subjects. One pardons everything in those oneloves, when one is obliged to defend them from their enemies. Butwhat we say between ourselves is buried, and I can tell you thatvice has quite spoiled my old friend. 

We must believe that we love one another a great deal, dear comrade, for we both had the same thought at the same time. You offer me athousand francs with which to go to Cannes; you who are as hard upas I am, and, when you wrote to me that you WERE BOTHERED aboutmoney matters, I opened my letter again, to offer you half of what Ihave, which still amounts to about two thousand francs; it is myreserve. And then I did not dare. Why? It is quite stupid; you werebetter than I, you came straight to the point. Well, I thank you forthat kind thought and I do not accept. But I would accept, be sureof it, if I did not have other resources. Only I tell you that ifanyone ought to lend to me, it is Buloz who has bought chateaux andlands with my novels. He would not refuse me, I know. He even offersit to me. I shall take from him then, if I have to. But I am not ina condition to leave, I have had a relapse these last few days. Islept thirty-six hours together, exhausted. Now I am on my feetagain, but weak. I confess to you that I have not the energy TO WISHTO LIVE. I don't care about it; moving from where I am comfortable, to seek new fatigues, working like a dog to renew a dog's life, itis a little stupid, I think, when it would be so sweet to pass awaylike that, still loving, still loved, at strife with no one, notdiscontent with oneself and dreaming of the wonders of other worlds--this assumes that the imagination is still fresh. But I don't knowwhy I talk to you of things considered sad, I have too much thehabit of looking at them pleasantly. I forget that they appearafflicting to those who seem in the fulness of life. Don't let'stalk about them any longer and let spring do the work, spring whichperhaps will breathe into me the desire to take up my work again. Ishall be as docile to the interior voice that tells me to walk as tothat telling me to sit down. 

It is not I who promised you a novel on the Holy Virgin. At least Idon't think so. I can not find my article on faience. Do look andsee if it was printed at the end of one of my volumes to completethe last sheet. It was entitled Giovanni Freppa ou les Maioliques. 

Oh! what luck! While writing to you it has come back to me thatthere is a corner where I have not looked. I hasten there, I findit! I find something better than my article, and I send you threeworks which will make you as learned as I am. That of Passeri ischarming. 

Barbes has intelligence, certainly! but he is a sugar loaf. Brain ona lofty scale, head of an Indian, with gentle instincts, almostimpossible to find; all for metaphysical thought which becomes aninstinct and a passion that dominates everything. Add to that acharacter that one can only compare to Garibaldi. A creature ofincredible sanctity and perfection. Immense worth without immediateapplication in France. The setting of another age or another countryis what this hero needs. And now good-night, --O God, what a CALF Iam! I leave you the title of COW, which you give yourself in yourdays of weariness. Never mind, tell me when you are to be in Paris. It is probable that I shall have to go there for a few days for onething or another. We must embrace each other and then you shall cometo Nohant this summer. It is agreed, it must be!

My affectionate regards to your mother and to your lovely niece. 

Please acknowledge the receipt of the three pamphlets; they would bea loss. 

XLIX. TO GEORGE SAND

Dear master, You really ought to go to see the sun somewhere; it is foolish to bealways suffering; do travel; rest; resignation is the worst of thevirtues. 

I have need of it in order to endure all the stupidities that Ihear! You can not imagine to what a degree they have reached. Francewhich has been sometimes taken with St. Vitus dance (as underCharles VI), seems to me now to have a paralysis of the brain. Theyare mad with fear. Fear of the Prussians, fear of the strikes, fearof the Exposition which does not go well, fear of everything. Wehave to go back to 1849 to find such a degree of imbecility. 

There was at the last Magny such inane conversation that I swore tomyself never to put foot inside the place again. The only subjectsunder discussion all the time were Bismarck and the Luxembourg. Iwas stuffed with it! For the rest I don't find it easy to live. Farfrom becoming blunted my sensibilities are sharper; a lot ofinsignificant things make me suffer. Pardon this weakness, you whoare so strong and tolerant. 

The novel does not go at all well. I am deep in reading thenewspapers of '48. I have had to make several (and have not yetfinished) journeys to Sevres, to Creil, etc. 

Father Sainte-Beuve is preparing a discourse on free thought whichhe will read at the Senate a propos of the press law. He has beenvery shrewd, you know. 

You tell your son Maurice that I love him very much, first becausehe is your son and secundo because he is he. I find him good, clever, cultivated, not a poseur, in short charming, and "withtalent. "

L. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERTNohant, 4 March, 1867

Dear good friend, the friend of my heart, the old troubadour is aswell as ten thousand men--who are well, and he is gay as a finch, because the sun shines again and copy is progressing. 

He will probably go to Paris soon for the play by his son Dumas, letus try to be there together. 

Maurice is very proud to be declared COCK by an eagle. At thismoment he is having a spree with veal and wine in honor of hisfiremen. 

The AMERICAN [Footnote: Henry Harrisse. ] in question is charming. Hehas, literally speaking, a passion for you, and he writes me thatafter seeing you he loves you more, that does not surprise me. 

Poor Bouilhet! Give him this little note enclosed here. I share hissorrow, I knew her. 

Are you amused in Paris? Are you as sedentary there as at Croisset?

In that case I shall hardly see you unless I go to see you. 

Tell me the hours when you do not receive the fair sex, and whensexagenarian troubadours do not incommode you. 

Cadio is entirely redone and rewritten up to the part I read to you, it is less offensive. 

I am not doing Montreveche. I will tell you about that. It is quitea story. I love you and I embrace you with all my heart. 

Your old George Sand

Did you receive my pamphlets on the faience? You have notacknowledged them. They were sent to Croisset the day after I gotyour last letter. 

LI. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT14 March, 1867

Your old troubadour is again prostrate. Every moment his guitarthreatens to be broken. And then he sleeps forty-eight hours and iscured--but feeble, and he can not be in Paris on the 16th as he hadintended. Maurice went alone a little while ago, I shall go to joinhim in five or six days. 

Little Aurore consoles me for this mischance. She twitters like abird along with the birds who are twittering already as in fullspring time. 

The anemone Sylvia which I brought from the woods into the gardenand which I had a great deal of trouble in acclimating is finallygrowing thousands of white and pink stars among the blue periwinkle. It is warm and damp. One can not break one's guitar in weather likethis. Good-bye, dear good friend. 

G. Sand

LII. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERTFriday, 22 March, 1867

Your old troubadour is here, not so badly off. He will go to dine onMonday at Magny's, we shall agree on a day for both of us to dinewith Maurice. He is at home at five o'clock but not before Monday. 

He is running around!

He embraces you. 

LIII. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT1867 (?)

Then Wednesday, if you wish, my dear old fellow. Whom do you want tohave with us? Certainly, the dear Beuve if that is possible, and noone if you like. 

We embrace you. 

G. S. Maurice Saturday evening. 

LIV. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERTNohant, 11 April, 1867

Here I am back again in my nest, and almost cured from a bad feverwhich attacked me in Paris, the day before my departure. 

Really your old troubadour has had ridiculous health for six months. March and April have been such stupid months for him. It makes nodifference, however, for he is recovering again, and is seeing oncemore the trees and the grass grow, it is always the same thing andthat is why it is beautiful and good. Maurice has been touched bythe friendship that you have shown him; you have seduced andravished him, and he is not demonstrative. 

He and his wife, --who is not at all an ordinary woman, --desireabsolutely that you come to our house this year, I am charged totell you so very seriously and persistently if need be And is thathateful grip gone? Maurice wanted to go to get news of you; but onseeing me so prostrated by the fever, he thought of nothing exceptpacking me up and bringing me here like a parcel. I did nothingexcept sleep from Paris to Nohant and I was revived on receiving thekisses of Aurore who knows now how to give great kisses, laughingwildly all the while; she finds that very funny. 

And the novel? Does it go on its way the same in Paris as inCroisset? It seems to me that everywhere you lead the samehermitlike existence. When you have the time to think of friends, remember your old comrade and send him two lines to tell him thatyou are well and that you don't forget him. 

LV. TO GEORGE SAND

I am worried at not having news from you, dear master. What hasbecome of you? When shall I see you?

My trip to Nohant has fallen through. The reason is this: my motherhad a little stroke a week ago. There is nothing left of it, but itmight come on again. She is anxious for me, and I am going to hurryback to Croisset. If she is doing well towards the month of August, and I am not worried, it is not necessary to tell you that I shallrush headlong towards your home. 

As regards news, Sainte-Beuve seems to me very ill, and Bouilhet hasjust been appointed librarian at Rouen. 

Since the rumours of war have quieted down, people seem to me alittle less foolish. My nausea caused by the public cowardice isdecreasing. 

I went twice to the Exposition; it is amazing. There are splendidand extraordinary things there. But man is made to swallow theinfinite. One would have to know all sciences and all arts in orderto be interested in everything that one sees on the Champ de Mars. Never mind; someone who had three entire months to himself, and wentevery morning to take notes, would save himself in consequence muchreading and many journeys. 

One feels oneself there very far from Paris, in a new and uglyworld, an enormous world which is perhaps the world of the future. The first time that I lunched there, I thought all the time ofAmerica, and I wanted to speak like a negro. 

LVI. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT, at CroissetNohant, 9 May, 1867

Dear friend of my heart, I am well, I am at work, I am finishing Cadio. It is warm, I amalive, I am calm and sad, I hardly know why. In this existence soeven, so tranquil, and so gentle as I have here, I am in an elementthat weakens me morally while strengthening me physically; and Ifall into melancholies of honey and roses which are none the lessmelancholy. It seems to me that all those I love forget me, and thatit is justice, because I live a selfish life having nothing to dofor any one of them. 

I have lived with tremendous attachments which overwhelmed me, whichexceeded my strength and which I often used to curse. And it happensthat having nothing more to carry them on with, I am bored by beingwell. If the human race went on very well or very ill, one wouldreattach oneself to a general interest, would live with an idea, wise or foolish. But you see where we are now, you who storm sofiercely against cowards. That disappears, you say? But only torecommence! What kind of a society is it that becomes paralyzed inthe midst of its expansions, because tomorrow can bring a storm? Thethought of danger has never produced such demoralizations. Have wedeclined to such an extent that it is necessary to beg us to eat, telling us at the same time that nothing will happen to disturb ourdigestion? Yes, it is silly, it is shameful. Is it the result ofprosperity, and does civilization involve this sickly and cowardlyselfishness?

My optimism has had a rude jolt of late. I worked up a joy, acourage at the idea of seeing you here. It was like a cure that Icarefully contrived, but you are worried about your dear, oldmother, and certainly I can not protest. 

Well, if, before your departure from Paris, I can finish Cadio, towhich I am bound under pain of having nothing wherewith to pay formy tobacco and my shoes, I shall go with Maurice to embrace you. Ifnot, I shall hope for you about the middle of the summer. Mychildren, quite unhappy by this delay, beg to hope for you also, andwe hope it so much the more because it would be a good sign for thedear mother. 

Maurice has plunged again into Natural History; he wants to perfecthimself in the MICROS; I learn on the rebound. When I shall havefixed in my head the name and the appearance of two or threethousand imperceptible varieties, I shall be well advanced, don'tyou think so? Well, these studies are veritable OCTOPUSES, whichentwine about you and which open to you I don't know what infinity. You ask if it is the destiny of man to DRINK THE INFINITE; myheavens, yes, don't doubt it, it is his destiny, since it is hisdream and his passion. 

Inventing is absorbing also; but what fatigue afterwards! How emptyand worn out intellectually one feels, when one has scribbled forweeks and months about that animal with two legs which has the onlyright to be represented in novels! I see Maurice quite refreshed andrejuvenated when he returns from his beasts and his pebbles, and ifI aspire to come out from my misery, it is to bury myself also instudies, which in the speech of the Philistines, are not of any use. Still it is worth more than to say mass and to ring the bell for theadoration of the Creator. 

Is it true what you tell me of G----? Is it possible? I can notbelieve it. Is there in the atmosphere which the earth engendersnowadays, a gas, laughing or otherwise, which suddenly seizes thebrain, and carries it on to commit extravagances, as there was underthe first revolution a maddening fluid which inspired one to commitcruelties? We have fallen from the Hell of Dante into that ofScarron. 

Of what are you thinking, good head and good heart, in the midst ofthis bacchanal? You are wrathful, oh very well, I like that betterthan if you were laughing at it; but when you are calmer and whenyou reflect?

Must one find some fashion of accepting the honor, the duty, and thefatigue of living? As for me, I revert to the idea of an everlastingjourney through worlds more amusing, but it would be necessary to gothere quickly and change continually. The life that one fears somuch to lose is always too long for those who understand quicklywhat they see. Everything repeats itself and goes over and overagain in it. 

I assure you that there is only one pleasure: learning what one doesnot know, and one happiness: loving the exceptions. Therefore I loveyou and I embrace you tenderly. 

Your old troubadour G. Sand

I am anxious about Sainte-Beuve. What a loss that would be! I amcontent if Bouilhet is content. Is it really a good position?

LVII. TO GEORGE SANDParis, Friday morning

I am returning to my mother next Monday, dear master. I have littlehope of seeing you before then!

But when you are in Paris, what is to prevent you from pushing on toCroisset where everyone, including myself, adores you? Sainte-Beuvehas finally consented to see a specialist and to be seriouslytreated. And he is better anyway. His morale is improving. 

Bouilhet's position gives him four thousand francs a year andlodging. He now need not think of earning his living, which is areal luxury. 

No one talks of the war any more, they don't talk of anything. 

The Exposition alone is what "everybody is thinking about, " and thecabmen exasperate the bourgeois. 

They were beautiful (the bourgeois) during the strike of thetailors. One would have said that SOCIETY was going to pieces. 

Axiom: Hatred of the bourgeois is the beginning of virtue. But Iinclude in the word bourgeois, the bourgeois in blouses as well thebourgeois in coats. 

It is we and we alone, that is to say the literary men, who are thepeople, or to say it better: the tradition of humanity. 

Yes, I am susceptible to disinterested angers and I love you all themore for loving me for that. Stupidity and injustice make me roar, --and I HOWL in my corner against a lot of things "that do not concernme. "

How sad it is not to live together, dear master, I admired youbefore I knew you. From the day I saw your lovely and kind face, Iloved you. There you are. --And I embrace you warmly. 

Your old

Gustave Flaubert

I shall have the package of pamphlets about faience sent to the ruedes Feuillantines. A good handshake to Maurice. A kiss on the fourcheeks of Mademoiselle Aurore. 

LVIII. TO GEORGE SAND

I stayed thirty-six hours in Paris at the beginning of this week, inorder to be present at the Tuileries ball. Without any exaggeration, it was splendid. Paris on the whole turns to the colossal. It isbecoming foolish and unrestrained. Perhaps we are returning to theancient Orient. It seems to me that idols will come out of theearth. We are menaced with a Babylon. 

Why not? The INDIVIDUAL has been so denied by democracy that he willabase himself to a complete effacement, as under the greattheocratic despotisms. 

The Tsar of Russia displeased me profoundly; I found him a rustic. On a parallel with Monsieur Floquet who cries without any danger:"Long live Poland!" We have chic people who have had themselvesregistered at the Elysee. Oh! what a fine epoch!

My novel goes piano. The further I get on the more difficultiesarise. What a heavy cart of sandstone to drag along! And you pityyourself for a labor that lasts six months!

I have enough more for two years, at least (OF MINE). How the devildo you find the connection between your ideas? It is that thatdelays me. Moreover this book demands tiresome researches. Forinstance on Monday; I was at the Jockey Club, at the Cafe Anglais, and at a lawyer's in turn. Do you like Victor Hugo's preface to theParis-Guide? Not very much, do you? Hugo's philosophy seems to mealways vague. 

I was carried away with delight, a week ago, at an encampment ofGypsies who had established at Rouen. This is the third time that Ihave seen them and always with a new pleasure. The great thing isthat they excite the hatred of the bourgeois, although they are asinoffensive as sheep. 

I appeared very badly before the crowd because I gave them a fewsous, and I heard some fine words a la Prudhomme. That hatredsprings from something very profound and complex. One finds itamong all orderly people. 

It is the hatred that one feels for the bedouin, for the heretic, the philosopher, the solitary, the poet; and there is a fear in thathate. I, who am always for the minority, am exasperated by it. It istrue that many things exasperate me. On the day that I am no longeroutraged, I shall fall flat as the marionette from which onewithdraws the support of the stick. 

Thus, THE STAKE that has supported me this winter, is theindignation that I had against our great national historian, M. Thiers, who had reached the condition of a demi-god, and thepamphlet Trochu, and the everlasting Changarnier coming back overthe water. God be thanked that the Exposition has delivered usmomentarily from these GREAT MEN. 

LIX. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT, at CroissetNohant, 30 May, 1867

Here you are at home, old friend of my heart, and I and Maurice mustgo to embrace you. If you are still buried in work, we shall onlycome and go. It is so near to Paris, that you must not hesitate totell us. I have finished Cadio, hurray! I have only to POLISH it alittle. It is like an illness, carrying this great affair for solong in one's HEAD. I have been so interrupted by real illnessesthat I have had great trouble in setting to work again at it. But Iam wonderfully well since the fine weather and I am going to take abath of botany. 

Maurice will take one of entomology. He walks three leagues with afriend of like energy in order to hunt in a great plain for ananimal which has to be looked at with a magnifying glass. That ishappiness! That is being really infatuated. My gloom has disappearedin making Cadio; at present I am only fifteen years old, andeverything to me appears for the best in the best possible ofworlds. That will last as long as it can. These are the intervals ofinnocence in which forgetfulness of evil compensates for theinexperience of the golden age. 

How is your dear mother? She is fortunate to have you again nearher! And the novel? Good heavens! it must get on! Are you walking alittle? Are you more reasonable?

The other day, some people not at all stupid were here who spokehighly of Madame Bovary, but with less zest of Salammbo. Lina gotinto a white heat, not being willing that those wretches should makethe slightest objection to it; Maurice had to calm her, and moreoverhe criticised the work very well, as an artist and as a scholar; sowell that the recalcitrants laid down their arms. I should like tohave written what he said. He speaks little and often badly; butthat time he succeeded extraordinarily well. 

I shall then not say adieu, but au revoir, as soon as possible. Ilove you much, much, my dear old fellow, you know it. My ideal wouldbe to live a long life with a good and great heart like yours. Butthen, one would want never to die, and when one is really OLD, likeme, one must hold oneself ready for anything. 

I embrace you tenderly, so does Maurice. Aurore is the sweetest andthe most ridiculous person. Her father makes her drink while hesays: Dominus vobiscum! then she drinks and answers: Amen! How sheis getting on! What a marvel is the development of a little child!No one has ever written about that. Followed day by day, it would beprecious in every respect. It is one of those things that we all seewithout noticing. 

Adieu again; think of your old troubadour who thinks unceasingly ofyou. 

G. Sand

LX. TO Gustave FlaubertNohant, 14 June, 1867

Dear friend of my heart, I leave with my son and his wife the 20thof the month to stay two weeks in Paris, perhaps more if the revivalof Villemer delays me longer. Therefore your dear good mother, whomI do not want to miss, has all the time she needs to go to see herdaughters. I shall wait in Paris until you tell me if she hasreturned, or rather, if I make you a real visit, you shall tell methe time that suits you best. 

My intention, for the moment, was quite simply to go to pass an hourwith you, and Lina was tempted to accompany me; I should have shownher Rouen, and then we should have embraced you in time to return inthe evening to Paris; for the dear little one has always her ear andher heart listening when she is away from Aurore, and her holidaysare marked by a continual uneasiness which I quite understand. Aurore is a treasure of gentleness which absorbs us all. If it canbe arranged, we shall then go on the run to grasp your hands. If itcan not, I shall go alone later when your heart says so, and, if youare going south, I shall put it off until everything can be arrangedwithout disturbing whatever may be the plans of your mother oryourself. I am very free. So, don't disturb yourself, and arrangeyour summer without bothering about me. 

I have thirty-six plans also, but I don't incline to any one; whatamuses me is what seizes me and takes me off suddenly. It is with ajourney as with a novel: those who travel are those who command. Only when one is in Paris, Rouen is not a journey, and I shallalways be ready when I am there, to respond to your call. I am alittle remorseful to take whole days from your work, I who am neverbored with loafing, and whom you could leave for whole hours under atree, or before two lighted logs, with the assurance that I shouldfind there something interesting. I know so well how to live OUTSIDEOF MYSELF! It hasn't always been like that. I also was young andsubject to indignations. It is over!

Since I have dipped into real nature, I have found there an order, asystem, a calmness of cycles which is lacking in mankind, but whichman can, up to a certain point, assimilate when he is not toodirectly at odds with the difficulties of his own life. When thesedifficulties return he must endeavor to avoid them; but if he hasdrunk the cup of the eternally true, he does not get too excited foror against the ephemeral and relative truth. 

But why do I say this to you? Because it comes to my pen-point; forin considering it carefully, your state of overexcitement isprobably truer, or at least more fertile and more human than mySENILE tranquillity. I would not like to make you as I am, even ifby a magical operation I could. I should not be interested in myselfif I had the honor to meet myself. I should say that one troubadouris enough to manage and I should send the other to Chaillot. 

A propos of gypsies, do you know that there are gypsies of the sea?I discovered in the outskirts of Tamaris, among the furthest rocks, great boats well sheltered, with women and children, a coastsettlement, very restricted, very tanned; fishing for food withouttrading; speaking a language that the people of the country do notunderstand; living only in these great boats stranded on the sand, when the storms troubled them in their rocky coves; intermarrying, inoffensive and sombre, timid or savage; not answering when any onespeaks to them. I don't even know what to call them. The name that Ihave been told has escaped me but I could get some one to tell meagain. Naturally the country people hate them and that they have noreligion; if that is so they ought to be superior to us. I venturedall alone among them. "Good day, sirs. " Response, a slight bend ofthe head. I looked at their encampment, no one moved. It seemed asif they did not see me. I asked them if my curiosity annoyed them. Ashrug of the shoulders as if to say, "What do we care?" I spoke to ayoung man who was mending the meshes in a net very cleverly; Ishowed him a piece of five francs in gold. He looked the other way. I showed him one in silver. He deigned to look at it. "Do you wantit?" He bent his head on his work. I put it near him, he did notmove. I went away, he followed me with his eyes. When he thoughtthat I could not see him any longer, he took the piece and went totalk with a group. I don't know what happened. I fancy that they putit in the common exchequer. I began botanizing at some distancewithin sight to see if they would come to ask me something or tothank me. No one moved. I returned as if by chance towards them; thesame silence, the same indifference. An hour later, was at the topof the cliff, and I asked the coast-guard who those people were whospoke neither French, nor Italian, nor patois. He told me theirname, which I have not remembered. 

He thought that they were Moors, left on the coast since the time ofthe great invasions from Provence, and perhaps he is not mistaken. He told me that he had seen me among them from his watch tower, andthat I was wrong, for they were a people capable of anything; butwhen I asked him what harm they did he confessed to me that they haddone none. They lived by their fishing and above all on the thingscast up by the sea which they knew how to gather up before the mostalert. They were an object of perfect scorn. Why? Always the samestory. He who does not do as all the world does can only do evil. 

If you go into the country, you might perhaps meet them at the endof the Brusq. But they are birds of passage, and there are yearswhen they do not appear at all. I have not even seen the ParisGuide. They owe me a copy, however; for I gave something to itwithout receiving payment. It is because of that no doubt that theyhave forgotten me. 

To conclude, I shall be in Paris from the 20th of June to the 5th ofJuly. Send me a word always to 97 rue des Feuillantines. I shallstay perhaps longer, but I don't know. I embrace you tenderly, mysplendid old fellow. Walk a little, I beg of you. I don't fearanything for the novel; but I fear for the nervous system taking toomuch the place of the muscular system. I am very well, except forthunder bolts, when I fall on my bed for forty-eight hours and don'twant any one to speak to me. But it is rare and if I do not relentso that they can nurse me, I get up perfectly cured. 

Maurice's love. Entomology has taken possession of him this year; hediscovers marvels. Embrace your mother for me, and take good care ofher. I love you with all my heart. 

G. Sand

LXI. To GUSTAVE FLATUBERTNohant, 24 July, 1867

Dear good friend, I spent three weeks in Paris with my children, hoping to see you arriving or to receive a line from you which wouldtell me to come and embrace you. But you were HEAD OVER HEELS and Irespect these crises of work; I know them! Here am I back again inold Nohant, and Maurice at Nerac terminating by a compromise thelaw-suit which keeps him from his inheritance. His agreeable fatherstole about three hundred thousand francs from his children in orderto please his cook; happily, although Monsieur used to lead thisedifying life, I used to work and did not cut into my capital. Ihave nothing, but I shall leave the daily bread assured. 

They write me that Villemer goes well. Little Aurore is as pretty asanything and does a thousand gracious tricks. My daughter Lina isalways my real daughter The OTHER is well and is beautiful, that isall that I ask of her. 

I am working again; but I am not strong. I am paying for my energyand activity in Paris. That does not make any difference, I am notangry against life, I love you with all my heart. I see, when I amgloomy, your kind face, and I feel the radiant power of yourgoodness. You are a charm in the Indian summer of my sweet and purefriendships, without egoisms, and without deceptions in consequence. 

Think of me sometimes, work well and call me when you are ready toloaf. If you are not ready, never mind. If your heart told you tocome here, there would be feasting and joy in the family. I sawSainte-Beuve, I am content and proud of him. 

Good night, friend of my heart. I embrace you as well as yourmother. 

G. Sand

LXII. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT, at ParisNohant, 6 August, 1867

When I see how hard my old friend has to work in order to write anovel, it discourages my facility, and I tell myself that I writeBOTCHED literature. I have finished Cadio; it has been in Buloz'hands a long time. I am writing another thing, [Footnote:Mademoiselle Merquem. ] but I don't see it yet very clearly; what canone do without sun and without heat? I ought to be in Paris now, tosee the Exposition again at my leisure, and to take your mother towalk with you; but I really must work, since I have only that tolive on. And then the children; that Aurore is a wonder. You reallymust see her, perhaps I shall not see her long, If I don't think Iam destined to grow very old; I must lose no time in loving!

Yes, you are right, it is that that sustains me. This hypocriticalfit has a rough disillusionment in store for it, and one will losenothing by waiting. On the contrary, one will gain. You will seethat, you who are old though still quite young. You are my son'sage. You will laugh together when you see this heap of rubbishcollapse. 

You must not be a Norman, you must come and see us for several days, you will make us happy; and it will restore the blood in my veinsand the joy in my heart. 

Love your old troubadour always and talk to him of Paris; a fewwords when you have the time. 

Outline a scene for Nohant with four or five characters, we shallenjoy it. We embrace you and summon you. 

G. Sand

LXIII. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT, at CroissetNohant, 18 August, 1867

Where are you, my dear old fellow? If by chance you should be inParis, during the first few days of September, let us try to seeeach other. I shall stay there three days and I shall return here. But I do not hope to meet you there. You ought to be in some lovelycountry, far from Paris and from its dust. I do not know even if myletter will reach you. Never mind, if you can give news of yourself, do so. I am in despair. I have lost suddenly, without even knowingthat he was ill, my poor dear, old friend, Rollinat, an angel ofgoodness, of courage, of devotion. It is a heavy blow for me. If youwere here you would give me courage; but my poor children are asoverwhelmed as I am. We adored him, all the countryside adored him. 

Keep well, and think sometimes of your absent friends. We embraceyou affectionately. The little one is very well, she is charming. 

LXIV. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT, at ParisNohant, August, 1867

I bless you, my dear old fellow, for the kind thought that you hadof coming; but you were right not to travel while you were ill. Ah!my God, I dream of nothing but illness and unhappiness: take care ofyourself, my old comrade. I shall go to see you if I can pull myselftogether; for, since this new dagger-thrust, I am feeble and crushedand I have a sort of fever. I shall write you a line from Paris. Ifyou are prevented, you must answer me by telegram. You know thatwith me there is no need of explanation: I know every hindrance inlife and I never blame the hearts that I know. --I wish that, rightaway, if you have a moment to write, you would tell me where Ishould go for three days to see the coast of Normandy withoutstriking the neighborhood where "THE WORLD" goes. In order to go onwith my novel, I must see a countryside near the Channel, that allthe world has not talked about, and where there are real natives athome, peasants, fisherfolk, a real village in a corner of the rocks. If you are in the mood we will go there together. If not, don'tbother about me. I go everywhere and I am not disturbed by anything. You told me that the population of the coasts was the best in thecountry, and that there were real dyed-in-the-wool simple-heartedmen there. It would be good to see their faces, their clothes, theirhouses, and their horizons. That is enough for what I want to do, Ineed only accessories; I hardly want to describe; SEEING it isenough in order not to make a false stroke. How is your mother? Haveyou been able to take her to walk and to distract her a little?Embrace her for me as I embrace you. 

G. Sand

Maurice embraces you; I shall go to Paris without him: he is drawnon the jury for the 2 September till. . . No one knows. It is atiresome task. Aurore is very cunning with her arms, she offers themto you to kiss; her hands are marvels and they are incredibly cleverfor her age. 

Au revoir, then, if I can only pull myself out of the state I am nowin. Insomnia is the devil; in the daytime one makes a lot of effortnot to sadden others. At night one falls back on oneself. 

LXV. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT, at CroissetNohant, 10 September, 1867

Dear old fellow, I am worried at not having news of you since that illness of whichyou spoke. Are you well again? Yes, we shall go to see the rollersand the beaches next month if you like, if your heart prompts you. The novel goes on apace; but I shall besprinkle it with local colorafterwards. 

While waiting, I am still here, stuck up to my chin in the riverevery day, and regaining my strength entirely in this cold and shadystream which I adore, and where I have passed so many hours of mylife reviving myself after too long sessions in company with my ink-well. I go definitely to Paris, the 16th; the 17th at one o'clock, Ileave for Rouen and Jumieges, where my friend Madame Lebarbier deTinan awaits me at the house of M. Lepel-Cointet, the landowner; Ishall stay there the 18th so as to return to Paris the 19th. Will itbe inconvenient if I come to see you? I am sick with longing to doso; but I am so absolutely forced to spend the evening of the 19thin Paris that I do not know if I shall have the time. You must tellme. I can get a word from you the 16th in Paris, 97 rue desFeuillantines. I shall not be alone; I have as a travellingcompanion a charming young literary woman, Juliette Lamber. If youwere lovely, lovely, you would walk to Jumieges the 19th. We wouldreturn together so that I could be in Paris at six o'clock in theevening at the latest. But if you are even a little bit ill still, or are PLUNGED in ink, pretend that I have said nothing, and prepareto see us next month. As for the WINTER walk on the Norman coast, that gives me a cold in my back, I who plan to go to the Gulf ofJuan at that time. 

I have been sick over the death of my friend Rollinat. My body iscured, but my soul! I should have to stay a week with you to refreshmyself in your affectionate strength; for cold and purelyphilosophical courage to me, is like cauterizing a wooden leg. 

I embrace you and I love you (also your mother). Maurice also, whatFrench! One is happy to forget it, it is a tiresome thing. 

Your troubadour

G. Sand

LXVI. TO GEORGE SAND

Dear master, What, no news?

But you will answer me since I ask you a service. I read this in mynotes: "National of 1841. Bad treatments inflicted on Barbes, kickson his breast, dragged by the beard and hair in order to put him inan in-pace. Consultation of lawyers signed: E. Arago, Favre, Berryer, to complain of these abominations. "

Find out from him if all that is true; I shall be obliged. 

LXVII. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT, at CroissetParis, Tuesday, 1st October, 1867

Dear friend, you shall have your information. I asked Peyrat lastevening, I am writing today to Barbes who will answer directly toyou. 

Where do you think I have come from? From Normandy. A charmingopportunity took me there six days ago. I had been enchanted withJumieges. This time I saw Etretat, Yport, the prettiest of all thevillages, Fecamp, Saint-Valery, which I knew, and Dieppe, whichdazzled me; the environs, the chateau d'Arques, Limes, what acountry! And I went back and forth twice within two steps ofCroisset and I sent you some big kisses; always ready to return withyou to the seaside or to talk with you at your house when you arefree. If I had been alone, I should have bought an old guitar andshould have sung a ballad under your mother's window. But I couldnot take a large family to you. 

I am returning to Nohant and I embrace you with all my heart. 

G. Sand

I think that the Bois-Dore is going well, but I don't know anythingabout it. I have a way of my own of being in Paris, namely, being atthe seaside, which does not keep me informed of what is going on. But I gathered gentians in the long grass of the immense Roman fortof Limes where I had quite a STUNNING view of the sea. I walked outlike an old horse, but I am returning quite frisky. 

LXVIII. TO GEORGE SAND

At last, at last, I have news of you, dear master, and good news, which is doubly agreeable. 

I am planning to return to my home in the country with Madame Sand, and my mother hopes that will be the case. What do you say? For, with all that goes on, we never see each other, confound it!

As for my moving, it is not that I lack the desire of being free tomove about. But I should be lost if I stirred before I finish mynovel. Your friend is a man of wax; everything gets imprinted onhim, is encrusted on him, penetrates him. If I should visit you, Ishould think of nothing but you and yours, your house, your country, the appearance of the people I had met, etc. I require great effortsto gather myself together; I always tend to scatter myself. That iswhy, dear adored master, I deprive myself of going to sit down todream aloud in your house. But, in the summer or autumn of 1869, youshall see what a fine commercial traveller I am, once let loose tothe open air. I am abject, I warn you. 

As to news, there is a quiet once more since the Kerveguen incidenthas died its beautiful death. Was it not a farce? and silly?

Sainte-Beuve is preparing a lecture on the press law. He is better, decidedly. I dined Tuesday with Renan. He was marvellously witty andeloquent, and artistic! as I have never seen him. Have you read hisnew book? His preface causes talk. My poor Theo worries me. I do notthink him strong. 

LXIX. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT, at ParisNohant, 12 October, 1867

I have sent your letter to Barbes; it is fine and splendid, as youare. I know that the worthy man will be glad of it. But as for me, Iwant to throw myself out of the window; for my children areunwilling to hear of my leaving so soon. Yes, it is horrid to haveseen your house four times without going to see you. But I amcautious to the point of fear. To be sure the idea of summoning youto Rouen for twenty minutes did occur to me. But you are not, as Iam, on tiptoe, all ready to start off. You live in your dressinggown, the great enemy of liberty and activity. To force you todress, to go out, perhaps in the middle of an absorbing chapter, andonly to see someone who does not know how to say anything quickly, and who, the more he is content, the stupider he is, --I did not dareto. Here I am obliged to finish something which drags along, andbefore the final touch I shall probably go to Normandy. I shouldlike to go by the Seine to Honfleur. It will be next month, if thecold does not make me ill, and I shall try this time to carry youaway in passing. If not, I shall see you at least, and then I shallgo to Provence. 

Ah! if I could only take you there! And if you could, if you would, during the second week in October when you are going to be free, come to see me here! You promised, and my children would be so happyif you would! But you don't love us enough for that, scoundrel thatyou are! You think that you have a lot of better friends: you arevery much mistaken; it is always one's best friends whom oneneglects or ignores. 

Come, a little courage; you can leave Paris at a quarter past ninein the morning, and get to Chateauroux at four, there you would findmy carriage and be here at six for dinner. It is not bad, and oncehere, we all laugh together like good-natured bears; no one dresses;there is no ceremony, and we all love one another very much. Sayyes!

I embrace you. And I too have been bored at not seeing you, FOR AYEAR. 

Your old troubadour

LXX. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT, at CroissetNohant, 27 October, 1867

I have just made a resume in a few pages of my impressions as alandscape painter, gathered in Normandy: it has not much importance, but I was able to quote three lines from Salammbo, which seemed tome to depict the country better than all my phrases, and which hadalways struck me as a stroke from a master brush. In turning overthe pages to find these lines, I naturally reread almost all, and Iremain convinced that it is one of the most beautiful books thathave been made since they began to make books. 

I am well, and I am working quickly and much, so as to live on myINCOME this winter in the South. But what will be the delights ofCannes and where will be the heart to engage in them? My spirits arein mourning while thinking that at this hour people arc fighting forthe pope. Ah! ISIDORE! [Footnote: Name applied to Napoleon III. ]

I have tried in vain this month to go again to see ma Normandie, that is to say, my great, dear heart's friend. My children havethreatened me with death if I leave them so soon. Just at presentfriends are coming. You are the only one who does not talk ofcoming on. Yet, that would be so fine! Next month I shall moveheaven and earth to find you wherever you are, and meanwhile I loveyou tremendously. And you. Your work? your mother's health? I amworried at not having news of you. 

G. Sand

LXXI. TO GEORGE SAND1st November, 1867

Dear master, I was as much ashamed as touched, last evening, when I received your"very nice" letter. I am a wretch not to have answered the firstone. How did that happen? For I am usually prompt. 

My work does not go very well. I hope that I shall finish my secondpart in February. But in order to have it all finished in two years, I must not budge from my arm-chair till then. That is why I am notgoing to Nohant. A week of recreation means three months of reveryfor me. I should do nothing but think of you, of yours in Berry, ofall that I saw. My unfortunate spirit would navigate in strangewaters. I have so little resistance. 

I do not hide the pleasure that your little word about SALAMMBOgives me. That old book needs to be relieved from a few inversions, there are too many repetitions of ALORS, MAIS and ET. The labor istoo evident. 

As for the one I am doing, I am afraid that the idea is defective, an irremediable fault; will such weak characters be interesting?Great effects are reached only through simple means, throughpositive passions. But I don't see simplicity anywhere in the modernworld. 

A sad world! How deplorable and how lamentably grotesque are affairsin Italy! All these orders, counter-orders of counter-orders of thecounter-orders! The earth is a very inferior planet, decidedly. 

You did not tell me if you were satisfied with the revivals at theOdeon. When shall you go south? And where shall you go in the south?

A week from today, that is to say, from the 7th to the 10th ofNovember, I shall be in Paris, because I have to go sauntering inAuteuil in order to discover certain little nooks. What would benice would be for us to come back to Croisset together. You knowvery well that I am very angry at you for your two last trips inNormandy. 

Then, I shall see you soon? No joking? I embrace you as I love you, dear master, that is to say, very tenderly. 

Here is a bit that I send to your dear son, a lover of this sort offluff:

"One evening, expected by Hortense, Having his eyes fixed on the clock, And feeling his heart beat with eager throbs, Young Alfred dried up with impatience. "(Memoires de l'Academie de Saint-Quentin. )

LXXII. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERTNohant, 5 December, 1867

Your old troubadour is no good, I admit it. He has been working likean ox to have the money to go away with this winter to the gulf ofJuan, and at the moment of leaving he would like to stay behind. Heis worried at leaving his children and the little Aurore, but hesuffers with the cold, he fears anemia, and he thinks he is doinghis duty in going to find a land which the snow does not renderimpracticable, and a sky under which one can breathe without havingdagger-thrusts in one's lungs. 

So you see. 

He has thought of you, probably much more than you think of him; forhe has stupid and easy work, and his thoughts run elsewhere very farfrom him, and from his task, when his hand is weary of writing. Asfor you, you work for truth, and you become absorbed, and you havenot heard my spirit, which more than once has TAPPED at your studydoor to say to you: "It is I. " Or else you have said: "It is aspirit tapping let him go to the devil!"

Aren't you coming to Paris? I am going there between the 15th andthe 20th. I shall stay there only a few days, and then flee toCannes. Will you be there? God grant it! On the whole I am prettywell; I am furious with you for not wanting to come to Nohant; Iwon't reproach you for I don't know how. I have scribbled a lot; mychildren are always good and kind to me in every sense of the word. Aurore is a love. 

We have RAVED politically; now we try not to think of it any moreand to have patience. We often speak of you and we love you. Yourold troubadour especially who embraces you with all his heart, andbegs to be remembered to your good mother. 

G. Sand

LXXIII. TO GEORGE SANDWednesday night

Dear master, dear friend of the good God, "let us talk a little ofDozenval, " let us roar at M. Thiers! Can a more triumphant imbecile, a more abject dabster, a more stercoraceous bourgeois be found! No, nothing can give the idea of the puking with which this olddiplomatic idiot inspires me in piling up his stupidity on the dung-hill of bourgeoisie! Is it possible to treat philosophy, religion, peoples, liberty, the past and future, history, and natural history, everything and more yet, with an incoherence more inept and morechildish! He seems to me as everlasting as mediocrity! He overwhelmsme!

But the fine thing is the brave national guards whom he stuffed in1848, who are beginning to applaud him again! What infinite madness!That proves that everything consists of temperament. Prostitutes, --like France, --always have a weakness for old buffoons. 

Furthermore, I shall try in the third part of my novel (when I reachthe reaction that followed the days of June) to insert a panegyricabout him a propos of his book: De la propriete, and I hope that hewill be pleased with me. 

What form should one take to express occasionally one's opinion onthe things of this world, without the risk of passing later for animbecile? It is a tough problem. It seems to me that the best thingis simply to depict the things which exasperate one. To dissect isto take vengeance. Well! it is not he with whom I am angry, nor withthe others but with OURS. 

If they had paid more attention to the education of the SUPERIORclasses, delaying till later the agricultural meetings; in short, ifthe head had been put above the stomach, should we have been likelyto be where we are now?

I have just read, this week, Buchez' Preface to his Histoireparlementaire. Many inanities which burden us today come from thatamong other things. 

And now, it is not good of you to say that I do not think of "my oldTroubadour"; of whom then, do I think? perhaps of my wretched book?but that is more difficult and less agreeable. 

How long do you stay at Cannes?

After Cannes shan't you return to Paris? I shall be their towardsthe end of January. 

In order to finish my book in the spring of 1869, I must not givemyself a week of holiday; that is why I do not go to Nohant. It isalways the story of the Amazons. In order to draw the bow betterthey crushed their breast. It is a fine method after all. 

Adieu, dear master, write to me, won't you?

I embrace you tenderly. 

LXXIV. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT, at CroissetNohant, 31 December, 1867

I don't agree with you at all that it is necessary to destroy thebreast to draw a bow. I have quite a contrary belief which I follow, and I think that it is good for many others, probably for themajority. I have just developed my idea on that subject in a novelwhich has been sent to the Revue and will appear after About's. Ithink that the artist ought to live according to his nature as muchas possible. To him who loves struggle, warfare; to him who loveswomen, love; to an old fellow like me who loves nature, travel andflowers, rocks, fine landscapes, children also, the family, all thatstirs the emotions, that combats moral anemia. 

I think that art always needs a palette overflowing with soft orstriking colors according to the subject of the picture; the artistis an instrument on which everything ought to play before he playson others; but all that is perhaps not applicable to a mind likeyours which has acquired much and now has only to digest. I shallinsist on one point only, that the physical being is necessary tothe moral being and that I fear for you some day a deterioration ofhealth which will force you to suspend your work and let it growcold. 

Well, you are coming to Paris the beginning of January and we shallsee each other; for I shall not go until after the New Year. Mychildren have made me promise to spend that day with them, and Icould not resist, in spite of the great necessity of moving. Theyare so sweet! Maurice has an inexhaustible gaiety and invention. Hehas made for his marionette theatre, marvelous scenery, properties, and machinery and the plays which they give in that ravishing boxare incredibly fantastic. 

The last one was called 1870. One sees in it, Isidore with Antonellicommanding the brigands of Calabria, trying to regain his throne andto re-establish the papacy. Everything is in the future; at the endthe widow Euphemia marries the Grand Turk, the only remainingsovereign. It is true that he is a former DEMOCRAT and is recognizedas none other than the great tumbler Coquenbois when unmasked. Theseplays last till two o'clock in the morning and we are crazy oncoming out of them. We sup till five o'clock. There is a performancetwice a week, and the rest of the time they make the properties, andthe play continues with the same characters, going through the mostincredible adventures. 

The public is composed of eight or ten young people, my three greatnephews, and sons of my old friends. They get excited to the pointof yelling. Aurore is not admitted; the plays are not suited to herage. As for me, I am so amused that I become exhausted. I am surethat you would be madly amused by it also; for there is a splendidfire and abandon in these improvisations; and the characters done byMaurice have the appearance of living beings, of a burlesque lifethat is real and impossible at the same time; it seems like a dream. That is how I have been living for the ten days that I have not beenworking. 

Maurice gives me this recreation in my intervals of repose thatcoincide with his. He brings to it as much ardor and passion as tohis science. He has a truly charming nature and one never gets boredwith him. His wife is also charming, quite large just now, alwaysmoving, busying herself with everything, lying down on the sofatwenty times a day, getting up to run after her child, her cook, herhusband, who demands a lot of things for his theatre, coming back tolie down again; crying out that she feels ill and bursting intoshrieks of laughter at a fly that circles about; sewing layettes, reading the papers with fervor, reading novels which make her weep;weeping also at the marionettes when there is a little sentiment, for there is some of that too. In short a personality and a type:she sings ravishingly, she gets angry, she gets tender, she makessucculent dainties TO SURPRISE US WITH, and every day of ourvacation there is a little fete which she organizes. 

Little Aurore promises to be very sweet and calm, understanding in amarvelous manner what is said to her and YIELDING TO REASON at twoyears of age. It is very extraordinary and I have never seen itbefore. It would be disquieting if one did not feel a great serenityin that little brain. 

But how I am gossiping with you! Does all this amuse you? I shouldlike this chatty letter to substitute for one of those suppers ofours which I too regret, and which would be so good here with you, if you were not a stick-in-the-mud, who won't let yourself bedragged away to LIFE FOR LIFE'S SAKE. Ah! when one is on a vacation, how work, logic, reason seem strange CONTRASTS! One asks whether onecan ever return to that ball and chain. 

I tenderly embrace you, my dear old fellow, and Maurice thinks yourletter so fine that he is going to put the phrases and words at oncein the mouth of his first philosopher. He bids me embrace you forhim. 

Madame Juliette Lambert [Footnote: Afterwards, Madame Edmond Adam. ]is really charming; you would like her a great deal, and then youhave it 18 degrees above zero down there, and here we are in thesnow. It is severe; moreover, I rarely go out, and my dog himselfdoesn't want to go out. He is not the least amazing member ofsociety. When he is called Badinguet, he lies on the ground ashamedand despairing, and sulks all the evening. 

LXXV. TO GEORGE SAND1st January, 1868

It is unkind to sadden me with the recital of the amusements atNohant, since I cannot share them. I need so much time to do solittle that I have not a minute to lose (or gain), if I want tofinish my dull old book by the summer of 1869. 

I did not say it was necessary to suppress the heart, but torestrain it, alas! As for the regime that I follow which is contraryto the laws of hygiene, I did not begin yesterday. I am accustomedto it. I have, nevertheless, a fairly seasoned sense of fatigue, andit is time that my second part was finished, after which I shall goto Paris. That will be about the end of the month. You don't tell mewhen you return from Cannes. 

My rage against M. Thiers is not yet calmed, on the contrary! Itidealizes itself and increases. 

LXXVI. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERTNohant, 12 January, 1868

No, it is not silly to embrace each other on New Year's day: on thecontrary, it is good and it is nice. I thank you for having thoughtof it and I kiss you on your beautiful big eyes. Maurice embracesyou also. I am housed here by the snow and the cold, and my trip ispostponed. We amuse ourselves madly at home so as to forget that weare prisoners, and I am prolonging my holidays in a ridiculousfashion. Not an iota of work from morning till night. What luck ifyou could say as much!--But what a fine winter, don't you think so?Isn't it lovely, the moonlight on the trees covered with snow? Doyou look at that at night while you are working?--If you are goingto Paris the end of the month, I shall still have a chance to meetyou. 

From far, or from near, dear old fellow, I think of you and I loveyou from the depth of my old heart which does not know the flight ofyears. 

G. Sand

My love to your mother always. I imagine that she is in Rouen duringthis severe cold. 

LXXVII. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERTParis, 10 May, 1868

Yes, friend of my heart, am I not in the midst of terrible things;that poor little Madame Lambert [Footnote: Madame Eugene Lambert, the wife of the artist] is severely threatened. 

I saw M. Depaul today. One must be prepared for anything!--If thecrisis is passed or delayed, for there is question of bringing onthe event, I shall be happy to spend two days with my oldtroubadour, whom I love tenderly. 

G. Sand. 

LXXVIII. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERTParis, 11 May, 1868

If you were to be at home Wednesday evening, I should go to chat anhour alone with you after dinner in your quarters. I despairsomewhat of going to Croisset; it is tomorrow that that they decidethe fate of my poor friend. 

A word of response, and above all do not change any plan. Whether Isee you or not, I know that two old troubadours love each otherdevotedly!

G. Sand Monday evening. 

LXXIX. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERTParis, 17 May, 1868

I have a little respite, since they are not going to bring on theconfinement. I hope to go to spend two days at that dear Croisset. But then don't go on Thursday, I am giving a dinner for the prince[Footnote: Prince Jerome Napoleon. ] at Magny's and I told him that Iwould detain you by force. Say yes, at once. I embrace you and Ilove you. 

G. Sand

LXXX. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT

I shall not go with you to Croisset, for you must sleep, and we talktoo much. But on Sunday or Monday if you still wish it; only Iforbid you to inconvenience yourself. I know Rouen, I know thatthere are carriages at the railway station and that one goesstraight to your house without any trouble. 

I shall probably go in the evening. 

Embrace your dear mamma for me, I shall be happy to her again. 

G. Sand

If those days do not suit you, a word, and I shall communicate withyou again. Have the kindness to put the address on the ENCLOSEDletter and to put it in the mail. 

LXXXI. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERTParis, 21 Thursday--May, 1868

I see that the day trains are very slow, I shall make a great effortand shall leave at eight o'clock Sunday, so as to lunch with you; ifit is too late don't wait for me, I lunch on two eggs made into anomelet or shirred, and a cup of coffee. Or dine on a little chickenor some veal and vegetables. 

In giving up trying to eat REAL MEAT, I have found again a strongstomach. I drink cider with enthusiasm, no more champagne! AtNohant, I live on sour wine and galette, and since I am not tryingany more to THOROUGHLY NOURISH myself, no more anemia; believe thenin the logic of physicians!

In short you must not bother any more about me than about the catand not even so much. Tell your little mother, just that. Then Ishall see you at last, all I want to for two days. Do you know thatyou are INACCESSIBLE in Paris? Poor old fellow, did you finallysleep like a dormouse in your cabin? I would like to give you alittle of my sleep that nothing, not even a cannon, can disturb. 

But I have had bad dreams for two weeks about my poor Esther, andnow at last, here are Depaul, Tarnier, Gueniaux and Nelaton who toldus yesterday that she will deliver easily and very well, and thatthe child has every reason to be superb. I breathe again, I am bornanew, and I am going to embrace you so hard that you will bescandalised. I shall see you on Sunday then, and don't inconvenienceyourself. 

G. Sand

LXXXII. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT Paris, 26 May, 1868

Arrived while dozing. Dined with your delightful and charmingfriend Du Camp. We talked of you, only of you and your mother, andwe said a hundred times that we loved you. I am going to sleep so asto be ready to move tomorrow morning. 

I am charmingly located on the Luxembourg garden. 

I embrace you, mother and son, with all my heart which is entirelyyours. 

G. Sand Tuesday evening, rue Gay-Lussac, 5. 

LXXXIII. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT Paris, 28 May, 1868

My little friend gave birth this morning after two hours of labor, to a boy who seemed dead but whom they handled so well that he isvery much alive and very lovely this evening. The mother is verywell, what luck!

But what a sight! It was something to see. I am very tired, but verycontent and tell you so because you love me. 

G. Sand

Thursday evening. I leave Tuesday for Nohant. 

LXXXIV. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT, at CroissetNohant, 21 June, 1868

Here I am again, BOTHERING you for M. Du Camp's address which younever gave me, although you forwarded a letter for me to him, andfrom WHOM I never thought of asking for it when I dined with him inParis. I have just read his Forces Perdues; I promised to tell himmy opinion and I am keeping my word. Write the address, then give itto the postman and thank you. 

There you are alone at odds with the sun in your charming villa!

Why am I not the. . . River which cradles you with its sweet MURMURINGand which brings you freshness in your den! I would chat discreetlywith you between two pages of your novel, and I would make thatfantastic grating of the chain [Footnote: The chain of the tug-boatgoing up or coming down the Seine. ] which you detest, but whoseoddity does not displease me, keep still. I love everything thatmakes up a milieu, the rolling of the carriages and the noise of theworkmen in Paris, the cries of a thousand birds in the country, themovement of the ships on the waters; I love also absolute, profoundsilence, and in short, I love everything that is around me, nomatter where I am; it is AUDITORY IDIOCY, a new variety. It is truethat I choose my milieu and don't go to the Senate nor to otherdisagreeable places. 

Everything is going on well at our house, my troubadour. Thechildren are beautiful, we adore them; it is warm, I adore that. Itis always the same old story that I have to tell you and I love youas the best of friends and comrades. You see that is not new. I havea good and strong impression of what you read to me; it seemed to meso beautiful that it must be good. As for me, I am not sticking toanything. Idling is my dominant passion. That will pass, what doesnot pass, is my friendship for you. 

G. Sand

Our affectionate regards. 

LXXXV. TO GEORGE SANDCroisset, Sunday, 5 July, 1868

I have sawed wood hard for six weeks. The patriots won't forgive mefor this book, nor the reactionaries either! What do I care! I writethings as I feel them, that is to say, as I think they are. Is itfoolish of me? But it seems to me that our unhappiness comesexclusively from people of our class. I find an enormous amount ofChristianity in Socialism. There are two notes which are now on mytable. 

"This system (his) is not a system of disorder, for it has itssource in the Gospels, and from this divine source, hatred, warfare, the clashing of every interest, CAN NOT PROCEED! for the doctrineformulated from the Gospel, is a doctrine of peace, union and love. "(L. Blanc). 

"I shall even dare to advance the statement that together with therespect for the Sabbath, the last spark of poetic fire has beenextinguished in the soul of our rhymesters. It has been said thatwithout religion, there is no poetry!" (Proudhon). 

A propos of that, I beg of you, dear master, to read at the end ofhis book on the observance of the Sabbath, a love-story entitled, Ithink, Marie et Maxime. One must know that to have an idea of thestyle of les Penseurs. It should be placed on a level with Le Voyageen Bretagne by the great Veuillot, in Ca et La. That does notprevent us from having friends who are great admirers of these twogentlemen. 

When I am old, I shall write criticism; that will console me, for Ioften choke with suppressed opinions. No one understands better thanI do, the indignation of the great Boileau against bad taste: "Thesenseless things which I hear at the Academy hasten my end. " Therewas a man!

Every time now that I hear the chain of the steam-boats, I think ofyou, and the noise irritates me less, when I say to myself that itpleases you. What moonlight there is tonight on the river!

LXXXVI. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT, at CroissetNohant, 31 July, 1868

I am writing to you at Croisset in any case, because I doubt if youare in Paris during this Toledo-like heat; unless the shade ofFontainebleau has kept you. What a lovely forest, isn't it? but itis especially so in winter, without leaves, with its fresh moss, which has chic. Did you see the sand of Arbonne? There is a littleSahara there which ought to be lovely now. 

We are very happy here. Every day a bath in a stream that is alwayscold and shady; in the daytime four hours of work, in the evening, recreation, and the life of Punch and Judy. A TRAVELLING THEATRICALCOMPANY came to us; it was part of a company from the Odeon, amongwhom were several old friends to whom we gave supper at La Chatre, two successive nights with all their friends, after the play;--songs, laughter, with champagne frappe, till three o'clock in themorning to the great scandal of the bourgeois, who would havecommitted any crime to have been there. There was a very comicNorman, a real Norman, who sang real peasant songs to us, in thereal language. Do you know that they have quite a Gallic wit andmischief? They contain a mine of master-pieces of genre. That mademe love Normandy still more. You may know that comedian. His name isFreville. It is he who is charged in the repertory with the parts ofthe dull valets, and with being kicked from behind. He isdetestable, impossible, but out of the theatre, he is as charming ascan be. Such is fate!

We have had some delightful guests at our house, and we have had ajoyous time without prejudice to the Lettres d'un Voyageur in theRevue, or to botanical excursions in some very surprising wildplaces. The little girls are the loveliest thing about it all. Gabrielle is a big lamb, sleeping and laughing all day; Aurore, morespiritual, with eyes of velvet and fire, talking at thirty months asothers do at five years, and adorable in everything. They arekeeping her back so that she shall not get ahead too fast. 

You worry me when you tell me that your book will blame the patriotsfor everything that goes wrong. Is that really so? and then thevictims! it is quite enough to be undone by one's own fault withouthaving one's own foolishness thrown in one's teeth. Have pity! Thereare so many fine spirits among them just the same! Christianity hasbeen a fad and I confess that in every age it is a lure when onesees only the tender side of it; it wins the heart. One has toconsider the evil it does in order to get rid of it. But I am notsurprised that a generous heart like Louis Blanc dreamed of seeingit purified and restored to his ideal. I also had that illusion; butas soon as one takes a step in this past, one sees that it can notbe revived, and I am sure that now Louis Blanc smiles at his dream. One should think of that also. 

One must remind oneself that all those who had intelligence haveprogressed tremendously during the last twenty years and that itwould not be generous to reproach them with what they probablyreproach themselves. 

As for Proudhon, I never thought him sincere. He is a rhetorician ofGENIUS, as they say. But I don't understand him. He is a specimen ofperpetual antithesis, without solution. He affects one like one ofthe old Sophists whom Socrates made fun of. 

I am trusting you for GENEROUS sentiments. One can say a word moreor less without wounding, one can use the lash without hurting, ifthe hand is gentle in its strength. You are so kind that you cannotbe cruel. 

Shall I go to Croisset this autumn? I begin to fear not, and to fearthat Cadio is not being rehearsed. But I shall try to escape fromParis even if only for one day. 

My children send you their regards. Ah! Heavens! there was a finequarrel about Salammbo; some one whom you do not know, went so faras not to like it, Maurice called him BOURGEOIS, and to settle theaffair, little Lina, who is high tempered, declared that her husbandwas wrong to use such a word, for he ought to have said IMBECILE. There you are. I am well as a Turk. I love you and I embrace you. 

Your old Troubadour, G. Sand

LXXXVII. TO GEORGE SANDDieppe, Monday

But indeed, dear master, I was in Paris during that tropical heat(trop picole, as the governor of the chateau of Versailles says), and I perspired greatly. I went twice to Fontainebleau, and thesecond time by your advice, saw the sands of Arboronne. It is sobeautiful that it made me almost dizzy. 

I went also to Saint-Gratien. Now I am at Dieppe, and Wednesday Ishall be in Croisset, not to stir from there for a long time, thenovel must progress. 

Yesterday I saw Dumas: we talked of you, of course, and as I shallsee him tomorrow we shall talk again of you. 

I expressed myself badly if I said that my book "will blame thepatriots for everything that goes wrong. " I do not recognize that Ihave the right to blame anyone. I do not even think that thenovelist ought to express his own opinion on the things of thisworld. He can communicate it, but I do not like him to say it. (Thatis a part of my art of poetry. ) I limit myself, then, to declaringthings as they appear to me, to expressing what seems to me to betrue. And the devil take the consequences; rich or poor, victors orvanquished, I admit none of all that. I want neither love, nor hate, nor pity, nor anger. As for sympathy, that is different; one neverhas enough of that. The reactionaries, besides, must be less sparedthan the others, for they seem to be more criminal. 

Is it not time to make justice a part of art? The impartiality ofpainting would then reach the majesty of the law, --and the precisionof science!

Well, as I have absolute confidence in your great mind, when mythird part is finished, I shall read it to you, and if there is inmy work, something that seems MEAN to you, I will remove it. 

But I am convinced beforehand that you will object to nothing. 

As for allusions to individuals, there is not a shadow of them. 

Prince Napoleon, whom I saw at his sister's Thursday, asked for newsof you and praised Maurice. Princess Matilde told me that shethought you "charming, " which made me like her better than ever. 

How will the rehearsals of Cadio prevent you from coming to see yourpoor old friend this autumn? It is not impossible. I know Freville. He is an excellent and very cultivated man. 

LXXXVIII. TO GEORGE SANDCroisset, Wednesday evening, 9 September, 1868

Is this the way to behave, dear master? Here it is nearly two monthssince you have written to your old troubadour! you in Paris, inNohant, or elsewhere? They say that Cadio is now being rehearsed atthe Porte Saint-Martin (so you have fallen out with Chilly?) Theysay that Thuillier will make her re-appearance in your play. (But Ithought she was dying). And when are they to play this Cadio? Areyou content? etc. , etc. 

I live absolutely like an oyster. My novel is the rock to which Iattach myself, and I don't know anything that goes on in the world. 

I do not even read, or rather I have not read La Lanterne! Rochefortbores me, between ourselves. It takes courage to venture to say evenhesitatingly, that possibly he is not the first writer of thecentury. O Velches! Velches! as M. De Voltaire would sigh (or roar)!But a propos of the said Rochefort, have they been somewhatimbecilic? What poor people!

And Sainte-Beuve? Do you see him? As for me, I am workingfuriously. I have just written a description of the forest ofFontainebleau that made me want to hang myself from one of itstrees. As I was interrupted for three weeks, I am having terribletrouble in getting back to work. I am like the camels, which can'tbe stopped when they are in motion, nor started when they areresting. It will take me a year to finish the book. After that Ishall abandon the bourgeois definitely. He is too difficult and onthe whole too ugly. It will be high time to do something beautifuland that I like. 

What would please me well for the moment, would be to embrace you. When will that be? Till then, a thousand affectionate thoughts. 

LXXXIX. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT, at CroissetParis, 10 September, 1868

Just at present, dear friend, there is a truce to my correspondence. On all sides I am reproached, WRONGLY, for not answering letters. Iwrote you from Nohant about two weeks ago that I was going to Paris, on business about Cadio:--and now, I am returning to Nohant tomorrowat dawn to see my Aurore. I have written during the last week, fouracts of the play, and my task is finished until the end of therehearsals which will be looked after by my friend and collaborator, Paul Meurice. All his care does not prevent the working out of thefirst part from being a horrible bungle. One needs to see theputting-on of a play in order to understand that, and if one is notarmed with humor and inner zest for the study of human nature in theactual individuals whom the fiction is to mask, there is much torage about. But I don't rage any more, I laugh; I know too much ofall that to get excited about it, and I shall tell you some finestories about it when we meet. 

However, as I am an optimist just the same, I look at the good sideof things and people; but the truth is that everything is bad andeverything is good in this world. 

Poor Thuillier has not sparkling health; but she hopes to carry theburden of the work once more. She needs to earn her living, she iscruelly poor. I told you in my lost letter that Sylvanie [Footnote:Madame Arnould-Plessy. ] had been several days at Nohant. She is morebeautiful than ever and quite well again after a terrible illness. 

Would you believe that I have not seen Sainte-Beuve? That I have hadonly the time here to sleep a little, and to eat in a hurry? It isjust that. I have not heard anyone whatsoever talked about outsideof the theatre and of the players. I have had mad desires to abandoneverything and to go to surprise you for a couple of hours; but Ihave not been a day without being kept at FORCED LABOR. 

I shall return here the end of the month, and when they play Cadio, I shall beg you to spend twenty-four hours here for me. Will you doit? Yes, you are too good a troubadour to refuse me. I embrace youwith all my heart, and your mother too. I am happy that she is well. 

G. Sand

XC. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERTNohant, 18 September, 1868

It will be, I think, the 8th or 10th of October. The managementannounces it for the 26th of September. But that seems impossible toeveryone. Nothing is ready; I shall be advised, I shall advise you. I have come to spend the days of respite that my very conscientiousand very devoted collaborator allows me. I am taking up again anovel on the THEATRE, the first part of which I had left on my desk, and I plunge every day in a little icy torrent which tumbles meabout and makes me sleep like a top. How comfortable one is herewith these two little children who laugh and chatter from morningtill night like birds, and how foolish it is to go to compose and toput on MADE UP THINGS when the reality is so easy and so fine! Butone gets accustomed to regarding all that as a military order, andgoes to the front without asking oneself if it means wounds ordeath. Do you think that that bothers me? No, I assure you; but itdoes not amuse me either. I go straight ahead, stupid as a cabbageand patient as a Berrichon. Nothing is interesting in my life exceptOTHER PEOPLE. Seeing you soon in Paris will be more of a pleasurethan my business will be an annoyance to me. Your novel interests memore than all mine. Impersonality, a sort of idiocy which ispeculiar to me, is making a noticeable progress. If I were not well, I should think that it was a malady. If my old heart did not becomeeach day more loving, I should think it was egotism; in short, Idon't know what it is, and there you are. I have had troublerecently. I told you of it in the letter which you did not receive. A person whom you know, whom I love greatly, Celimene, [Footnote:Madame Arnould-Plessy. ] has become a religious enthusiast, oh!indeed, an ecstatic, mystic, molinistic religious enthusiast, Idon't know what, imbecile! I have exceeded my limits. I have raged, I have said the hardest things to her, I have laughed at her. Nothing made any difference, it was all the same to her. FatherHyacinthe replaces for her every friendship, every good opinion; canyou understand that? Her very noble mind, a real intelligence, aworthy character! and there you are! Thuillier is also religious, but without being changed; she does not like priests, she does notbelieve in the devil, she is a heretic without knowing it. Mauriceand Lina are furious against THE OTHER. They don't like her at all. As for me, it gives me much sorrow not to love her any more. 

We love you, we embrace you. 

I thank you for coming to see Cadio. 

G. Sand

XCI. TO GEORGE SAND

Does that astonish you, dear master? Oh well! it doesn't me! I toldyou so but you would not believe me. 

I am sorry for you. For it is sad to see the friends one loveschange. This replacement of one soul by another, in a body thatremains the same as it was, is a distressing sight. One feelsoneself betrayed! I have experienced it, and more than once. 

But then, what idea have you of women, O, you who are of the thirdsex? Are they not, as Proudhon said, "the desolation of the Just"?Since when could they do without delusions? After love, devotion; itis in the natural order of things. Dorine has no more men, she takesthe good God. That is all. 

The people who have no need of the supernatural, are rare. Philosophy will always be the lot of the aristocrats. However muchyou fatten human cattle, giving them straw as high as their bellies, and even gilding their stable, they will remain brutes, no matterwhat one says. All the advance that one can hope for, is to make thebrute a little less wicked. But as for elevating the ideas of themass, giving it a larger and therefore a less human conception ofGod, I have my doubts. 

I am reading now an honest book (written by one of my friends, amagistrate), on the Revolution in the Department of Eure. It is fullof extracts from writings of the bourgeois of the time, simplecitizens of the small towns. Indeed I assure you that there is nowvery little of that strength! They were literary and fine, full ofgood sense, of ideas, and of generosity. 

Neo-catholicism on the one hand, and Socialism on the other, havestultified France. Everything moves between the ImmaculateConception and the dinner pails of the working people. 

I told you that I did not flatter the democrats in my book. But Iassure you that the conservatives are not spared. I am now writingthree pages on the abominations of the national guard in June, 1848, which will cause me to be looked at favorably by the bourgeois. Iam rubbing their noses in their own dirt as much as I can. But youdon't give me any details about Cadio. Who are the actors, etc. ? Imistrust your novel about the theatre. You like those people toomuch! Have you known any well who love their art? What a quantity ofartists there are who are only bourgeois gone astray!

We shall see each other in three weeks at the latest. I shall bevery glad of it and I embrace you. 

And the censorship? I really hope for you that it will make someblunders. Besides, I should be distressed if it was wanting in itsusual habits. 

Have you read this in the paper? "Victor Hugo and Rochefort, thegreatest writers of the age. " If Badinguet now is not avenged, it isbecause he is hard to please in the matter of punishments. 

XCII. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT

The halcyons skim over the water and are common every where. Thename is pretty and sufficiently well known. 

I embrace you. 

Your troubadour. 

Paris, Friday evening, 28 August or 4 September, 1868. In October, yes, I will try!

XCIII. TO GEORGE SANDSaturday evening

I received your two notes, dear master. You send me "halcyon" toreplace the word, "dragonfly. " Georges Pouchet suggested gerre ofthe lakes (genus, Gerris). Well! neither the one nor the other suitsme, because they do not immediately make a picture for the ignorantreader. 

Must I then describe that little creature? But that would retard themovement! That would fill up all the landscape I shall put "insectswith large feet" or "long insects. " That would be clear and short. 

Few books have gripped me more than Cadio, and I share entirelyMaxime's [Footnote: Maxime Du Camp. ] admiration. 

I should have told you of it sooner if my mother and my niece hadnot taken my copy. At last, this evening, they gave it back to me;it is here on my table, and I am turning the pages as I write you. 

In the first place, it seems to me as if IT OUGHT TO HAVE BEEN THEWAY IT IS! It is plain, it gets you and thrills you. How many peoplemust be like Saint-Gueltas, like Count de Sauvieres, like Rebec!and even like Henri, although the models are rarer. As for thecharacter of Cadio, which is more of an invention than the others, what I like best in him is his ferocious anger. In it is thespecial truth of the character. Humanity turned to fury, theguillotine become mystic, life only a sort of bloody dream, that iswhat must take place in such heads. I think you have oneShakespearean scene: that of the delegate to the Convention with histwo secretaries, is of an incredible strength. It makes one cry out!There is one also which struck me very much at the first reading:the scene where Saint-Gueltas and Henri each have the pistols intheir pockets: and many others. What a fine page (I open by chance)is page 161!

In the play won't you have to give a longer role to the wife of thegood Saint-Gueltas? The play ought not to be very hard to cut. It isonly a question of condensing and shortening it. If it is played, I'll guarantee a terrific success. But the censorship?

Well, you have written a masterpiece, that's true! and a veryamusing one. My mother thinks it recalls to her stories that sheheard while a child. A propos of Vendee, did you know that herpaternal grandfather was, after M. Lescure, the head of the Vendeearmy? The aforesaid head was named M. Fleuriot d'Argentan. I am notany the prouder for that; besides the thing is doubtful, for mygrandfather, a violent republican, hid his political antecedents. 

My mother is going in a few days to Dieppe, to her grandchild's. Ishall be alone a good part of the summer, and I plan to grub. 

"I labor much and shun the world. It is not at balls that the future is founded. "(Camilla Doucet. )

But my everlasting novel bores me sometimes in an incrediblemanner! These tiny details are stupid to bother with! Why annoyoneself about such a miserable subject?

I would write you at length about Cadio; but it is late and my eyesare smarting. 

So, thank you, very kindly, my dear master. 

XCIV. To M. GUSTAVE FLAUBERT, at CroisssetParis, end of September, 1868

Dear friend, It is for Saturday next, 3rd October. I am at the theatre everyevening from six o'clock till two in the morning. They talk ofputting mattresses behind the scenes for the actors who are not infront. As for me, as used to wakefulness as you are, I experience nofatigue; but I should be very much bored if I had not the resourcethat one has always, of thinking of other things. I am sufficientlyaccustomed to it to be writing another play while they arerehearsing, and there is something quite exciting in these greatdark rooms where mysterious characters move, talking in low tones, in unexpected costumes; nothing is more like a dream, unless oneimagines a conspiracy of patients escaped from Bicetre. 

I don't at all know what the performance will be. If one did notknow the prodigies of harmony and of vim which occur at the lastmoment, one would judge it all impossible, with thirty-five or fortyspeaking actors of whom only five or six speak well. One spendshours over the exits and entrances of the characters in blue orwhite blouses who are to be the soldiers or the peasants, but who, meanwhile perform incomprehensible manoeuvres. Still the dream. Onehas to be a madman to put on these things. And the frenzy of theactors, pale and worn out, who drag themselves to their placeyawning, and suddenly start like crazy people to declaim theirtirade; continually the assembling of insane people. 

The censorship has left us alone as regards the manuscript; tomorrowthese gentlemen will inspect the costumes, which perhaps willfrighten them. 

I left my dear world very quiet at Nohant. If Cadio succeeds, itwill be a little DOT for Aurore; that is all my ambition. If it doesnot succeed, I shall have to begin over again, that is all. 

I shall see you. Then, in any case, that will be a happy day. Cometo see me the night before, if you arrive the night before, or eventhe same day. Come to dine with me the night before or the same day;I am at home from one o'clock to five. Thank you; I embrace you andI love you. 

G. Sand

XCV. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERTParis, 5 October, 1868

Dear good friend, I recommend again to your good offices, my friendDespruneaux, so that you will again do what you can to be of use tohim in a very just suit which has already been judged in his favor. 

Yours, G. Sand

XCVI. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERTNohant, 15 October, 1868

Here I am "ter hum" where, after having hugged my children and mygrandchildren, I slept thirty-six hours at one stretch. You mustbelieve that I was tired and did not notice it. I am waking fromthat animal-hibernation and you are the first person to whom I wantto write. I did not thank you enough for coming to Paris for mysake, you who go about so little: and I did not see you enougheither; when I knew that you had supped with Plauchut, [Footnote:Edmond Plauchut, a writer and a friend of George Sand. ] I was angryat having stayed to take care of my sickly Thuillier, to whom I wasof no use, and who was not particularly pleased about it. Artistsare spoiled children and the best are great egoists. You say that Ilike them too well; I like them as I like the woods and the fields, everything, every one that I know a little and that I studycontinually. I make my life in the midst of all that, and as I likemy life I like all that nourishes it and renews it. They do me a lotof ill turns which I see, but which I no longer feel. I know thatthere are thorns in the hedges, but that does not prevent me fromputting out my hands and finding flowers there. If all are notbeautiful, all are interesting. The day you took me to the Abbey ofSaint-Georges I found the scrofularia borealis, a very rare plant inFrance. I was enchanted; there was much. . . In the neighborhood whereI gathered it. Such is life!

And if one does not take life like that, one cannot take it in anyway, and then how can one endure it? I find it amusing andinteresting, and since I accept EVERYTHING, I am so much happier andmore enthusiastic when I meet the beautiful and the good. If I didnot have a great knowledge of the species, I should not have quicklyunderstood you, or known you or loved you. I can have an enormousindulgence, perhaps banal, for I have had to practice it so much;but appreciation is quite another thing, and I do not think that itis entirely worn out in your old troubadour's mind. 

I found my children still very good and very tender, my two littlegrandchildren still pretty and sweet. This morning I dreamed, and Iwoke up saying this strange sentence: "There is always a youthfulgreat first part in the drama of life. First part in mine: Aurore. "The fact is that it is impossible not to idolize that little one. She is so perfect in intelligence and goodness, that she seems to melike a dream. 

You also, without knowing it, YOU ARE A DREAM . . . Like that. Plauchut saw you once, and he adored you. That proves that he is notstupid. When he left me in Paris, he told me to remember him to you. 

I left Cadio in doubt between good and average receipts. The cabalagainst the new management relaxed after the second day. The presswas half favorable, half hostile. The good weather is against it. The hateful performance of Roger is also against it. So that wedon't know yet if we shall make money or not. As for me, when moneycomes, I say, "So much the better, " without excitement, and if itdoes not come, I say, "So much the worse, " without any chagrin. Money not being the aim, ought not to be the preoccupation. It is, moreover, not the real proof of success, since so many vapid or poorthings make money. 

Here I am with another play already underway, so as to keep my handin. I have a novel also on the stocks, on the STROLLING PLAYERS. Ihave studied them a good deal this time without learning anythingnew. I already had the plot. It is not complicated and is verylogical. 

I embrace you tenderly as well as your little mother. Give me somesign of life. Does the novel get on?

G. Sand

XCVII. TO GEORGE SANDSaturday evening

I am remorseful for not having answered at length your last letter, my dear master. You told me of the "ill turns" that people did you. Did you think that I did not know it? I confess to you even(between ourselves), that I was hurt on account of them more becauseof my good taste, than because of my affection for you. I did notthink that several of your friends were warm enough towards you. "MyGod! my God! how mean literary men are!" A bit out of thecorrespondence of the first Napoleon. What a nice bit, eh? Doesn'tit seem to you that they belittle him too much?

The infinite stupidity of the masses makes me indulgent toindividualities, however odious they may be. I have just gulped downthe first six volumes of Buchez and Roux. The clearest thing I gotout of them is an immense disgust for the French. My Heavens! Havewe always been bunglers in this fair land of ours? Not a liberalidea which has not been unpopular, not a just thing that has notcaused scandal, not a great man who has not been mobbed or knifed!"The history of the human mind is the history of human folly!" assays M. De Voltaire. 

And I am convinced more and more of this truth: the doctrine ofgrace has so thoroughly permeated us that the sense of justice hasdisappeared. What terrified me so in the history of '48 has quitenaturally its origins in the Revolution, which had not liberateditself from the middle ages, no matter what they say. I have re-discovered in Marat entire fragments of Proudhon (sic) and I wagerthat they would be found again in the preachers of the League. 

What is the measure that the most advanced proposed after Varennes?Dictatorship and military dictatorship. They close the churches, butthey raise temples, etc. 

I assure you that I am becoming stupid with the Revolution. It is agulf which draws me in. 

However, I work at my novel like a lot of oxen. I hope on New Year'sDay not to have over a hundred pages more to write, that is to say, still six good months of work. I shall go to Paris as late aspossible. My winter is to pass in complete solitude, good way ofmaking life run along rapidly. 

XCVIII. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT, in ParisNohant, 20 November, 1868

You say to me, "When shall we see each other?" About the 15th ofDecember, we are baptizing here our two little girls as Protestants. It is Maurice's idea; he was married before the pastor, and does notwant the persecution and influence of the Catholic church about hischildren. Our friend Napoleon is the godfather of Aurore, and I amthe godmother. My nephew is the godfather of the other. All thattakes place just among ourselves, in the family. You must come, Maurice wants you to, and if you say no, you will disappoint himgreatly. You shall bring your novel, and in a free moment, you shallread it to me; it will do you good to read it to one who listenswell. One gets a perspective and judges one's work better. I knowthat. Say yes to your old troubadour, he will be EXCEEDINGLYGRATEFUL to you for it. 

I embrace you six times if you say yes. 

G. Sand

XCIX. TO GEORGE SANDTuesday

Dear master, You cannot imagine the sorrow you give me! In spite of the longingI have, I answer "no. " Yet I am distracted with my desire to say"yes. " It makes me seem like a gentleman who cannot be disturbed, which is very silly. But I know myself: if I go to your house atNohant, I shall have a month of dreaming about my trip. Realpictures will replace in my brain the fictitious pictures which Icompose with great difficulty. All my house of cards will toppleover. 

Three weeks ago because I was foolish enough to accept an invitationto dinner at a country place nearby, I lost four days (sic). Whatwould it be on leaving Nohant? You do not understand that, youstrong Being! I think that you will be a little vexed with your oldtroubadour for not coming to the baptism of the two darlings of hisfriend Maurice? The dear master must write to me if I am wrong, andto give me the news!

Here is mine! I work immoderately and am absolutely ENCHANTED by theprospect of the end which begins to be visible. 

So that it may arrive more quickly, I have made the resolution tolive here all winter, probably until the end of March. Evenadmitting that everything goes perfectly, I shall not have finishedall before the end of May. I don't know anything that goes on and Iread nothing, except a little of the French Revolution, after mymeals, to aid digestion. I have lost my former good habit of readingevery day in Latin. Therefore I don't know a word of it any more! Ishall polish it up again when I am freed from my odious bourgeois, and I am nowhere near it. 

My only excitement consists in going to dine on Sundays at Rouenwith my mother. I leave at six o'clock, and I am home at ten. Suchis my life. 

Did I tell you that I had a visit from Tourgueneff? How you wouldlove him!

Sainte-Beuve gets along. Anyway, I shall see him next week when I amin Paris for two days, to get necessary information What is theinformation about? The national guard!!!

Listen to this: le Figaro not knowing with what to fill its columns, has had the idea of saying that my novel tells the life ofChancellor Pasquier. Thereupon, fear of the aforesaid family, whichwrote to another part of the same family living in Rouen, whichlatter has been to find a lawyer from whom my brother received avisit, so that . . . In short, I was very stupid not to "get somebenefit from the opportunity. " Isn't it a fine piece of idiocy, eh?

C. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT, AT CEOISSETNohant, 21 December, 1868

Certainly, I am cross with you and angry with you, not fromunreasonableness nor from selfishness, but on the contrary, becausewe were joyous and HILARIOUS and you would not distract yourself andamuse yourself with us. If it was to amuse yourself elsewhere, youwould be pardoned in advance; but it was to shut yourself up, to getall heated up, and besides for a work which you curse, and which--wishing to do and being obliged to do anyhow, --you ought to be ableto do at your ease and without becoming too absorbed in it. 

You tell me that you are like that. There is nothing more to say;but one may well be distressed at having an adored friend, a captivein chains far away, whom one may not free. It is perhaps a littlecoquettish on your part, so as to make yourself pitied and loved themore. I, who have not buried myself alive in literature, havelaughed and lived a great deal during these holidays, but alwaysthinking of you and talking of you with our friend of the PalaisRoyal, [Footnote: Jerome Napoleon. ] who would have been happy tosee you and who loves you and appreciates you a great deal. Tourgueneff has been more fortunate than we, since he was able tosnatch you from your ink-well. I know him personally very little, but I know his work by heart. What talent! and how original andpolished! I think that the foreigners do better than we do. They donot pose, while we either put on airs or grovel: the Frenchman hasno longer a social milieu, he has no longer an intellectual milieu. 

I except you, you who live a life of exception, and I except myself, because of the foundation of careless unconventionally which wasbestowed upon me; but I, I do not know how to be "careful" and topolish, and I love life too much, and I am amused too much by themustard and all that is not the real "dinner, " to ever be alitterateur. I have had flashes of it, but they have not lasted. Existence where one ignores completely one's "moi" is so good, andlife where one does not play a role is such a pretty performance towatch and to listen to! When I have to give of myself, I live withcourage and resolution, but I am no longer amused. 

You, oh! fanatical troubadour, I suspect you of amusing yourself atyour profession more than at anything in the world. In spite of whatyou say about it, art could well be your sole passion, and yourshutting yourself up, at which I mourn like the silly that I am, your state of pleasure. If it is like that then, so much the better, but acknowledge it to console me. 

I am going to leave you in order to dress the marionettes, for theplays and the laughter have been resumed with the bad weather, andthat will keep us busy for a part of the winter, I fancy. Behold!here I am, the imbecile that you love, and that you call MASTER. Afine master who likes to amuse himself better than to work!

Scorn me profoundly, but love me still. Lina tells me to tell youthat you are not much, and Maurice is furious too; but we love youin spite of ourselves and embrace you just the same. Our friendPlauchut wants to be remembered to you; he adores you too. 

Yours, you huge ingrate, G. Sand

I had read the hoax of le Figaro and had laughed at it. It turns outto have assumed grotesque proportions. As for me, they gave me agrandson instead of two granddaughters, and a Catholic baptisminstead of a Protestant. That does not make any difference. Onereally has to lie a little to divert oneself. 

CI. TO GEORGE SANDSaint Sylvester's night, one o'clock, 1869

Why should I not begin the year of 1869 in wishing to you and toyours "Happy New Year and many of them"? It is rococo, but itpleases me. Now, let us talk. 

No, I don't get into a heat, for I have never been better. Theythought me, in Paris, "fresh as a young girl, " and those people whodon't know my life attributed that appearance of health to the airof the country. That is what conventional ideas are. Every one hashis system. For my part, when I am not hungry, the only thing I caneat is dry bread. And the most indigestible food, such as apples insour cider, and bacon, are what cure me of the stomach-ache. And soon. A man who has no common sense ought not to try to live accordingto common-sense rules. 

As for my frenzy for work, I will compare it to an attack of herpes. I scratch myself while I cry. It is both a pleasure and a torture atthe same time. And I am doing nothing that I want to! For one doesnot choose one's subjects, they force themselves on one. Shall Iever find mine? Will an idea fall from Heaven suitable to mytemperament? Can I write a book to which I shall give myself heartand soul? It seems to me in my moments of vanity, that I ambeginning to catch a glimpse of what a novel ought to be. But Istill have three or four of them to write before that one (which is, moreover, very vague), and at the rate I am going, if I write thesethree or four, that will be the most I can do. I am like M. Prudhomme, who thinks that the most beautiful church would be onewhich had at the same time the spire of Strasbourg, the colonnade ofSaint Peter's, the portico of the Parthenon, etc. I havecontradictory ideals. Thence embarrassment, hesitation, impotence. 

As to whether the "claustration" to which I condemn myself may be a"state of joy, " no. But what can I do? To get drunk with ink is moreworth while than to get drunk with brandy. The muse, cross-grainedas she is, gives less trouble than a woman. I cannot harmonize theone with the other. I must choose. My choice was made a long timeago. There remains the matter of the senses. They have always beenmy servants. Even at the time of my earliest youth, I did exactly asI wanted with them. I have reached my fiftieth year, and it is nottheir ardor that troubles me. 

This regime is not amusing, I agree to that. There are moments ofempty and horrible boredom. But they become more and more rare inproportion as one grows older. In short, LIVING seems to me abusiness for which I was not made, and yet. . . !

I stayed in Paris for three days, which I made use of in hunting upinformation, and in doing errands about my book. I was so worn outlast Friday, that I went to bed at seven o'clock in the evening. Such are my mad orgies at the capital. 

I found the Goncourts in a frenzied (sic) admiration over a bookentitled Histoire de ma vie by George Sand. Which proves more goodtaste than learning on their part. They even wanted to write to youto express all their admiration. (In return I found ***** stupid. Hecompares Feydeau to Chateaubriand, admires very much the Lepreux dela cite d'Aoste, finds Don Quichotte tedious, etc. ). 

Do you notice how rare literary sense is? The knowledge of language, archeology, history, etc. , all that should be useful however! Well!well! not at all! The so-called enlightened people are becoming moreand more incompetent in the matter of art. Even what art meansescapes them. The glosses for them are more important than the text. They pay more attention to the crutches than to the legs themselves. 

CII. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT1st January, 1869

It is one o'clock, I have just embraced my children. I am tired fromhaving spent the night in making a complete costume for a large dollfor Aurore; but I don't want to turn in without embracing you also, my great friend, and my dear, big child. May '69 be easy for you, and may it see the end of your novel. May you keep well and bealways yourself! I don't know anything better, and I love you. 

G. Sand

I have not the address of the Goncourts. Will you put the enclosedanswer in the mail?

CIII. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT, at CroisssetNohant, 17 January, 1869

The individual named George Sand is well: he is enjoying themarvelous winter which reigns in Berry, gathering flowers, notinginteresting botanical anomalies, making dresses and mantles for hisdaughter-in-law, costumes for the marionettes, cutting out scenery, dressing dolls, reading music, but above all spending hours with thelittle Aurore who is a marvelous child. There is not a more tranquilor a happier individual in his domestic life than this oldtroubadour retired from business, who sings from time to time hislittle song to the moon, without caring much whether he sings wellor ill, provided he sings the motif that runs in his head, and who, the rest of the time, idles deliciously. It has not always been asnice as this. He had the folly to be young; but as he did no evilnor knew evil passions, nor lived for vanity, he is happy enough tobe peaceful and to amuse himself with everything. 

This pale character has the great pleasure of loving you with allhis heart, and of not passing a day without thinking of the otherold troubadour, confined in his solitude of a frenzied artist, disdainful of all the pleasures of this world, enemy of themagnifying glass and of its attractions. We are, I think, the twomost different workers that exist; but since we like each other thatway, it is all right. The reason each of us thinks of the other atthe same hour, is because each of us has a need of his opposite; wecomplete ourselves, in identifying ourselves at times with what isnot ourselves. 

I told you, I think, that I had written a play on returning fromParis. They liked it; but I don't want them to play it in thespring, and the end of the winter is filled up, unless the play theyare rehearsing fails. As I do not know how to WISH my colleagues illluck, I am in no hurry and my manuscript is on the shelf. I have thetime. I am writing my little annual novel, when I have one or twohours a day to get to work on it; I am not sorry to be preventedfrom thinking of it. That develops it. Always before going to sleep, I have an agreeable quarter of an hour to continue it in my head;there you have it. 

I know nothing, nothing at all of the Sainte-Beuve incident. I get adozen newspapers, whose wrappers I respect to such an extent thatwithout Lina, who tells me the chief news from time to time, I wouldnot know if Isidore were still among us. 

Sainte-Beuve is very high tempered, and, as regards opinions, soperfectly skeptical, that I should never be astonished at anythinghe did, in one sense or the other. He was not always like that, atleast not so much so. I have known him to be more credulous and morerepublican than I was then. He was thin and pale, and gentle; howpeople change! His talent, his knowledge, his mind have increasedenormously, but I used to like his character better. Just the same, there is still much good in him. There is still love and reverencefor letters--and he will be the last of the critics. Criticismrightly so-called, will disappear. Perhaps there is no longer anyreason for its existence. What do you think about it?

It appears that you are studying the boor (pignouf). As for me, Iavoid him. I know him too well. I love the Berrichon peasant who isnot, who never is, a boor, even when he is of no great account; theword pignouf has its depths; it was created exclusively for thebourgeois, wasn't it? Ninety out of a hundred provincial middle-class women are boorish (pignouf lardes) to a high degree, even withpretty faces that ought to give evidence of delicate instincts. Oneis surprised to find a basis of gross self-sufficiency in thesefalse ladies. Where is the woman now? She is becoming a freak insociety. 

Good night, my troubadour: I love you, and I embrace you warmly;Maurice also. 

G. Sand

CIV. TO GEORGE SANDCroisset, Tuesday, 2 February, 1869

My dear master, You see in your troubadour a worn-out man. I have spent a week inParis, looking up wearisome information (from seven to nine hours infiacres every day, which is a fine way to make money out ofliterature). Oh, well!

I have just reread my outline. All that I have still to writehorrifies me, or rather disgusts me, so that I want to vomit. It isalways so, when I get to work. It is then that I am bored, bored, bored! But this time exceeds all others. That is why I dread so muchinterruptions in the daily grind. I could not do otherwise, however. I dragged about at funerals at Pere-Lachaise, in the valley ofMontmorency, through shops of religious objects, etc. 

In short, I have enough material for four or five months now. What abig "Hooray" I shall utter, when it is finished, and when I am notin the midst of remaking the bourgeois! It is high time that Ienjoyed life. 

I saw Sainte-Beuve and the Princess Mathilde, and I know thoroughlythe story of their break, which seems to me irrevocable. Sainte-Beuve was outraged against Dalloz and has gone to le Temps. Theprincess begged him not to do anything about it. He did not listento her. That is all. My opinion on it, if you wish to know it, isthis. The first wrong was done by the princess, who was hasty; butthe second and the worst was by pere Beuve, who did not behave as acourteous man. If one has a friend, a rather good fellow, and thatfriend has given one thirty thousand francs a year income, one oweshim some consideration. It seems to me that in Sainte-Beuve's placeI should have said, "That displeases you, let us talk no more aboutit. " He lacked manners and poise. What disgusted me a little, between ourselves, was the way he praised the emperor to me! yes, hepraised Badinguet, to me!--And we were alone!

The princess had taken the thing too seriously from the beginning. I wrote to her, saying that Sainte-Beuve was right; he, I am sure, found me rather cold. It was then, in order to justify himself tome, that he made these protestations of isidorian love, whichhumiliated me a little; for it was as if he took me for a completeimbecile. 

I think that he is preparing for a funeral like Beranger's, and thatHugo's popularity makes him jealous. Why write for the papers, whenone can make books, and when one is not perishing of hunger? He's nosage, Sainte-Beuve. Not like you!

Your strength charms me and amazes me. I mean the strength of yourentire being, not only that of your brain. 

You speak of criticism in your last letter to me, telling me that itwill soon disappear. I think, on the contrary, that it is, at most, only at its dawning. They are on a different tack from before, butnothing more. At the time of La Harpe, they were grammarians; at thetime of Sainte-Beuve and of Taine, they are historians. When willthey be artists, only artists, but really artists? Where do you knowa criticism? Who is there who is anxious about the work in itself, in an intense way? They analyze very keenly the setting in which itwas written, and the causes that produced it; but the UNCONSCIOUSpoetic expression? Where it comes from? its composition, its style?the point of view of the author? Never. 

That criticism would require great imagination and great sympathy. I mean a faculty of enthusiasm that is always ready, and thenTASTE, a rare quality, even among the best, so much so that onedoes not talk about it any longer. 

What irritates me every day, is to see a master-piece and adisgrace put on the same level. They exalt the little, and theylower the great, nothing is more imbecile nor more immoral. 

At Pere-Lachaise I was seized with a profound and sorrowful disgustfor humanity. You can not imagine the fetichism of the tombs. Thereal Parisian is more of an idolater than a negro is! It made melong to lie down in one of the graves. 

And the PROGRESSIVES think that there is nothing better than torehabilitate Robespierre! Note Hamel's book! If the Republicreturned they would bless the liberty poles out of policy andbelieving that measure strong. 

When shall I see you? I plan to be in Paris from Easter to the endof May, This spring I shall go to see you at Nohant, I swear it. 

CV. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERTNohant, 11 February, 1869

While you are running around to get material for your novel, I aminventing all sorts of pretexts not to write mine. I let myself bedistracted by guilty fancies, something I am reading fascinates meand I set myself to scribbling on paper that will be left in mydesk and bring me no return. That has amused me, or rather that hascompelled me, for it would be in vain for me to struggle againstthese caprices; they interrupt me and force me. . . You see that I havenot the strength of mind that you think. 

As for our masculine friend, he is ungrateful, while our femininefriend is too exacting. You were right; they are both wrong and itis not their fault, it is the social machinery which insists on it. The kind of recognition, that is to say, submission that she exacts, depends on a tradition that the present time still profits by (therelies the evil); but does not accept any longer as a duty. Thenotions of the obliged are changed, those of the obliger ought tochange also. It must be said that one does not buy moral liberty byany kindness, --and as for him, he should have foreseen that he wouldbe considered enchained. The simplest thing would have been not tocare about having thirty thousand francs a year. It is so easy to dowithout it. Let him extricate himself. They won't entangle us in it:we aren't so foolish!

You say very good things about criticism. But in order to do as yousay, there must be artists, and the artist is too much occupied withhis own work, to forget himself in estimating that of others. 

Heavens, what fine weather! Don't you enjoy it, at least from yourwindow? I'll wager that the tulip tree is in bud. Here, the peachesand the apricots are in flower. It is said that they will be ruined;that does not stop them from being pretty and not tormentingthemselves about it. 

We have had our family carnival: my niece, my grandchildren, etc. We all put on fancy dress; it is not difficult here, one only has togo to the wardrobe and one comes down again as Cassandra, Scapin, Mezzetin, Figaro, Basile, etc. , all that is very pretty. The pearlwas Lolo as a little Louis XIII in crimson satin, trimmed with whitesatin fringed and laced with silver. I spent three days in makingthis costume, which was very chic; it was so pretty and so funny onthat little girl of three years, that we were all amazed in lookingat her. 

Then we played charades, had supper, and frolicked till daylight. You see that banished to a desert, we keep up a good deal ofvitality. And that I delay all I can, the trip to Paris and thechapter of business. If you were there, I would not need to beurged. But you are going there the end of March if and I can notafford to wait till then. To conclude, you swear to come thissummer and we count on it absolutely. Sooner than not have you comeI shall go to drag you here by the hair. I embrace you most warmlyon this good hope. 

G. Sand

CVI. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT, at CroisssetNohant, 24 February, 1869

I am all alone at Nohant as you are all alone at Croisset. Mauriceand Lina have gone to Milan, to see Calamatta who is dangerouslyill. Should they have the misfortune to lose him, they will have togo to Rome to settle his estate, an irksome task added to a sorrow, it is always like that. That sudden separation was sad, my poor Linaweeping at leaving her daughters and weeping at not being with herfather. They left me the care of the children whom I rarely leaveand who only let me work when they sleep; but I am happier at havingthis care on my shoulders to console me. I have, every day, in twohours news from Milan by telegram. The patient is better; mychildren are only as far as Turin today and do not know yet what Iknow. How this telegraph changes one's idea of life, and when theformalities and formulas are still more simplified, how fullexistence will be of facts and how free from uncertainties. 

Aurore, who lives on adorations in the lap of her father and motherand who weeps every day when I am away, has not asked a single timewhere they are. She plays and laughs, then she stops; her great eyesstare, she says: MY FATHER? another time she says: MAMMA? I distracther, she thinks no more of it, and then she begins again. They arevery mysterious, children! They think without understanding. Onlyone sad word is needed to bring out their sorrow. She carries itunconsciously. She looks in my eyes to see if I am sad or anxious; Ilaugh and she laughs, I think that we must keep her sensitivenessasleep as long as possible, and that she never would weep for me ifthey did not speak of me. 

What is your advice, you who have brought up an intelligent andcharming niece? Is it wise to make them loving and affectionateearly? I thought so formerly: I was afraid when I saw Maurice tooimpressionable and Solange too much the opposite, and resistingaffection. I would like little ones to be shown only the sweet andthe good of life, until the time when reason can help them to acceptor to fight the bad. What do you say?

I embrace you and ask you to tell me when you are going to Paris, mytrip is delayed as my children may be absent a month; I shall beable, perhaps, to meet you in Paris. 

Your old solitary, G. Sand

What an admirable definition I rediscover with surprise in thefatalist Pascal!

"Nature acts progressively, itus et reditus. It goes on and returns, then it goes still further, then half as far, then further thanever. " [Footnote: George Sand had copied this and fastened it overher work table at Nohant. ]

What a way of speaking, eh? How the language turns, is twisted, madesupple, is condensed under this grandiose "hand. "

CVII. TO GEORGE SANDTuesday night

What do I say about it, dear master? Should one excite or repressthe sensitiveness of children? It seems to me that one should nothave any set rule about it. It is according as they have a tendencyto too much or too little. Moreover, the basis isn't changed. Thereare tender natures and hard natures, irremediably so. And then thesame sight, the same lesson can produce opposite effects. Couldanything have hardened me more than having been brought up in ahospital and having played, as a child, in a dissectingamphitheatre? But no one is more sensitive than I am to physicalsuffering. It is true that I am the son of an extremely humane man, sensitive in the true meaning of the word. The sight of a sufferingdog made tears come to his eyes. He did his surgical operations nonethe less well, and he invented some dreadful ones. 

"Show little ones only the sweet and the good of life until the timewhen reason can help them to accept or to fight the bad. " Such isnot my opinion. For then something terrible, an infinitedisenchantment is bound to be produced in their hearts. And then, how could reason form itself, if it does not apply itself (or if onedoes not apply it daily) to distinguish good from evil? Life oughtto be a continual education; one must learn everything--from talkingto dying. 

You tell me very true things about the unconsciousness of children. He who could read clearly in these little brains would grasp in themthe roots of the human race, the origin of the gods, the sap whichproduces actions later on, etc. A negro who talks to his idol, and achild who talks to her doll seem to me close together. 

The child and the savage (the primitive) do not distinguish the realfrom the fantastic. I remember very clearly that at five or sixyears of age I wanted to "send my heart" to a little girl with whomI was in love (I mean my material heart). I could see it in themiddle of straw, in a basket, an oyster basket. 

But no one has been so far as you in these analyses. There are someinfinitely profound pages about it in the Histoire de ma vie. What Isay is true, since minds quite opposite to yours have been amazed atthem. For instance, the Goncourts. 

The good Tourgueneff ought to be in Paris at the end of March. Whatwould be fine, would be for us all three to dine together. 

I am thinking again of Sainte-Beuve. Without doubt one can get alongwithout thirty thousand francs a year. But there is something easieryet: that is, when one has them, not to launch into abuse, everyweek, in the papers. Why doesn't he write books, since he is richand has talent?

I am just now reading Don Quichotte again. What a tremendous oldbook! Is there any more beautiful?

CVIII. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERTNohant, 7 March, 1869

Still alone with my grandchildren; my nephews and friends come tospend two out of every three days with me, but I miss Maurice andLina. Poor Calamatta is at the last gasp. 

Give me the address of the Goncourts, you have never given it to me. Shall I never know it? My letter is still waiting there for them. 

I love you and embrace you. I love you much, much, and I embrace youvery warmly. 

G. Sand

CIX. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERTNohant, 12 March, 1869

Poor Calamatta died the 9th, my children are coming back. My Linamust be distressed. I have news from them only by telegraph. FromMilan here in an hour and a half. But there are no details, and I amanxious. I embrace you tenderly, G. Sand

Thank you for the address. 

CX. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT, at CroisssetNohant, 2 April, 1869

Dear friend of my heart, here we are once more calm again. Mychildren returned to me very exhausted. Aurore has been a littleill. Lina's mother has come to get into touch with her about theiraffairs. She is a loyal and excellent woman, very artistic, and veryamiable. I too have had a bad cold, but everything is getting betternow, and our charming little girls console their little mother. Ifit were less bad weather, and I had a less bad cold, I would go atonce to Paris, for I want to see you there. How long do you staythere? Tell me quickly. 

I shall be very glad to renew my acquaintance with Tourgueneff, whom I knew a little without having read him, and whom I have sinceread with a whole-hearted admiration. You seem to me to love him agreat deal; then I love him too, and I wish when your novel isfinished, that you would bring him to our house. Maurice also knowshim and appreciates him greatly, he who likes whatever does notresemble anything else. 

I am working at my novel about TRAVELING ACTORS [Footnote: Pierrequi roule. ] like a convict. I am trying to have it amusing and toexplain art; it is a new form for me and amuses me. Perhaps it willnot have any success. The taste of the day is for marquises andcourtesans; but what difference does that make?--You must find me atitle, which is a resume of that idea: THE MODERN ROMAN COMIQUE. 

My children send you affectionate greetings; your old troubadourembraces his old troubadour. 

G. Sand

Answer quickly how long you expect to stay in Paris. You say thatyou are paying bills and that you are vexed. If you have need ofquibus, I have at the moment a few sous I can lend you. You knowthat you offered once to lend me some. If I had been in a hole Iwould have accepted. Give all my regards to Maxime Du Camp and thankhim for not forgetting me. 

CXI. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERTNohant, 17 April, 1869

I am well, I am finishing (today, I hope) my modern Roman comiquewhich will be called I don't know what. I am a little tired, for Ihave done a lot of other things. But I am going to Paris in eight orten days to rest, to embrace you, to talk of you, of your work, toforget mine, God be thanked! and to love you as always very much andvery tenderly. 

G. Sand

Regards from Maurice and his wife. 

CXII. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERTMonday, 26 April, 1869

I arrived last night, I am running around like a rat, but every dayat 6 o'clock one is sure of finding me at Magny's, and the firstday that you are free, come to dine with your old troubadour wholoves you and embraces you. 

Send word ahead to me, however, so that by an exceptional chance, Ido not have the ill luck to miss you. 

Monday. 

CXIII. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERTThursday evening, 29 April, 1869

I am back from Palaiseau and I find your letter. Saturday I am notsure of being free; I have to read my play with Chilly on account ofsome objections of detail, and I had told you so. But I see himtomorrow evening, and I shall try to get him to give me another day. I shall write you then, tomorrow evening, Friday, and if he freesme, I shall go to your house about three o'clock on Saturday so thatwe can read before and after dinner; I dine on a little fish, achicken wing, an ice and a cup of coffee, never anything else, bywhich means my stomach keeps well. If I am kept by Chilly, we shallpostpone till next week after Friday. 

I sold Palaiseau today to a master shoemaker who has a LEATHERplaster on his right eye, and who calls the sumachs of the garden, the schumakre. 

Then Saturday morning you shall have word from your old comrade. 

G. Sand

CXIV. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT30 April, 1869

No way of going out today. This slavery to one's profession ishorrid, isn't it? Between now and Friday I shall write to you sothat we can again settle on a day. I embrace you, my old belovedtroubadour. 

G. Sand

CXV. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT3 May, 1869

They are encroaching upon my time more and more. All my days arefull until and including next Sunday. --Tell me quickly if you wantme Monday, a week from today--or if it is another day. Let us fix itfor it is a fact that I don't really know whom to listen to. 

Your troubadour who does not want THIS STATE OF AFFAIRS to continue!

G. Sand

Monday. 

CXVI. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERTParis, 4 May, 1869

On Monday then, and if I have an hour free I shall try to embrace mytroubadour before that. But don't disturb yourself, I know verywell that one does nothing here that one would like to do. Anyway, on Monday between three and four, clear out your windpipe so as toread me a part before dinner. 

G. Sand

Tues. Evening. 

CXVII. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERTSunday, 9 May, 1869

Tomorrow, your reverence, I shall go to dine at your house. I shallbe at home every day at five o'clock, but you might meet some guyswhom you dislike. You would much better come to Magny's where youwould find me alone, or with Plauchut, or with friends who are alsoyours. 

I embrace you. I received today the letter which you wrote to me atNohant. 

G. Sand

CXVIII. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERTParis, 18 May, 1869

I saw Levy today, I tested him at first; I saw that he would notgive up his contract at any price. I then said to him many goodthings about the book and made the remark that he had gotten it verycheap. But he said to me, if the book is in two volumes, it will be20, 000 francs, that is agreed. So I suppose that you will have twovolumes, won't you?

However, I persisted and he said to me: If the book is a success, Ishall not begrudge two or three thousand francs more. I said thatyou would not demand anything, that it was not your way of acting, but that for MY PART, I should insist for you without yourknowledge, and he left me saying: Be easy, I don't say no. Shouldthe book succeed I will make the author profit by it. 

That is all that I have been able to do now, but I will take it upagain at the proper time and place. Leave that to me, I will returnyour contract. What day next week will you dine with me at Magny's?I am a little weary. 

You would be very kind to come to read at my house, we should bealone and one evening will be enough for the rest. Set the day, andAT SIX THIRTY if that does not bother you. My stomach is beginningto suffer a little from Paris habits. Your troubadour who loves you, G. Sand

The rest of the week will finish up Palaiseau, but Sunday if youlike, I am free. Answer if you want Sunday at Magny's at half pastsix. 

CXIX. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT

Then Monday, I count on you, at half past six; but as I am going toPalaiseau, I may be a few minutes late or early. The first one atMagny's must wait for the other. I am looking forward with pleasureto hearing THE REST. Don't forget the manuscript. 

Your troubadour Thursday evening, 20 May, 1869. 

CXX. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT Paris, 29 May, 1869

Yes, Monday, my dear good friend, I count on you and I embrace you. 

G. Sand

I am off for Palaiseau AND IT IS TEN O'CLOCK IN THE MORNING!

CXXI. TO GEORGE SAND

My prophecy is fulfilled; My friend X----has gained only ridiculewith his candidacy. That serves him right. When a man of styledebases himself to practical life, he loses caste and should bepunished. And then, is it a question of politics, now! The citizenswho are excited for or against the Empire or the Republic seem to meas useful as those who discuss efficacious or efficient grace. Politics are as dead as theology! They have had three hundred yearsof existence, that is quite enough. 

Just now I am lost in the Church Fathers. As for my novell'Education sentimentale, I am paying no more attention to it, Godbe thanked! It is recopied. Other hands have gone over it. So, thething is no longer mine. It does not exist any longer, good night. Ihave taken up again my old hobby of Saint Antoine. I have reread mynotes, I am making another new plan and I am devouring theecclesiastical memoirs of the Nain de Tillemont. I hope to succeedin finding a logical connection (and therefore a dramatic interest)between the different hallucinations of the Saint. This extravagantsetting pleases me and I am absorbed in it, there you are!

My poor Bouilhet bothers me. He is in such a nervous state that theyhave advised him to take a little trip to the south of France. He isoverwhelmed by an unconquerable melancholy. Isn't it queer! He whowas so gay, formerly!

My Heavens! What a beautiful and farcical thing is the life of thedesert Fathers! But without doubt they were all Buddhists. That is astylish problem to work at, and its solution would be more importantthan the election of an academician. Oh! ye men of little faith!Long live Saint Polycarp!

Fangeat, who has reappeared recently, is the citizen who, on the25th day of February, 1848, demanded the death of Louis-Philippe"without a trial. " That is the way one serves the cause of progress. 

CXXII. TO GEORGE SAND

What a good and charming letter was yours, adored master! There isno one but you! upon my word of honor! I am ending by believing it. A wind of stupidity and folly is now blowing over the world. Thosewho stand up firm and straight against it are rare. 

This is what I meant when I wrote that the times of politics wereover. In the 18th century the chief business was diplomacy. "Thesecrecy of the cabinets" really existed. The peoples still weresufficiently amenable to be separated and to be combined. That orderof things seems to me to have said its last word in 1815. Sincethen, one has hardly done anything except dispute about the externalform that it is fitting to give the fantastic and odious beingcalled the State. 

Experience proves (it seems to me) that no form contains the best initself; orleanism, republic, empire do not mean anything anymore, since the most contradictory ideas can enter into each one of thesepigeon holes. All the flags have been so soiled with blood and withfilth that it is time not to have any at all. Down with words! Nomore symbols nor fetiches! The great moral of this reign will be toprove that universal suffrage is as senseless as the divine rightalthough a little less odions!

The question is then out of place. One is concerned no longer withdreaming of the best form of government, since all are equal, butwith making science prevail. That is the most important. The restwill follow inevitably. Purely intellectual men have rendered moreservice to the human race than all the Saint Vincent de Pauls in theworld! And politics will be an everlasting folly so long as it isnot subordinate to science. The government of a country ought to bea section of the Institute, and the last section of all. 

Before concerning yourself with relief funds, and even withagriculture, send to all the villages in France, Robert Houdins towork miracles! The greatest crime of Isidore is the wretchedcondition in which he leaves our beautiful country. Dixi. I admireMaurice's occupations and his healthy life. But I am not capable ofimitating him. Nature, far from fortifying me, drains my strength. When I lie on the grass I feel as if I am already under the earthand that the roots of green things are beginning to grow in mybelly. Your troubadour is naturally an unhealthy man. I do not likethe country except when travelling, because then the independence ofmy individuality causes me to rise above the knowledge of mynothingness. 

CXXIII. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERTNohant, 6 August, 1869

Well, dear good friend, here it is August, and you have promised tocome. We don't forget it, we count on it, we dream of it, and wetalk of it every day. You were to take a trip to the seashore firstif I am not mistaken. You must need to shake up your gloom. Thatdoes not dispel it, but it does force it to live with us and not betoo oppressive. I have thought a great deal about you lately, Iwould have hastened to see you if I had not thought I should findyou surrounded by older and better friends than I am. I wrote you atthe same time that you wrote me, our letters crossed. 

Come to see us, my dear old friend, I shall not go to Paris thismonth, I do not want to miss you. My children will be happy to spoilyou and to try to distract you. We all love you, and I love youPASSIONATELY, as you know. 

CXXIV. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERTNohant, 14 August, 1869

Your change of plans distresses us, dear friend, but we do not dareto complain in the face of your anxieties and sorrows. We ought towish you to do what would distract you the most, and take the leastout of you. I am in hopes of finding you in Paris, as you arestaying there some time and I always have business there. But it isso hard to see friends in Paris and one is so overwhelmed by so manytedious duties! Well, it is a real sorrow to me not to have toexpect you any more at our house, where each one of us would havetried to love you better than the others and where you would havebeen at home; sad when you wanted to be, busy if you liked. I resignmyself on condition that you will be better off somewhere else andthat you will make it good to us when you can. 

Have you at least arranged your affairs with Levy? Is he paying youfor two volumes? I would like you to have something on which to liveindependently and as master of your time. Here there is repose forthe mind in the midst of the exuberant activities of Maurice, and ofhis brave little wife who sets herself to love all he loves and tohelp him eagerly in all he undertakes. As for me, I have theappearance of incarnate idleness in the midst of this hard work. Ibotanize and I bathe in a little icy torrent. I teach my servant toread, I correct proof and I am well. That is my life and nothingbores me in this world where I think that AS FAR AS I AM CONCERNEDall is for the best. But I am afraid of becoming more of a bore thanI used to be. People don't like such as I am very much. We are tooinoffensive. However, love me still a little, for I feel by thedisappointment of not seeing you, that it would have gone hard withme if you had meant to break your word. 

And I embrace you tenderly, dear old friend. 

G. Sand

CXXV. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERTThursday

I know nothing either of Chilly or la petite Fadette. In a few daysI am going to make a tour of Normandy. I shall go through Paris. Ifyou want to come around with me, --oh! but no, you don't travelabout; well, we shall see each other in passing. I have certainlyearned a little holiday. I have worked like a beast of burden. Ineed too to see some blue, but the blue of the sea will do, and youwould like the blue of the artistic and literary firmament over ourheads. Bah! that doesn't exist. Everything is prose, flat prose inthe environment in which mankind has settled itself. It is only inisolating oneself a little that one can find in oneself the normalbeing again. 

I am resuming my letter interrupted for two days by my wounded handwhich inconveniences me a good deal. I am not going to Normandy atall, my Lamberts whom I was going to see in Yport came back to Parisand my business calls me there too. I shall then see you next weekprobably, and I shall embrace you as if you were my dear big child. Why can't I put the rosy, tanned face of Aurore in the place ofmine! She is not what you would call pretty, but she is adorable andso quick in comprehending that we all are astonished. She is asamusing in her chatter as a person, --who might be amusing. So I amgoing to be forced to start thinking about my business! It is theone thing of which I have a horror and which really troubles myserenity. You must console me by joking with me a little when youhave the time. 

I shall see you soon, have courage in the sickening work of proof-reading. As for me I hurry over it quickly and badly, but you mustnot do as I do. 

My children send you their love and your troubadour loves you. 

G. Sand

Saturday evening

I have just received news from the Odeon. They are at work puttingon my play and do not speak of anything else. 

CXXVI. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERTParis, 6 September, 1869

They wrote me yesterday to come because they wanted me at the Opera-Comique. Here I am rue Gay-Lussac. When shall we meet? Tell me. Allmy days, are still free. 

I embrace you. 

G. Sand

CXXVII. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERTParis, 8 September, 1869

I send you back your handkerchief which you left in the carriage. Itis surely tomorrow THURSDAY that we dine together? I have writtento the big Marchal to come to Magny's too. 

Your troubadour

G. Sand

Wednesday morning. 

CXXVIII. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERTParis, Tuesday, 5 October, 1869

Where are you now, my dear troubadour? I am still writing to you atthe boulevard du Temple, but perhaps you have taken possession ofyour delightful lodgings. I don't know the address although I haveseen the house, the situation and the view. --I have been twice inthe Ardennes and in a week or ten days, if Lina or Maurice does notcome to Paris, as they have a slight desire to do, I shall leaveagain for Nohant. 

We must then meet and see each other. Here am I a little sfogata(eased) from my need for travel, and enchanted with what I haveseen. Tell me what day except tomorrow, Wednesday, you can give mefor dinner at Magny's or elsewhere with or without Plauchut, withwhomever you wish provided I see you and embrace you. 

Your old comrade who loves you. 

G. Sand

CXXIX. TO GEORGE SAND

Dear good adored master, I have wanted for several days to write you a long letter in which Ishould tell you all that I have felt for a month. It is funny. Ihave passed through different and strange states. But I have neitherthe time nor the repose of mind to gather myself together enough. 

Don't be disturbed about your troubadour. He will always have "hisindependence and his liberty" because he will always do as he hasalways done. He has left everything rather than submit to anyobligation whatsoever, and then, with age, one's needs lessen. Isuffer no longer from not living in the Alhambra. 

What would do me good now, would be to throw myself furiously intoSaint-Antoine, but I have not even the time to read. 

Listen to this: in the very beginning, your play was to come afterAisse; then it was agreed that it should come BEFORE. Now Chilly andDuquesnel want it to come after, simply and solely "to profit by theoccasion, " to profit by my poor Bouilhet's death. They will give youa "sort of compensation. " Well, I am the owner and the master ofAisse just as if I were the author, and I do not want that. Youunderstand, I do not want you to inconvenience yourself in anything. 

You think that I am as sweet as a lamb! Undeceive yourself, and actas if Aisse had never existed; and above all no sensitiveness? Thatwould offend me. Between simple friends, one needs manners andpolitenesses; but between you and me, that would not seem at allsuitable; we do not owe each other anything at all except to loveeach other. 

I think that the directors of the Odeon will regret Bouilhet inevery way. I shall be less easy than he was at rehearsals. I shouldvery much like to read Aisse to you so as to talk a little about it;some of the actors whom they propose are, to my way of thinking, impossible. It is hard to have to do with uneducated people. 

CXXX. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERTWednesday evening, 13 October, 1869

Our poor friend is not to be buried till the day after tomorrow, they will let me know where and when we ought to be there, I shalltell you by telegram. 

I have seen the directors twice. It was agreed this morning withDuquesnel that they should make an attempt with de la T(our) Saint-Y(bars). I yielded my turn to Aisse. I was not to come till March. Iwent back there this evening, Chilly IS UNWILLING, and Duquesnel, better informed than this morning, regards the step as useless andharmful. I then quoted my contract, my right. What a fine thing, thetheatre! M. Saint-Ybars' contract antedates mine. They had thoughtle Batard would last two weeks and it will last forty days longer. Then La Tour Saint-Ybars precedes us [Footnote: This refers tol'Affranchi. ] and I can not give up my turn to Aisse without beingpostponed till next year, which I'll do if you want me to; but itwould do me a good deal of harm, for I have gotten into debt withthe Revue and I must refill my purse. --Are directors rascals in allthat? No, but incompetents who are always afraid of not havingenough plays, and accept too many, foreseeing that they will havefailures. --When they are successful, if the authors contracted forare ANGRY they have to go to court. I have no taste for disputes andthe scandals of the side-scenes and the newspapers; and neither haveyou. What would be the result? Inadequate compensation and a deal ofuproar for nothing. One needs patience in any event, I have it, andI tell you again if you are really upset at this delay, I am readyto sacrifice myself. 

With this I embrace you and I love you. 

G. Sand

CXXXI. TO GEORGE SAND14 October, 1869

Dear master, No! no sacrifices! so much the worse! If I did not look atBouilhet's affairs as mine absolutely, I should have at onceaccepted your proposition. But: (1) it is my affair, (2) the deadmust not hurt the living. 

But I am angry at these gentlemen, I do not hide it from you, fornot having said anything to us about Latour Saint-Ybars. For theaforesaid Latour was engaged a long time ago. Why did we not knowanything about him?

In short, let Chilly write me the letter on which we agreedWednesday, and let there be no more discussion about it. 

It seems to me that your play can be given the 15th of December, ifl'Affranchi begins about the 20th of November. Two and a half monthsare about fifty performances; if you go beyond that, Aisse will notbe presented till next year. 

Then, it is agreed, since we can not suppress Latour Saint-Ybars;you shall go after him and Aisse next, if I think it suitable. 

We shall meet Saturday at poor Sainte-Beuve's funeral. How thelittle band diminishes! How the few survivors of the Medusa's raftare disappearing!

A thousand affectionate greetings. 

CXXXII. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERTParis, 20 or 21 October, 1869

Impossible, dear old beloved. Brebant is too far, I have so littletime. And then I have made an engagement with Marchal and Berton atMagny's to say farewell. If you can come, I shall be very happy andon the other hand if it is going to make you ill, don't come, I knowvery well that you love me and shall not be angry with you aboutanything. 

G. Sand

CXXXIII. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT, at CroissetNohant, 15 Nov. , 1869

What has become of you, my dear old beloved troubadour? are youcorrecting proof like a galley slave, up to the last minute? For thelast two days they have been announcing your book FOR TOMORROW. I amlooking for it with impatience, for you are not going to forget me, are you? You will be praised and condemned; you expect that. You aretoo truly superior not to arouse envy and you don't care, do you?Nor I either for you. You have the strength to be stimulated by whatdiscourages others. There will certainly be a rumpus; your subjectwill be quite opportune in this time of REVOLUTIONISTS. The goodprogressives, the true democrats will approve of you. The idiotswill be furious, and you will say: "Come weal, come woe!" I am alsocorrecting proof of Pierre qui roule and I have half finished a newnovel which will not make much of a stir; that is all that I ask forat the moment. I work alternately on MY novel, the one that I like, and on the one that the Revue does not dislike as much, but which Ilike very little. It is arranged that way; I don't know if I ammaking a mistake. Perhaps those which I like are the worst. But Ihave stopped worrying about myself, so far as I have ever done so. Life has always taken me out of myself, and so it will to the end. My heart is always affected to the detriment of my head. At presentit is my little children who devour all my intellect; Aurore is ajewel, a nature before which I bow in admiration; will it last likethat?

You are going to spend the winter in Paris, and I, I don't know whenI shall go. The success of le Batard continues; but I am notimpatient, you have promised to come as soon as you are free, atChristmas at the very latest, to keep revel with us. I think only ofthat, and if you break your word we shall be in despair here. Withthis I embrace you with a full heart as I love you. 

G. Sand

CXXXIV. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT, at ParisNohant, 30 November, 1869

Dear friend of my heart, I wanted to reread your book [Footnote:l'Education sentimentale. ]; my daughter-in-law has read it too, andsome of my young people, all readers in earnest and of the firstrank and not stupid at all. We are all of the same opinion, that itis a beautiful book, equal in strength to the best ones of Balzacand truer, that is to say more faithful to the truth from one end tothe other. 

One needs the great art, the exquisite form and the severity of yourwork to do without flowers of fancy. However, you throw poetry witha full hand on your picture, whether your characters understand itor not. Rosanette at Fontainebleau does not know on what grass shewalks and nevertheless she is poetic. 

All that issues from a master's hand, and your place is well won foralways. Live then as calmly as possible in order to last a long timeand to produce a great deal. 

I have seen two short articles which did not seem to me to rebelagainst your success; but I hardly know what is going on, politicsseems to me to absorb everything. 

Keep me posted. If they did not do justice to you I should be angryand should say what I think. It is my right. 

I don't know exactly when, but during the month, I shall go withoutdoubt to embrace you and to get you, if I can pry you loose fromParis. My children still count on it, and all of us send you ourpraises and our affectionate greetings. 

Yours, your old troubadour

G. Sand

CXXXV. TO GEORGE SAND

Dear good master, Your old troubadour is vehemently slandered by the papers. Read theConstitutionnel of last Monday, the Gaulois of this morning, it isblunt and plain. They call me idiotic and common. Barbeyd'Aurevilly's article (Constitutionnel) is a model of thischaracter, and the good Sarcey's, although less violent, is in noway behind it. These gentlemen object in the name of morality andthe Ideal! I have also been annihilated in le Figaro and in Paris, by Cesana and Duranty. I most profoundly don't care a fig! but thatdoes not make me any the less astonished by so much hatred and badfaith. 

La Tribune, le Pays and l'Opinion nationale on the other hand havehighly praised me. . . As for the friends, the persons who received acopy adorned by my hand, they have been afraid of compromisingthemselves and have talked to me ofother things. The brave are few. The book is selling very wellnevertheless, in spite of politics, and Levy appears satisfied. 

I know that the bourgeois of Rouen are furious with me "because ofpere Roque and the cancan at the Tuileries. " They think that oneought to prevent the publication of books like that (textual), thatI lend a hand to the Reds, that I am capable of inflamingrevolutionary passions, etc. , etc. In short, I have received veryfew laurels, up to now, and no rose leaf hurts me. 

I told you, didn't I, that I was working over the fairy play? I amdoing now a description of the races and I have cut out all thatseemed to me hackneyed. Raphael Felix didn't seem to me eager tobecome acquainted with it. Problem!

All the papers cite as a proof of my depravity, the episode of theTurkish woman, which they misrepresent, naturally; and Sarceycompares me to Marquis de Sade, whom he confesses he has not read!

All that does not upset me at all. But I wonder what use there is inprinting my book?

CXXXVI. TO GEORGE SANDTuesday, 4 o'clock, 7 December, 1869

Dear master, Your old troubadour is being jumped on in an unheard of manner. Those people who have read my novel are afraid to talk to me of itlest they compromise themselves or out of pity for me. The moreindulgent declare I have made only pictures and that bothcomposition and plan are quite lacking. 

Saint-Victor, who puffs the books of Arsene Houssaye, won't writearticles on mine, finding it too bad. There you are. Theo is away, and no one, absolutely no one takes my defense. 

Another story: yesterday Raphael and Michel Levy listened to thereading of the fairy play. Applause, enthusiasm. I saw the momentduring the reading in which the contract was going to be signed. Raphael so well understood the play that he gave me two or threeEXCELLENT criticisms. I found him in other ways a charming boy. Heasked me until Saturday to give me a definite answer. Then a littlewhile ago, a letter (very polite) from the aforesaid Raphael inwhich he declares that the fairy play would entail expenses thatwould be too much for him. 

Ditched again. I must look elsewhere. Nothing new at the Odeon. 

Sarcey has published a second article against me. 

Barbey d'Aurevilly claims that I dirty a stream by washing myself init (sic). All that does not bother me at all. 

CXXXVII. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERTThursday, two o'clock in the morning, December 9, 1869

My comrade, it is finished, the article shall go tomorrow. I addressit to whom? Answer by telegram. I have a mind to send it toGirardin. But perhaps you have a better idea, I really don't knowthe importance and the credit of the various papers. Send me asuitable name and ADDRESS by telegram; I have Girardin's. 

I am not content with my prose, I have had the fever and a sort ofsprain for two days. But we must make haste. I embrace you. 

G. Sand

CXXXVIII. TO GEORGE SAND10 December, Friday, 10 o'clock in the evening, 1869

Dear master, good as good bread, I have just sent you by telegraph this message: "To Girardin. " LaLiberte will publish your article, at once. What do you think of myfriend Saint-Victor, who has refused to write an article about itbecause he finds "the book bad"? you have not such a conscience asthat, have you?

I continue to be rolled in the mud. La Gironde calls me Prudhomme. That seems new to me. 

How shall I thank you? I feel the need of saying affectionatethings to you. I have so many in my heart that not one comes to thetips of my fingers. What a splendid woman you are and what asplendid man! To say nothing of all the other things!

CXXXIX. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERTNohant, Friday to Saturday during the night, 10 to 11 December, 1869

I have rewritten my article [Footnote: The article, Sur l'Educationsentimentale, de Flaubert, was printed in the Questions d'art et delitterature, Calmann-Levy, p. 415. ] today and this evening, I ambetter, it is clearer. I am expecting your telegram tomorrow. If youdo not put your veto on it, I shall send the article to Ulbach, whobegins his paper the 15th of this month; he wrote to me this morningto beg me urgently for any article I would send him. I think thisfirst number will be widely read, and it would be good publicity. Michel Levy would be a better judge than we as to what is the bestto do: consult him. 

You seem astonished at the ill will. You are too simple. You do notknow how original your book is, and how many personal feelings mustbe offended by the force it contains. You think you are doing thingsthat will pass as a letter in the mail; ah! well, yes!

I have insisted on the PLAN of your book; that is what theyunderstand the least and it is what is the most important. I triedto show the ordinary people how they should read; for it is theordinary people who make successes. The clever ones don't like thesuccesses of others. I don't pay attention to the malicious; itwould honor them too much. 

G. S. 

My mother has your telegram and is sending her manuscript toGirardin. 

4 o'clock in the afternoon. 

Lina

CXL. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT, in ParisNohant, 14 December, 1869

I do not see my article coming out, but others are appearing whichare bad and unjust. One's enemies are always better served thanone's friends. And then, when one frog begins to croak, all theothers follow suit. After a certain reverence has been violatedevery one tries to see who can best jump on the shoulders of thestatue; it is always like that. You are undergoing the disadvantagesof having a style that is not yet familiar through repetition, andall are making idiots of themselves so as not to see it. 

ABSOLUTE IMPERSONALITY is debatable, and I do not accept itABSOLUTELY; but I wonder that Saint-Victor who has preached it somuch and has criticised my plays because they were not IMPERSONAL, should abandon you instead of defending you. Criticism is in a sadway; too much theory!

Don't be troubled by all that and keep straight on. Don't attempt asystem, obey your inspiration. 

What fine weather, at least with us, and we are getting ready forour Christmas festivals with the family at home. I told Plauchut totry to carry you off; we are expecting him. If you can't come withhim, come at least for the Christmas Eve revels and to escape fromParis on New Year's day; it is so boring there then!

Lina charges me to say to you that you are authorized to wear yourwrapper and slippers continually. There are no ladies, no strangers. In short you will make us very happy and you have promised for along time. 

I embrace you and I am still more angry than you at these attacks, but I am not overcome, and if I had you here we should stimulateeach other so well that you would start off again at once on theother leg to write a new novel. 

I embrace you. 

Your old troubadour, G. Sand

CXLI. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT, in ParisNohant, 17 December, 1869

Plauchut writes us that YOU PROMISE to come the 24th. Do come the23d in the evening, so as to be rested for the night of the 24th tothe 25th and join in our Christmas Eve revels. Otherwise you willarrive from Paris tired and sleepy and our follies will not amuseyou. You are coming to the house of children, I warn you, and as youare kind and affectionate, you love children. Did Plauchut tell youto bring a wrapper and slippers, for we do not want to sentence youto dressing up? I add that I am counting on your bringing somemanuscript. The FAIRY PLAY re-done, Saint-Antoine, whatever youhave finished. I hope indeed that you are in the mood for work. Critics are a challenge that stimulates. 

Poor Saint-Rene Taillandier is as asininely pedantic as the Revue. Aren't they prudish in that set? I am in a pet with Girardin. I knowvery well that I am not strong in letters; I am not sufficientlycultivated for these gentlemen; but the good public reads me andlistens to me all the same. 

If you did not come, we should be unhappy and you would be a bigingrate. Do you want me to send a carriage for you to Chateauroux onthe 23d at four o'clock? I am afraid that you may be uncomfortablein that stage-coach which makes the run, and it is so easy to spareyou two and a half hours of discomfort!

We embrace you full of hope. I am working like an ox so as to havemy novel finished and not to have to think of it a minute when youare here. 

G. Sand

CXLII. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERTNohant, 19 December, 1869

So women are in it too? Come, forget that persecution here, at ahundred thousand leagues from Parisian and literary life, or rathercome be glad of it, for these great slatings are the sure proof ofgreat worth. Tell yourself indeed that those who have not gonethrough that are GOOD FOR THE ACADEMY. 

Our letters crossed. I begged you and I beg you again not to comeChristmas Eve, but the night before so as to join in the revels thenext night, the Eve, that is to say, the 24th. This is the program:we dine promptly at six o'clock, we have the Christmas tree and themarionettes for the children, so, that they can go to bed at nineo'clock. After that we chatter, and sup at midnight. But thediligence gets here at the earliest at half past six, and we shouldnot dine till seven o'clock, which would make impossible the greatjoy of our little ones who would be kept up too late. So you muststart Thursday 23d at nine o'clock in the morning, so that everyonemay be perfectly comfortable, so that everyone may have time toembrace everyone else, and so that no one may be interrupted in thejoy of your arrival on account of the imperious and silly darlings. 

You must stay with us a very long time, a very long time, we shallhave some more follies for New Year's day, and for Twelfth Night. This is a crazy happy house and it is the time of holiday afterwork. I am finishing tonight my year's task. Seeing you, dear oldwell-beloved friend, would be my recompense: do not refuse me. 

G. Sand

Plauchut is hunting today with the prince, and perhaps will notreturn till Tuesday. I am writing him to wait for you till Thursday, you will be less bored on the way. I have just written to Girardinto complain. 

CXLIII. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT31 December, 1869

We hoped to have a word from you this morning. This sudden cold isso severe, I dreaded it for your trip. We know you got toChateauroux all right. But did you find a compartment, and didn'tyou suffer on the way? Reassure us. 

We were so happy to have you with us that we should be distressed ifyou had to suffer for this WINTER escapade. All goes well here andall of us adore one another. It is New Year's Eve. We send yourshare of the kisses that we are giving one another. 

G. Sand

CXLIV. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT, at CroisssetNohant, 9 January, 1870

I have had so much proof to correct that I am stupefied with it. Ineeded that to console me for your departure, troubadour of myheart, and for another departure also, that of my drudge of aPlauchmar--and still another departure, that of my grand-nephewEdme, my favorite, the one who played the marionettes with Maurice. He has passed his examinations for collector and goes to Pithiviers--unless by pull, we could get him as substitute at La Chatre. 

Do you know M. Roy, the head of the management of the domains? If bychance the princess knew him and would be willing to say a word tohim in favor of young Simonnet? I should be happy to owe her thisjoy for his family and this economy for his mother who is poor. Itappears that it is very easy to obtain and that no rule opposes it. But one must HAVE PULL; a word to the princess, a line from M. Royand our tears would change to joy. 

That child is very dear to me. He is so loving and so good! They hadhard work to bring him up, he was always ill, always dandled on theknees and always gentle and sweet. He has a great deal ofintelligence and he works well at La Chatre, where his chief thecollector adores him and mourns for him also. Well, do what you can, if you can do anything at all. 

They continue to damn your book. That doesn't prevent it from beinga fine and good book. Justice will come later, JUSTICE IS ALWAYSDONE. Apparently it did not come at the right moment, or rather itcame too soon. It has demonstrated too well the disorder that reignsin people's minds. It has rubbed the open wound, people recognizethemselves too well in it. 

Everyone adores you here and our consciences are too pure to beupset at the truth: we talk of you every day. Yesterday, Lina saidto me that she admired very much all you do, but that she preferredSalammbo to your modern descriptions. If you had been in a corner, this is what you would have heard from her, from me, and from THEOTHERS:

"He is taller and larger than the average person. His mind is likehim, beyond ordinary proportions. In that he is like Victor Hugo, atleast as much as like Balzac, but he has the taste and discernmentthat Hugo lacks, and he is an artist which Balzac was not. --Is hethen more than both? Chi lo sa?--He hasn't let himself out yet. Theenormous volume of his brain troubles him. He doesn't know if he isa poet or a realist; and the fact that he is both, hinders him. --Hemust get straightened out in his different lines of effort. He seeseverything and wants to grasp everything at once. --He is not the cutof the public that wants to eat in little mouthfuls, whom largepieces choke. But the public will go to him, just the same, when itunderstands. --It will even go rather quickly if the authorCONDESCENDS to be willing to be quite understood. --For that, perhapsthere will have to be asked some concessions to the indolence of itsmind. One ought to reflect before daring to give this advice. "

That sums up what we said. It is not useless to know the opinion ofgood people and of young people. The youngest say that l'Educationsentimentale made them sad. They did not come across themselves init, they who have not yet lived; but they have illusions and theysay: "Why does this man, so good, so kind, so gay, so simple, sosympathetic, wish to discourage us from living?" What they say ispoorly reasoned out, but as it is instinctive, perhaps it ought tobe taken into account. 

Aurore talks of you and still cradles her baby in her lap; Gabriellecalls Punch, HER LITTLE ONE, and will not eat her dinner unless heis opposite her. They are our continual idols, these brats. 

Yesterday, I received, after your letter of the day before, a letterfrom Berton, who thinks that they will not play l'Affranchi longerthan the 18th or the 20th. Wait for me, since you can delay yourdeparture a little. It is too bad weather to go to Croisset; it isalways an effort for me to leave my dear nest to go to attend to mymiserable profession; but the effort is less when I hope to find youin Paris. 

I embrace you for myself and for all my brood. 

G. Sand

CXLV. TO GEORGE SANDWednesday afternoon. 

Dear master, Your commission was done yesterday at one o'clock. The princess inmy presence took some notes on what you wanted, in order to lookafter it at once. She seemed to me very glad to do you a service. 

People talk of nothing but the death of Noir! The general sentimentis fear, nothing else!

Into what miserable ways we are plunged! There is so much imbecilityin the air that one gets ferocious. I am less indignant thandisgusted! What do you think of these gentlemen who come to conferarmed with pistols and sword canes! And of this person, of thisprince, who lives in the midst of an arsenal and makes use of it?Pretty! Pretty!

What a sweet letter you wrote me day before yesterday! But yourfriendship blinds you, dear good master. I do not belong to thetribe you mention. I am acquainted with myself, I know what I lack!And I am enormously lacking. 

In losing my poor Bouilhet, I lost my midwife, it was he who sawinto my thought more clearly than I did myself. His death has left avoid that I notice more each day. What is the use of makingconcessions? Why force oneself? I am quite resolved, on thecontrary, to write in future for my personal satisfaction, andwithout any constraint. Come what may!

CXLVI. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERTNohant, 15 January, 1870

L'Affranchi is for Tuesday. I am working hurriedly to finish mycorrections and I leave Tuesday morning. Come to dine with me atMagny's at six o'clock. Can you? If not, am I to keep a seat for youin my box? A word during the day of Tuesday, to my lodgings. Youwon't be forced to swallow down the entire performance if it boresyou. 

I love you and I embrace you for myself and for my brood. Thank youfor Edme. 

G. Sand

CXLVII. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERTParis, 19 January, 1870

Dear friend of my heart, I did not see you in the theatre. The playapplauded and hissed, more applauded than hissed. Barton verybeautiful, Sarah very pretty, but no interest in the characters andtoo many second-rate actors, not good. --I do not think that it is asuccess. 

I am better. Yet I am not bold enough to go to your house Saturdayand to return from such a distance in this severe cold. I saw Theothis evening, I told him to come to dine with us both on Saturday atMagny's. Do say yes, it is I who invite you, and we shall have aquiet private room. After that we will smoke at my place. 

Plauchut would not be able to go to you. He was invited to theprince's. 

A word if it is NO. Nothing if it is yes. So I don't want you towrite to me. I saw Tourgueneff and I told him all that I think ofhim. He was as surprised as a child. We spoke ill of you. 

Wednesday evening. 

CXLVIII. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERTThe 5th or the 6th February, 1870

(On the back of a letter from Edme Simonnet)

I don't see you, you come to the Odeon and when they tell me thatyou are there, I hurry and don't find you. Do set a day then whenyou will come to eat a chop with me. Your old exhausted troubadourwho loves you. 

CXLIX. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERTParis, 15 February, 1870

My troubadour, we are two old rattle traps. As for me, I have had abad attack of bronchitis and I am just out of bed. Now I amrecovered but not yet out of my room. I hope to resume my work atthe Odeon in a couple of days. 

Do get well, don't go out, at least unless the thaw is not very bad. My play is for the 22d. [Footnote: This refers to L'Autre. ] I hopevery much to see you on that day. And meanwhile, I kiss you and Ilove you, G. Sand

Tuesday evening

CL. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERTSunday evening, 20th February, 1870

I went out today for the first time, I am better without being well. I am anxious at not having news about that reading of the fairyplay. Are you satisfied? Did they understand? L'Autre will takeplace on Thursday, or Friday at the latest. 

Will your nephew and niece go to the gallery or the balcony seats?Impossible to have a box. If yes, a word and I will send these seatsout of my allotment--which, as usual, will not be grand. 

Your old troubadour. 

CLI. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERTParis, February, 1870

It is for Friday. Then I am disposing of the two seats that Iintended for your niece. 

If you have a moment free, and come to the Odeon that night, youwill find me in the manager's box, proscenium, ground floor. I amheavy-hearted about all you tell me. Here you are again in gloom, sorrow and chagrin. Poor dear friend! Let us continue to hope thatyou will save your patient, but you are ill too, and I am veryanxious about you, I was quite overwhelmed by it this evening, whenI got your note, and I have no more heart for anything. 

A word when you can, to give me news. 

G. Sand

CLII. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERTParis, 2d March, 1870

Poor dear friend, your troubles distress me, you have too many blowsin quick succession, and I am going away Saturday morning leavingyou in the midst of all these sorrows! Do you want to come to Nohantwith me, for a change of air, even if only for two or three days? Ihave a compartment, we should be alone and my carriage is waitingfor me at Chateauroux. You could be sad without constraint at ourhouse, we also have mourning in the family. A change of lodging, offaces, of habits, sometimes does physical good. One does not forgetone's sorrow, but one forces one's body to endure it. 

I embrace you with all my soul. A word and I expect you. Wednesdayevening. 

CLIII. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERTNohant, 11 March, 1870

How are you, my poor child? I am glad to be here in the midst of mydarling family, but I am unhappy all the same at having left youmelancholy, ill and upset. Send me news, a word at least, and beassured that we all are unhappy over your troubles and sufferings. 

G. Sand

CLIV. TO GEORGE SAND17 March, 1870

Dear master, I received a telegram yesterday evening from Madame Cornu containingthese words: "Come to me, urgent business. " I therefore hurried toher today, and here is the story. 

The Empress maintains that you made some very unkind allusions toher in the last number of the Revue! "What about me, whom all theworld is attacking now! I should not have believed that! and Iwanted to have her nominated for the Academy! But what have I doneto her? etc. , etc. " In short, she is distressed, and the Emperortoo! He is not indignant but prostrated (sic). [Footnote: Malgretout, Calmann-Levy, 1870. ]

Madame Cornu explained to her that she was mistaken and that you hadnot intended to make any allusion to her. 

Hereupon a theory of the manner in which novels are written. 

--Oh well, then, let her write in the papers that she did not intendto wound me. 

--But she will not do that, I answered. 

--Write to her to tell you so. 

--I will not allow myself to take that step. 

--But I would like to know the truth, however! Do you know someonewho. . . Then Madame Cornu mentioned me. 

--Oh, don't say that I spoke to you of it!

Such is the dialogue that Madame Cornu reported to me. 

She wants you to write me a letter in which you tell me that theEmpress was not used by you as a model. I shall send that letter toMadame Cornu who will have it given to the Empress. 

I think that story stupid and those people are very sensitive! Muchworse things than that are told to us. 

Now dear master of the good God, you must do exactly what youplease. 

The Empress has always been very kind to me and I should not besorry to do her a favor. I have read the famous passage. I seenothing in it to hurt her. But women's brains are so queer!

I am very tired in mine (my brain) or rather it is very low for themoment! However hard I work, it doesn't go! Everything irritates meand hurts me; and since I restrain myself before people, I give wayfrom time to time to floods of tears when it seems to me as if Ishould burst. At last I am experiencing an entirely new sensation:the approach of old age. The shadow invades me, as Victor Hugo wouldsay. 

Madame Cornu has spoken to me enthusiastically of a letter you wroteher on a method of teaching. 

CLV. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT, at CroisssetNohant, 17 March, 1870

I won't have it, you are not getting old. Not in the crabbed andMISANTHROPIC sense. On the contrary, when one is good, one becomesbetter, and, as you are already better than most others, you oughtto become exquisite. 

You are boasting, moreover, when you undertake to be angry againsteveryone and everything. You could not. You are weak before sorrow, like all affectionate people. The strong are those who do not love. You will never be strong, and that is so much the better. You mustnot live alone any more; when strength returns you must really liveand not shut it up for yourself alone. 

For my part, I am hoping that you will be reborn with thespringtime. Today we have rain which relaxes, tomorrow we shall havethe animating sun. We are all just getting over illnesses, ourchildren had very bad colds, Maurice quite upset by lameness with acold, I taken again by chills and anemia: I am very patient and Iprevent the others as much as I can from being impatient, there iseverything in that; impatience with evil always doubles the evil. When shall we be WISE as the ancients understood it? That, insubstance, meant being PATIENT, nothing else. Come, dear troubadour, you must be a little patient, to begin with, and then you can getaccustomed to it; if we do not work on ourselves, how can we hope tobe always in shape to work on others?

Well, in the midst of all that, don't forget that we love you andthat the hurt you give yourself hurts us too. 

I shall go to see you and to shake you as soon as I have regained myfeet and my will, which are both backward; I am waiting, I knowthat they will return. 

Affectionate greetings from all our invalids. Punch has lost onlyhis fiddle and he is still smiling and well gilded. Lolo's baby hashad misfortunes, but its clothes dress other dolls. As for me, Ican flap only one wing, but I kiss you and I love you. 

G. Sand

CLVI. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT, in ParisNohant, 19 March, 1870

I know, my friend, that you are very devoted to her. I know that she[Footnote: Letter written about the rumour current, that George Sandhad meant to depict the Empress in one of the chief characters ofher novel, Malgre tout; the letter was sent by Flaubert to MadameCornu, god-child of Queen Hortense, and foster-sister of NapoleonIII. ] is very kind to unfortunates who have been recommended to her;that is all that I know of her private life. I have never had anyrevelation nor document about her, NOT A WORD, NOT A DEED, whichwould authorize me to depict her. So I have drawn only a figure offancy, I swear it, and those who pretended to recognize her in asatire would be, in any case, bad servants and bad friends. 

But I don't write satires: I am ignorant even of the meaning of theword. I don't write PORTRAITS either; it is not my style. I invent. The public, who does not know in what invention consists, thinks itsees everywhere models. It is mistaken and it degrades art. 

This is my SINCERE answer, I have only enough time to mail it. 

G. Sand

CLVII. To MADAME HORTENSE CORNU

Your devotion was alarmed wrongly, dear madame, I was sure of it!Here is the answer that came to me by return mail. 

People in society, I reiterate, see allusions where there are none. When I did Madame Bovary I was asked many times: "Is it Madame X. Whom you meant to depict?" and I received letters from perfectlyunknown people, among others one from a gentleman in Rheims whocongratulated me on HAVING AVENGED HIM! (against a faithless one). 

Every pharmacist in Seine-Inferieure recognizing himself in Homais, wanted to come to my house to box my ears. But the best (Idiscovered it five years later) is that there was then in Africa thewife of an army doctor named Madame Bovaries who was like MadameBovary, a name I had invented by altering that of Bouvaret. 

The first sentence of our friend Maury in talking to me aboutl'Education sentimentale was this: "Did you know X, an Italian, aprofessor of mathematics? Your Senecal is his physical and moralportrait! Everything is exact even to the cut of his hair!"

Others assert that I meant to depict in Arnoux, Bernard Latte (theformer editor), whom I have never seen, etc. , etc. 

All that is to tell you, dear madame, that the public is mistaken inattributing to us intentions which we do not have. 

I was very sure that Madame Sand had not intended to make anyportrait; (1) because of her loftiness of mind, her taste, herreverence for art, and (2) because of her character, her feeling forthe conventions--and also FOR JUSTICE. I even think, between ourselves, that this accusation has hurt her alittle. The papers roll us in the dirt every day without our everanswering them, we whose business it is, however, to wield the pen, and they think that in order to MAKE AN EFFECT, to be applauded, weare going to attack such and such a one. 

Oh! no! not so humble! our ambition is higher, and our courtesygreater. --When one thinks highly of one's mind one does not choosethe necessary means to please the crowd. You understand me, don'tyou?

But enough of this. I shall come to see you one of these days. Looking forward to that with pleasure, dear madame, I kiss yourhands and am entirely yours, Gustave Flaubert

Sunday evening. 

CLVIII. TO GEORGE SANDMarch, 1870

Dear master, I have just sent your letter (for which I thank you) to MadameCornu, enclosing it in a letter from your troubadour, in which Ipermitted myself to give bluntly my conception of things. 

The two letters will be placed under the eyes of the LADY and willteach her a little about aesthetics. 

I saw l'Autre last evening, and I wept several times. It did megood, really! How tender and exalting it is! What a charming workand how they love the author! I missed you. I wanted to give you akiss like a little child. My oppressed heart is easier, thank you. Ithink that it will get better! There were a lot of people there. Berton and his son were recalled twice. 

CLIX. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERTNohant, 3 April, 1870

Your old troubadour has passed through cruel anguish, Maurice hasbeen seriously, dangerously ill. [Footnote: With diptheria. ] Favre, MY OWN doctor, the only one in whom I have confidence, hastened tous in time. After that Lolo had violent attacks of fever, otherterrors! At last our savior went off this morning leaving us almosttranquil and our invalids went out to walk in the garden for thefirst time. --But they still want a great deal of care and oversight, and I shall not leave them for two or three weeks. If then you areawaiting me in Paris, and the sun calls you elsewhere, have noregret about it. I shall try to go to see you in Croisset from Parisbetween the dawn and the dusk sometime. 

At least tell me how you are, what you are doing, if you are on yourfeet in every way. 

My invalids and my well ones send you their affectionate regards, and I kiss you as I love you; it is not little. 

G. Sand

My friend Favre has quite a FANCY for you and wants to know you. Heis not a physician who seeks practice, he only practices for hisfriends, and he is offended if they want to pay him. YOURPERSONALITY interests him, that is all, and I have promised topresent him to you, if you are willing. He is something more than aphysician, I don't know what exactly, A SEEKER--after what?--EVERYTHING. He is amusing, original and interesting to the utmostdegree. You must tell me if you want to see him, otherwise I shallmanage for him not to think of it any more. Answer about thismatter. 

CLX. TO GEORGE SANDMonday morning, 11 o'clock

I felt that something unpleasant had happened to you, because I hadjust written to you for news when your letter was brought to me thismorning. I fished mine back from the porter; here is a second one. 

Poor dear master! How uneasy you must have been and Madame Mauricealso. You do not tell me what he had (Maurice). In a few days beforethe end of the week, write to confirm to me that everything hasturned out well. The trouble lies, I think, with the abominablewinter from which we are emerging! One hears of nothing butillnesses and funerals! My poor servant is still at the Duboishospital, and I am distressed when I go to see him. For two monthsnow he has been confined to his bed suffering horribly. 

As for me, I am better. I have read prodigiously. I have overworked, but now I am almost on my feet again. The mass of gloom that I havein the depths of my heart is a little larger, that is all. But, in alittle while, I hope that it will not be noticed. I spend my days inthe library of the Institute. The Arsenal library lends me booksthat I read in the evening, and I begin again the next day. I shallreturn home to Croisset the first of May. But I shall see you beforethen. Everything will get right again with the sun. 

The lovely lady in question made to me, for you, the most properexcuses, asserting to me that "she never had any intention ofinsulting genius. "

Certainly, I shall be glad to meet M. Favre; since he is a friend ofyours I shall like him. 

CLXI. TO GEORGE SANDTuesday morning

Dear master, It is not staying in Paris that wears me out, but the series ofmisfortunes that I have had during the last eight months! I am notworking too much, for what would become of me without work?However, it is very hard for me to be reasonable. I am overwhelmedby a black melancholy, which returns a propos of everything andnothing, many times a day. Then, it passes and it begins again. Perhaps it is because it is too long since I have written anything. Nervous reservoirs are exhausted. As soon as I am at Croisset, Ishall begin the article about my poor Bouilhet, a painful and sadtask which I am in a hurry to finish, so as to set to work at Saint-Antoine. As that is an extravagant subject, I hope it will divertme. 

I have seen your physician, M. Favre, who seemed to me very strangeand a little mad, between ourselves. He ought to like me for I lethim talk all the time. There are high lights in his talk, thingswhich sparkle for a moment, then one sees not a ray. 

CLXII. TO GEORGE SANDParis, Thursday

M. X. ----sent me news of you on Saturday: so now I know thateverything is going well with you, and that you have no moreuneasiness, dear master. But you, personally, how are you? The twoweeks are almost up, and I do not see you coming. 

My mood continues not to be sportive. I am still given up toabominable readings, but it is time that I stopped for I ambeginning to be disgusted with my subject. 

Are you reading Taine's powerful book? I have gobbled it down, thefirst volume with infinite pleasure. In fifty years perhaps thatwill be the philosophy that will be taught in the colleges. 

And the preface to the Idees de M. Aubray?

How I long to see you and to jabber with you!

CLXIII. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERTNohant, 16 April, 1870

What ought I to say to Levy so that he will take the first steps?Tell me again how things are, for my memory is poor. You had soldhim one volume for ten thousand;--there are two, he himself told methat that would be twenty thousand. What has he paid you up to now?What words did you exchange at the time of this payment?

Answer, and I act. 

Things are going better and better here, the little ones well again, Maurice recovering nicely, I tired from having watched so much andfrom watching yet, for he has to drink and wash out his mouth duringthe night, and I am the only one in the house who has the faculty ofkeeping awake. But I am not ill, and I work a little now and thenwhile loafing about. As soon as I can leave, I shall go to Paris. Ifyou are still there, it will be A PIECE OF GOOD LUCK, but I do notdare to wish you to prolong your slavery there, for I can see thatyou are still ill and that you are working too hard. 

Croisset will cure you if you consent to take care of yourself. 

I embrace you tenderly for myself and for all the family whichadores you. 

G. Sand

CLXIV. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT, at CroissetNohant, 20 May, 1870

It is a very long time since I have had news of my old troubadour. You must be in Croisset. If it is as warm there as it is here, youmust be suffering; here it is 34 degrees in the shade, and in thenight, 24. Maurice has had a bad relapse of sore throat, withoutmembranes this time, and without danger. But the inflammation was sobad that for three days he could hardly swallow even a little waterand wine. Bouillon did not go down. At last this excessive heat hascured him, it suits us all here, for Lina went to Paris this morningvigorous and strong. Maurice gardens all day. The children are gayand get prettier while you look at them. As for me, I am notaccomplishing anything; I have too much to do taking care of andwatching my boy, and now that the little mother is away, the littlechildren absorb me. I work, however, planning and dreaming. Thatwill be so much done when I can scribble. 

I am still ON MY FEET, as Doctor Favre says. No old age yet, orrather normal old age, the calmness . . . OF VIRTUE, that thing thatpeople ridicule, and that I mention in mockery, but that correspondsby an emphatic and silly word, to a condition of forcedinoffensiveness, without merit in consequence, but agreeable andgood to experience. It is a question of rendering it useful to artwhen one believes in that, to the family and to friendship when onecares for that; I don't dare to say how very simple and primitive Iam in this respect. It is the fashion to ridicule it, but let them. I do not want to change. 

There is my SPRING examination of my conscience, so as not to thinkall summer about anything except what is not myself. 

Come, you, your health first? And this sadness, this discontent thatParis has left with you, is it forgotten? Are there no longer anypainful external circumstances? You have been too much shaken also. Two of your dearest friends gone one after the other. There areperiods in life when destiny is ferocious to us. You are too youngto concentrate on the idea of REGAINING your affections in a betterworld, or in this world made better. So you must, at your age (andat mine I still try to), become more attached to what remains. Youwrote that to me when I lost Rollinat, my double in this life, theveritable friend whose feeling for the differences between the sexeshad never hurt our pure affection, even when we were young. He wasmy Bouilhet and more than that; for to my heart's intimacy wasjoined a religious reverence for a real type of moral courage, whichhad undergone all trials with a sublime SWEETNESS. I have OWED himeverything that is good in me, I am trying to keep it for love ofhim. Is there not a heritage that our beloved dead leave us?

The despair that would make us abandon ourselves would be a treasonto them and an ingratitude. Tell me that you are calm and soothed, that you are not working too much and that you are working well. Iam not without some anxiety because I have not had a letter from youfor a long time. I did not want to ask for one till I could tell youthat Maurice was quite well again; he embraces you, and the childrendo not forget you. As for me, I love you. 

G. Sand

CLXV. TO GEORGE SAND

No, dear master! I am not ill, but I have been busy with moving fromParis and with getting settled in Croisset. Then my mother has beenvery much indisposed. She is well now; then I have had to set inorder the rest of my poor Bouilhet's papers, on whom I have begunthe article. I wrote this week nearly six pages, which was very goodfor me; this work is very painful in every way. The difficulty is inknowing what not to say. I shall console myself a little in blurtingout two or three dogmatic opinions on the art of writing. It will bean opportunity to express what I think; a sweet thing and one I amalways deprived of. 

You say very lovely and also good things to me to restore mycourage. I have hardly any, but I am acting as if I had, whichperhaps comes to the same thing. 

I feel no longer the need of writing, for I used to write especiallyfor one person alone, who is no more. That is the truth! And yet Ishall continue to write. But I have no more liking for it; thefascination is gone. There are so few people who like what I like, who are anxious about what I am interested in! Do you know in thisParis, which is so large, one SINGLE house where they talk aboutliterature? And when it happens to be touched on incidentally, it isalways on its subordinate and external sides, such as the questionof success, of morality, of utility, of its timeliness, etc. Itseems to me that I am becoming a fossil, a being unrelated to thesurrounding world. 

I would not ask anything better than to cast myself on some newaffection. But how? Almost all my old friends are married officials, thinking of their little business the entire year, of the huntduring vacation and of whist after dinner. I don't know one of themwho would be capable of passing an afternoon with me reading a poet. They have their business; I, I have none. Observe that I am in thesame social position that I was at eighteen. My niece whom I love asmy daughter, does not live with me, and my poor good simple motherhas become so old that all conversation with her (except about herhealth) is impossible. All that makes an existence which is notdiverting. 

As for the ladies, "my little locality" furnishes none of them, andthen, --even so! I have nevver been able to put Venus an Apollo inthe same coop. It is one or the other, being a man of excess, agentleman entirely given over to what he does. 

I repeat to myself the phrase of Goethe: "Go forward beyond thetombs, " and I hope to get used to the emptiness, but nothing more. 

The more I know you, yourself, the more I admire you; how strong youare!

Aside from a little Spinoza and Plutarch, I have read nothing sincemy return, as I am quite occupied by my present work. It is a taskthat will take me up to the end of July. I am in a hurry to bethrough with it, so as to abandon myself to the extravagances of thegood Saint-Antoine, but I am afraid of not being SUFFICIENTLY IN THEMOOD. 

That is a charming story, Mademoiselle Hauterive, isn't it? Thissuicide of lovers to escape misery ought to inspire fine moralphrases from Prudhomme. As for me, I understand it. What they did isnot American, but how Latin and antique it is! They were not strong, but perhaps very sensitive. 

CLXVI. TO GEORGE SANDSunday, 26 June, 1870

You forget your troubadour who has just buried another friend! Fromthe seven that we used to be at the beginning of the dinners atMagny's, we are only three now! I am gorged with coffins like an oldcemetery! I am having enough of them, frankly. 

And in the midst of all that I keep on working! I finishedyesterday, such as it is, the article on my poor Bouilhet. I amgoing to see if there is not some way of reviving one of hiscomedies in prose. After that I shall set to work on Saint-Antoine. 

And you, dear master, what is happening to you and all your family?My niece is in the Pyrenees, and I am living alone with my mother, who is becoming deafer and deafer, so that my existence lacksdiversion absolutely. I should like to go to sleep on a warm beach. But for that I lack time and money. So I must push on my scratchesand grub as hard as possible. 

I shall go to Paris at the beginning of August. Then I shall spendall the month of October there for the rehearsals of Aisse. Myvacation will be confined to a week spent in Dieppe towards the endof August. There are my plans. 

It was distressing, the funeral of Jules Goncourt. Theo wept bucketsfull. 

CLXVII. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERTNohant, 27 June, 1870

Another grief for you, my poor old friend. I too have a great one, Imourn for Barbes, one of my religions, one of those beings who makeone reconciled with humanity. As for you, you miss poor Jules[Footnote: De Goncourt. ] and you pity the unhappy Edmond. You areperhaps in Paris, so as to try to console him. I have just writtenhim, and I feel that you are struck again in your affections. Whatan age! Every one is dying, everything is dying, and the earth isdying also, eaten up by the sun and the wind. I don't know where Iget the courage to keep on living in the midst of these ruins. Letus love each other to the end. You write me very little, I amworried about you. 

G. Sand

CLXVIII. TO GEORGE SANDSaturday evening, 2 July, 1870

Dear good master, Barbes' death has saddened me because of you. We, both of us, haveour mourning. What a succession of deaths during a year! I am asdazed by them as if I had been hit on the head with a stick. Whattroubles me (for we refer everything to ourselves), is the terriblesolitude in which I live. I have no longer anyone, I mean anyonewith whom to converse, "who is interested today in eloquence andstyle. "

Aside from you and Tourgueneff, I don't know a living being to whomto pour out my soul about those things which I have most at heart;and you live far away from me, both of you!

However, I continue to write. I have resolved to start at my Saint-Antoine tomorrow or the day after. But to begin a protracted effortI need a certain lightness which I lack just now. I hope, however, that this extravagant work is going to get hold of me. Oh! how Iwould like not to think any more of my poor Moi, of my miserablecarcass! It is getting on very well, my carcass. I sleeptremendously! "The coffer is good, " as the bourgeois say. 

I have read lately some amazing theological things, which I haveintermingled with a little of Plutarch and Spinoza. I have nothingmore to say to you. 

Poor Edmond de Goncourt is in Champagne at his relatives'. He haspromised to come here the end of this month. I don't think that thehope of seeing his brother again in a better world consoles him forhaving lost him in this one. 

One juggles with empty words on this question of immortality, forthe question is to know if the moi persists. The affirmative seemsto me a presumption of our pride, a protest of our weakness againstthe eternal order. Has death perhaps no more secrets to reveal to usthan life has?

What a year of evil! I feel as if I were lost in the desert, and Iassure you, dear master, that I am brave, however, and that I ammaking prodigious efforts to be stoical. But my poor brain isenfeebled at moments. I need only one thing (and that is not givenme), it is to have some kind of enthusiasm!

Your last letter but one was very sad. You also, heroic being, youfeel worn out! What then will become of us!

I have just reread the conversations between Goethe and Eckermann. There was a man, that Goethe! But then he had everything on hisside, that man. 

CLXIX. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT, at CroisssetNohant, 29 June, 1870

Our letters are always crossing, and I have now the feeling that ifI write to you in the evening I shall receive a letter from you thenext morning; we could say to each other:

"You appeared to me in my sleep, looking a little sad. "

What preoccupies me most about poor Jules' (de Goncourt) death, isthe survivor. I am sure that the dead are well off, that perhapsthey are resting before living again, and that in all cases theyfall back into the crucible so as to reappear with what good theypreviously had and more besides. Barbes only suffered all his life. There he is now, sleeping deeply. Soon he will awaken; but we, poorbeasts of survivors, we see them no longer. A little while before hedied, Duveyrier, who seemed to have recovered, said to me: "Whichone of us will go first?" We were exactly the same age. Hecomplained that those who went first could not let those who wereleft know that they were happy, and that they remembered theirfriends. I said, WHO KNOWS? Then we promised each other that thefirst one to die should appear to the survivor, and should at leasttry to speak to him. 

He did not come, I have waited for him, he has said nothing to me. He had one of the tenderest hearts, and a sincere good will. He wasnot able to; it was not permitted, or perhaps, it was I; I did nothear or understand. 

It is, I say, this poor Edmond who is on my mind. That life livedtogether, quite ended. I cannot think why the bond was broken, unless he too believes that one does not really die. 

I would indeed like to go to see you; apparently you have COOLWEATHER in Croisset since you want to sleep ON A WARM BEACH. Comehere, you will not have a beach, but 36 degrees in the shade and astream cold as ice, is not to be despised. I go there to dabble init every day after my work; for I must work, Buloz advances me toomuch money. Here I am DOING MY BUSINESS, as Aurore says, and notbeing able to budge till autumn. I was too lazy after my fatigues assick-nurse. Little Buloz recently came to stir me up again. Now hereI am hard at it. 

Since you are to be in Paris in August, you must come to spendseveral days with us. You did laugh here anyhow; we will try todistract you and to shake you up a bit. You will see the littlegirls grown and prettier; the little one is beginning to talk. Aurore chatters and argues. She calls Plauchut, OLD BACHELOR. And apropos, accept the best regards of that fine and splendid boy alongwith all the affectionate greetings of the family. 

As for me, I embrace you tenderly and beg you to keep well. 

G. Sand

CLXX. TO GEORGE SANDCroisset, Wednesday evening. . . 1870

What has become of you, dear master, of you and yours? As for me, Iam disheartened, distressed by the folly of my compatriots. Thehopeless barbarism of humanity fills me with a black melancholy. That enthusiasm which has no intelligent motive makes me want todie, so as not to see it any longer. 

The good Frenchman wants to fight: (1) because he thinks he isprovoked to it by Prussia; (2) because the natural condition of manis savagery; (3) because war in itself contains a mystic elementwhich enraptures crowds. 

Have we returned to the wars of races? I fear so. The terriblebutchery which is being prepared has not even a pretext. It is thedesire to fight for the sake of fighting. 

I bewail the destroyed bridges, the staved-in tunnels, all thishuman labor lost, in short a negation so radical. 

The Congress of Peace is wrong at present. Civilization seems to mefar off. Hobbes was right: Homo homini lupus. 

I have begun Saint-Antoine, and it would go perhaps rather well, ifI did not think of the war. And you?

The bourgeois here cannot contain himself. He thinks Prussia was tooinsolent and wants to "avenge himself. " Did you see that a gentlemanhas proposed in the Chamber the pillage of the duchy of Baden! Ah!why can't I live among the Bedouins!

CLXXI. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT, at CroissetNohant, 26 July, 1870

I think this war is infamous; that authorized Marseillaise, asacrilege. Men are ferocious and conceited brutes; we are in theHALF AS MUCH of Pascal; when will come the MORE THAN EVER!

It is between 40 and 45 degrees IN THE SHADE here. They are burningthe forests; another barbarous stupidity! The wolves come and walkinto our court, and we chase them away at night, Maurice with arevolver and I with a lantern. The trees are losing their leaves andperhaps their lives. Water for drinking is becoming scarce; theharvests are almost nothing; but we have war, what luck!

Farming is going to nought, famine threatens, poverty is lurkingabout while waiting to transform itself into Jacquerie; but we shallfight with the Prussians. Malbrough s'en va-t-en guerre!

You said rightly that in order to work, a certain lightness wasneeded; where is it to be found in these accursed times?

Happily, we have no one ill at our house. When I see Maurice andLina acting, Aurore and Gabrielle playing, I do not dare to complainfor fear of losing all. 

I love you, my dear old friend, we all love you. 

Your troubadour, G. Sand

CLXXII. TO GEORGE SANDCroisset, Wednesday, 3 August, 1870

What! dear master, you too are demoralized, sad? What will become ofthe weak souls?

As for me, my heart is oppressed in a way that astonishes me, and Iwallow in a bottomless melancholy, in spite of work, in spite of thegood Saint-Antoine who ought to distract me. Is it the consequenceof my repeated afflictions? Perhaps. But the war is a good dealresponsible for it. I think that we are getting into the dark. 

Behold then, the NATURAL MAN. Make theories now! Boast the progress, the enlightenment and the good sense of the masses, and thegentleness of the French people! I assure you that anyone here whoventured to preach peace would get himself murdered. Whateverhappens, we have been set back for a long time to come. 

Are the wars between races perhaps going to begin again? One willsee, before a century passes, several millions of men kill oneanother in one engagement. All the East against all Europe, the oldworld against the new! Why not? Great united works like the SuezCanal are, perhaps, under another form, outlines and preparationsfor these monstrous conflicts of which we have no idea. 

Is Prussia perhaps going to have a great drubbing which entered intothe schemes of Providence for reestablishing European equilibrium?That country was tending to be hypertrophied like France under LouisXIV and Napoleon. The other organs are inconvenienced by it. Thenceuniversal trouble. Would formidable bleedings be useful?

Ah! we intellectuals! Humanity is far from our ideal! and ourimmense error, our fatal error, is to think it like us and to wantto treat it accordingly. 

The reverence, the fetichism, that they have for universal suffragerevolts me more than the infallibility of the pope (which has justdelightfully missed its point, by the way). Do you think that ifFrance, instead of being governed on the whole by the crowd, were inthe power of the mandarins, we should be where we are now? If, instead of having wished to enlighten the lower classes, we hadbusied ourselves with instructing the higher, we should not haveseen M. De Keratry proposing the pillage of the duchy of Baden, ameasure that the public finds very proper!

Are you studying Prudhomme now? He is gigantic! He admires Musset'sRhin, and asks if Musset has done anything else. Here you haveMusset accepted as the national poet and ousting Beranger! Whatimmense buffoonery is. . . Everything! But a not at all gay buffoonery. 

Misery is very evident. Everyone is in want, beginning with myself!But perhaps we were too accustomed to comfort and tranquillity. Weburied ourselves in material things. We must return to the greattradition, hold no longer to life, to happiness, to money nor toanything; be what our grandfathers were, light, effervescing people. 

Once men passed their life in starving. The same prospect is on thehorizon. What you tell me about poor Nohant is terrible. The countryhas suffered less here than with you. 

CLXXIII. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT, at Croisset. Nohant, 8 August, 1870

Are you in Paris in the midst of all this torment? What a lesson thepeople are getting who want absolute masters! France and Prussia arecutting each other's throats for reasons that they don't understand!Here we are in the midst of great disasters, and what tears at theend of it all, even should we be the victors! One sees nothing butpoor peasants mourning for their children who are leaving. 

The mobilization takes away those who were left with us and how theyare being treated to begin with! What disorder, what disarray inthat military administration, which absorbed everything and had toswallow up everything! Is this horrible experience going to prove tothe world that warfare ought to be suppressed or that civilizationhas to perish?

We have reached the point this evening of knowing that we arebeaten. Perhaps tomorrow we shall know that we have beaten, and whatwill there be good or useful from one or the other?

It has rained here at last, a horrible storm which destroyedeverything. 

The peasant is working and ploughing his fields; digging hardalways, sad or gay. He is imbecile, people say; no, he is a child inprosperity, a man in disaster, more of a man than we who complain;he says nothing, and while people are killing, he is sowing, repairing continually on one side what they are destroying from theother. We are going to try to do as he, and to hunt a bubblingspring fifty or a hundred yards below ground. The engineer is here, and Maurice is explaining to him the geology of the soil. 

We are trying to dig into the bowels of the earth to forget all thatis going on above it. But we cannot distract ourselves from thisterror!

Write me where you are; I am sending this to you on the day agreedupon to rue Murillo. We love you, and we all embrace you. 

G. Sand

Nohant, Sunday evening. 

CLXXIV. TO GEORGE SAND. Croisset, Wednesday, 1870

I got to Paris on Monday, and I left it again on Wednesday. Now Iknow the Parisian to the very bottom, and I have excused in my heartthose most ferocious politics of 1793. Now, I understand them! Whatimbecility! what ignorance! what presumption! My compatriots make mewant to vomit. They are fit to be put in the same sack with Isidore!

This people deserves to be chastised, and I fear that it will be. 

It is impossible for me to read anything whatever, still more so towrite anything. I spend my time like everyone else in waiting fornews. Ah! if I did not have my mother, I would already be gone!

CLXXV. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT, at Croisset. Nohant, 15 August, 1870

I wrote to you to Paris according to your instructions the 8th. Weren't you there then? Probably so: in the midst of all thisconfusion, to publish Bouilhet, a poet! this is not the moment. Asfor me, my courage is weak. There is always a woman under the skinof the old troubadour. This human butchery tears my poor heart topieces. I tremble too for all my children and friends, who perhapsare to be hacked to pieces. 

And YET, in the midst of all that, my soul exults and has ecstasiesof faith; these terrific lessons which are necessary for us tounderstand our imbecility, must be of use to us. We are perhapsmaking our last return to the ways of the old world. There are sharpand clear principles for everyone today that ought to extricate themfrom this torment. Nothing is useless in the material order of theuniverse. The moral order cannot escape the law. Bad engenders good. I tell you that we are in the HALF AS MUCH of Pascal, so as to getTO THE MORE THAN EVER! That is all the mathematics that Iunderstand. 

I have finished a novel in the midst of this torment, hurrying up soas not to be worn out before the end. I am as tired as if I hadfought with our poor soldiers. 

I embrace you. Tell me where you are, what you are thinking. 

We all love you. 

What a fine St. Napoleon we have!

G. Sand

CLXXVI. TO GEORGE SAND. Saturday, 1870

Dear master, Here we are in the depths of the abyss! A shameful peace willperhaps not be accepted! The Prussians intend to destroy Paris! Thatis their dream. 

I don't think the siege of Paris is very imminent. But in order toforce Paris to yield, they are going to (1) terrify her by the sightof cannon, and (2) ravage the surrounding country. 

We expect the visit of these gentlemen at Rouen, and as I have been(since Sunday) lieutenant of my company, I drill my men and I amgoing to Rouen to take lessons in military tactics. 

The most deplorable thing is that opinions are divided, some fordefence to the utmost, and others for peace at any price. 

I AM DYING OF HUMILIATION. What a house mine is! Fourteen personswho sigh and unnerve me! I curse women! It is because of them thatwe perish. 

I expect that Paris will have the fate of Warsaw, and you distressme, you with your enthusiasm for the Republic. At the moment when weare overcome by the plainest positivism, how can you still believein phantoms? Whatever happens, the people who are now in power willbe sacrificed, and the Republic will follow their fate. Observe thatI defend that poor Republic; but I do not believe in it. 

That is all that I have to say to you. Now I should have many morethings to say, but my head is not clear. It is as if cataracts, floods, oceans of sadness, were breaking over me. It is not possibleto suffer more. Sometimes I am afraid of going mad. The face of mymother, when I turn my eyes toward her, takes away all my strength. 

This is where our passion for not wanting to see the truth has takenus! Love of pretence and of flap-doodle. We are going to become aPoland, then a Spain. Then it will be the turn of Prussia who willbe devoured by Russia. 

As for me, I consider myself a man whose career is ended. My brainis not going to recover. One can write no longer when one does notthink well of oneself. I demand only one thing, that is to die, soto be at rest. 

CLXXVII. TO GEORGE SANDSunday evening

I am still alive, dear master, but I am hardly any better, for I amso sad! I didn't write you any sooner, for I was waiting, for newsfrom you. I didn't know where you were. 

Here it is six weeks that we have been expecting the coming of thePrussians from day to day. We strain our ears, thinking we can hearthe sound of the cannon from a distance. They are surrounding Seine-Inferieure in a radius of from fourteen to twenty leagues. They areeven nearer, since they are occupying Vexin, which they havecompletely destroyed. What horrors! It makes one blush for being aman!

If we have had a success on the Loire, their appearance will bedelayed. But shall we have it? When the hope comes to me, I try torepel it, and yet, in the very depths of myself, in spite of all, Icannot keep myself from hoping a little, a very little bit. 

I don't think that there is in all France a sadder man than I am!(It all depends on the sensitiveness of people. ) I am dying ofgrief. That is the truth, and consolations irritate me. Whatdistresses me is: (1) the ferocity of men; (2) the conviction thatwe are going to enter upon a stupid era. People will be utilitarian, military, American and Catholic! Very Catholic! You will see! ThePrussian War ends the French Revolution and destroys it. 

But supposing we were conquerors? you will say to me. Thathypothesis is contrary to all historical precedents. Where did youever see the south conquer the north, and the Catholics dominate theProtestants? The Latin race is agonizing. France is going to followSpain and Italy, and boorishness (pignouflism) begins!

What a cataclysm! What a collapse! What misery! What abominations!Can one believe in progress and in civilization in the face of allthat is going on? What use, pray, is science, since this peopleabounding in scholars commits abominations worthy of the Huns andworse than theirs, because they are systematic, cold-blooded, voluntary, and have for an excuse, neither passion nor hunger?

Why do they abhor us so fiercely? Don't you feel overwhelmed by thehatred of forty millions of men? This immense infernal chasm makesme giddy. 

Ready-made phrases are not wanting: France will rise again! One mustnot despair! It is a salutary punishment! We were really tooimmoral! etc. Oh! eternal poppycock! No! one does not recover fromsuch a blow! As for me, I feel myself struck to my very marrow!

If I were twenty years younger, I should perhaps not think all that, and if I were twenty years older I should be resigned. 

Poor Paris! I think it is heroic. But if we do find it again, itwill not be our Paris any more! All the friends that I had there aredead or have disappeared. I have no longer any center. Literatureseems to me to be a vain and useless thing! Shall I ever be in acondition to write again?

Oh! if I could flee into a country where one does not see uniforms, where one does not hear the drum, where one does not talk ofmassacres, where one is not obliged to be a citizen! But the earthis no longer habitable for the poor mandarins. 

CLXXVIII. TO GEORGE SANDWednesday

I am sad no longer. I took up my Saint-Antoine yesterday. So muchthe worse, one has to get accustomed to it! One must accustomoneself to what is the natural condition of man, that is to say, toevil. 

The Greeks at the time of Pericles made art without knowing if theyshould have anything to eat the next day. Let us be Greeks. I shallconfess to you, however, dear master, that I feel rather a savage. The blood of my ancesters, the Natchez or the Hurons, boils in myeducated veins, and I seriously, like a beast, like an animal, wantto fight!

Explain that to me! The idea of making peace now exasperates me, andI would rather that Paris were burned (like Moscow), than see thePrussians enter it. But we have not gotten to that; I think the windis turning. 

I have read some soldiers' letters, which are models. One can'tswallow up a country where people write like that. France is aresourceful jade, and will be up again. 

Whatever happens, another world is going to begin, and I feel that Iam very old to adapt myself to new customs. 

Oh! how I miss you, how I want to see you!

We have decided here to all march on Paris if the compatriots ofHegel lay siege to it. Try to get your Berrichons to buck up. Callto them: "Come to help me prevent the enemy from drinking and eatingin a country which is foreign to them!"

The war (I hope) will make a home thrust at the "authorities. "

The individual, disowned, overwhelmed by the modern world, will heregain his importance? Let us hope so!

CLXXIX. TO GEORGE SAND. Tuesday, 11 October, 1870

Dear master, Are you still living? Where are you, Maurice, and the others?

I don't know how it is that I am not dead, I have suffered soatrociously for six weeks. 

My mother has fled to Rouen. My niece is in London. My brother isbusy with town affairs, and, as for me, I am alone here, eaten upwith impatience and chagrin! I assure you that I have wanted to doright; what misery! I have had at my door today two hundred andseventy-one poor people, and they were all given something. Whatwill this winter be?

The Prussians are now twelve hours from Rouen, and we have nocommands, no orders, no discipline, nothing, nothing! They hold outfalse hopes to us continually with the army of the Loire. Where isit? Do you know anything about it? What are they doing in the middleof France? Paris will end by being starved, and no one is taking herany aid!

The imbecilities of the Republic surpass those of the Empire. Arethey playing under all this some abominable comedy? Why suchinaction?

Ah! how sad I am. I feel that the world is going by. 

CLXXX. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT, at Croisset. Le Chatre, 14 October, 1870

We are living at Le Chatre. Nohant is ravaged by smallpox withcomplications, horrible. We had to take our little ones into theCreuse, to friends who came to get us, and we spent three weeksthere, looking in vain for quarters where a family could stay forthree months. We were asked to go south and were offeredhospitality; but we did not want to leave the country where, fromone day to another, one can be useful, although one hardly knows yetin what way to go at it. 

So we have come back to the friends who lived the nearest to ourabandoned hearth; and we are awaiting events. To speak of all theperil and trouble there is in establishing the Republic in theinterior of our provinces would be quite useless. There can be noillusion: everything is at stake, and the end will perhaps beORLEANISM. But we are pushed into the unforeseen to such an extentthat it seems to me puerile to have anticipations; the thing to dois to escape the next catastrophe. 

Don't let's say that it is impossible; don't let's think it. Don'tlet's despair about France. She is going through expiation for hermadness, she will be reborn no matter what happens. We shall perhapsbe carried away, the rest of us. To die of pneumonia or of a bulletis dying just the same. Let's die without cursing our race!

We still love you, and we all embrace you. 

G. Sand

CLXXXI. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT, at Croisset. Nohant, 4 February, 1871. 

Don't you receive my letters, then? Write to me I beg you, one wordonly: I AM WELL. We are so worried!

They are all well in Paris. 

We embrace you. 

G. Sand

CLXXXII. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT. Nohant, 22 February, 1871

I received your letter of the 15th this morning; what a cruel thornit takes from my heart! One gets frantic with anxiety now when onedoes not receive answers. Let us hope that we can talk soon and tellall about our ABSENCE from each other. I too have had the goodfortune not to lose any of my friends, young or old. That is all thegood one can say. I do not regret this Republic, it has been thegreatest failure of all! the most unfortunate for Paris, the mostunsuitable in the provinces. Besides, if I had loved it, I shouldnot regret anything; if only this odious war might end! We love youand we embrace you affectionately. I shall not hurry to go to Paris. It will be pestilential for some time to come. 

Yours. 

CLXXXIII. TO GEORGE SAND. Dieppe, 11 March, 1871

When shall we meet? Paris does not seem amusing to me. Ah! into whatsort of a world are we going to enter! Paganism, Christianity, idiotism, there are the three great evolutions of humanity! It issad to find ourselves at the beginning of the third. 

I shall not tell you all I have suffered since September. Why didn'tI die from it? That is what surprises me! No one was more desperatethan I was. Why? I have had bad moments in my life, I have gonethrough great losses. I have wept a great deal. I have undergonemuch anguish. Well! all these pangs accumulated together, arenothing in comparison to that. And I cannot get over them! I am notconsoled! I have no hope!

Yet I did not see myself as a progressivist and a humanitarian. Thatdoesn't matter. I had some illusions! What barbarity! What a slump!I am wrathful at my contemporaries for having given me the feelingsof a brute of the twelfth century! I'M STIFLING IN GALL! Theseofficers who break mirrors with white gloves on, who know Sanskritand who fling themselves on the champagne, who steal your watch andthen send you their visiting card, this war for money, thesecivilized savages give me more horror than cannibals. And all theworld is going to imitate them, is going to be a soldier! Russia hasnow four millions of them. All Europe will wear a uniform. If wetake our revenge, it will be ultra-ferocious, and observe that oneis going to think only of that, of avenging oneself on Germany! Thegovernment, whatever it is, can support itself only by speculatingon that passion. Wholesale murder is going to be the end of all ourefforts, the ideal of France!

I cherish the following dream: of going to live in the sun in atranquil country!

Let us look for new hypocrisies: declamations on virtue, diatribeson corruption, austerity of habits, etc. Last degree of pedantry!

I have now at Croisset twelve Prussians. As soon as my poor dwelling(of which I have a horror now) is emptied and cleaned, I shallreturn there; then I shall go doubtless to Paris, despite itsunhealthfulness! But I don't care a hang for that. 

CLXXXIV. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT, at Croisset. Nohant, 17 March, 1871

I received your letter of the 11th yesterday. 

We have all suffered in spirit more than at any other time of ourlives, and we shall always suffer from that wound. It is evidentthat the savage instinct tends to take the upper hand; but I fearsomething worse; it is the egoistic and cowardly instinct; it is theignoble corruption of false patriots, of ultra-republicans who cryout for vengeance, and who hide themselves; a good pretext for thebourgeois who want a STRONG reaction. I fear lest we shall not evenbe vindictive, --all that bragging, coupled with poltroonery, will sodisgust us and so impel us to live from day to day as under theRestoration, submitting to everything and only asking to be letalone. 

There will be an awakening later. I shall not be here then, and you, you will be old! Go to live in the sun in a tranquil country! Where?What country is going to be tranquil in this struggle of barbarityagainst civilization, a struggle which is going to be universal? Isnot the sun itself a myth? Either he hides himself or he burns youup, and it is thus with everything on this unhappy planet. Let uslove it just the same, and accustom ourselves to suffering on it. 

I have written day by day my impressions and my reflections duringthe crisis. The Revue des Deux Mondes is publishing this diary. Ifyou read it, you will see that everywhere life has been torn fromits very foundations, even in the country where the war has notpenetrated. 

You will see too, that I have not swallowed, although very greedy, party humbugs. But I don't know if you are of my opinion, that fulland entire liberty would save us from these disasters and restore usto the path of possible progress again. The abuses of liberty giveme no anxiety of themselves; but those whom they frighten alwaysincline towards the abuse of power. Just now M. Thiers seems tounderstand it; but can he and will he know how to preserve theprinciple by which he has become the arbiter of this great problem?

Whatever happens, let us love each other, and do not keep me inignorance of what concerns you. My heart is full to bursting and theremembrance of you eases it a little from its perpetual disquiet. Iam afraid lest these barbarous guests devastate Croisset; for theycontinue in spite of peace to make themselves odious and disgustingeverywhere. Ah! how I should like to have five billions in order tochase them away! I should not ask to get them back again. 

Now, do come to us, we are so quiet here; materially, we have beenso always. We force ourselves to take up our work again, we resignourselves; what is there better to do? You are beloved here, we livehere in a continual state of loving one another; we are holding onto our Lamberts, whom we shall keep as long as possible. All ourchildren have come out of the war safe and sound. You would livehere in peace and be able to work; for that must be, whether one isin the mood or not! The season is going to be lovely. Paris willcalm itself during that time. You are looking for a peaceful spot. It is under your nose, with hearts which love you!

I embrace you a thousand times for myself and for all my brood. Thelittle girls are splendid. The Lamberts' little boy is charming. 

CLXXXV. TO GEORGE SAND. Neuville near Dieppe, Friday, 31 March, 1871

Dear master, Tomorrow, at last, I resign myself to re-enter Croisset! It is hard!But I must! I am going to try to make up again my poor Saint-Antoineand to forget France. 

My mother stays here with her grandchild, till one knows where to gowithout fear of the Prussians or of a riot. 

Some days ago I went from here with Dumas to Brussels from where Ithought to go direct to Paris. But "the new Athens" seems to me tosurpass Dahomey in ferocity and imbecility. Has the end come to theHUMBUGS? Will they have finished with hollow metaphysics andconventional ideas? All the evil comes from our gigantic ignorance. What ought to be studied is believed without discussion. Instead ofinvestigating, people make assertions. 

The French Revolution must cease to be a dogma, and it must becomeonce more a part of science, like the rest of human things. Ifpeople had known more, they would not have believed that a mysticalformula is capable of making armies, and that the word "Republic" isenough to conquer a million of well disciplined men. They would haveleft Badinguet on the throne EXPRESSLY to make peace, ready to puthim in the galleys afterward. If they had known more, they wouldhave known what the volunteers of '92 were and the retreat ofBrunswick gained by bribery through Danton and Westermann. But no!always the same old story! always poppycock! There is now theCommune of Paris which is returning to the real Middle Ages! That'sflat! The question of leases especially, is splendid! The governmentinterferes in natural rights now, it intervenes in contracts betweenindividuals. The Commune asserts that we do not owe what we owe, andthat one service is not paid for by another. It is an enormity ofabsurdity and injustice. 

Many conservatives who, from love of order, wanted to preserve theRepublic, are going to regret Badinguet and in their hearts recallthe Prussians. The people of the Hotel de Ville have changed theobject of our hatred. That is why I am angry with them. It seems tome that we have never been lower. 

We oscillate between the society of Saint-Vincent de Paul and theInternational. But this latter commits too many imbecilities to havea long life. I admit that it may overcome the troops at Versaillesand overturn the government, the Prussians will enter Paris, and"order will reign" at Warsaw. If, on the contrary, it is conquered, the reaction will be furious and all liberty will be strangled. 

What can one say of the socialists who imitate the proceedings ofBadinguet and of William: requisitions, suppressions of newspapers, executions without trial, etc. ? Ah! what an immoral beast is thecrowd! and how humiliating it is to be a man!

I embrace you!

CLXXXVI. TO GEORGE SAND. Croisset, Monday evening, two o'clock. 

Dear master, Why no letters? Haven't you received mine sent from Dieppe? Are youill? Are you still alive? What does it mean? I hope very much thatneither you (nor any of yours) are in Paris, capital of arts, cornerstone of civilization, center of fine manners and of urbanity?

Do you know the worst of all that? IT IS THAT WE GET ACCUSTOMED TOIT. Yes! one does. One becomes accustomed to getting along withoutParis, to worrying about it no longer, and almost to thinking thatit exists no longer. 

As for me, I am not like the bourgeois; I consider that after theinvasion there are no more misfortunes. The war with Prussia gave methe effect of a great upheaval of nature, one of those cataclysmsthat happen every six thousand years; while the insurrection inParis is, to my eyes, a very clear and almost simple thing. 

What retrogressions! What savages! How they resemble the people ofthe League and the men in armor! Poor France, who will never freeherself from the Middle Ages! who labors along in the Gothic idea ofthe Commune, which is nothing else than the Roman municipality. Oh!I assure you that my heart is heavy over it!

And the little reaction that we are going to have after that? Howthe good ecclesiastics are going to flourish again!

I have started at Saint-Antoine once more, and I am workingtremendously. 

CLXXXVII. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT, at Croisset. Nohant, 28 April, 1871

No, certainly I do not forget you! I am sad, sad, that is to say, that I am stunned, that I watch the spring, that I am busy, that Italk as if there were nothing; but I have not been able to be alonean instant since that horrible occurrence without falling into abitter despair. I make great efforts to prevent it; I do not want tobe discouraged; I do not want to deny the past and dread the future;but it is my will, it is my reason that struggles against a profoundimpression unsurmountable up to the present moment. 

That is why I did not want to write to you before feeling better, not that I am ashamed to have crises of depression, but because Idid not want to increase your sadness already so profound, by addingthe weight of mine to it. For me, the ignoble experiment that Parisis attempting or is undergoing, proves nothing against the laws ofthe eternal progression of men and things, and, if I have gained anyprinciples in my mind, good or bad, they are neither shattered norchanged by it. For a long time I have accepted patience as oneaccepts the sort of weather there is, the length of winter, old age, lack of success in all its forms. But I think that partisans(sincere) ought to change their formulas or find out perhaps theemptiness of every a priori formula. 

It is not that which makes me sad. When a tree is dead, one shouldplant two others. My unhappiness comes from pure weakness of heartthat I don't know how to overcome. I cannot sleep over the sufferingand even over the ignominy of others. I pity those who do the evil!while I recognize that they are not at all interesting, their moralstate distresses me. One pities a little bird that has fallen fromits nest; why not pity a heap of consciences fallen in the mud? Onesuffered less during the Prussian siege. One loved Paris unhappy inspite of itself, one pities it so much the more now that one can nolonger love it. Those who never loved get satisfaction by mortallyhating it. What shall we answer? Perhaps we should not answer atall. The scorn of France is perhaps the necessary punishment of theremarkable cowardice with which the Parisians have submitted to theriot and its adventurers. It is a consequence of the acceptance ofthe adventurers of the Empire; other felons but the same cowardice. 

But I did not want to talk to you of that, you ROAR about it enoughas it is! one ought to be distracted; for if one thinks too muchabout it, one becomes separated from one's own limbs and letsoneself undergo amputation with too much stoicism. 

You don't tell me in what state you found your charming nest atCroisset. The Prussians occupied it; did they ruin it, dirty it, robit? Your books, your bibelots, did you find them all? Did theyrespect your name, your workshop? If you can work again there, peacewill come to your spirit. As for me, I am waiting till mine getswell, and I know that I shall have to help myself to my own cure bya certain faith often shaken, but of which I make a duty. 

Tell me whether the tulip tree froze this winter, and if the poppiesare pretty. 

I often take the journey in spirit; I see again your garden and itssurroundings. How far away that is! How many things have happenedsince! One hardly knows whether one is a hundred years old or not!

My little girls bring me back to the notion of time; they aregrowing, they are amusing and affectionate; it is through them andthe two beings who gave them to me that I feel myself still of theworld; it is through you too, dear friend, whose kind and lovingheart I always feel to be good and alive. How I should like to seeyou! But I have no longer a way of going and coming. 

We embrace you, all of us, and we love you. 

G. Sand

CLXXXVIII. TO GEORGE SAND

I am answering at once your questions that concern me personally. No! the Prussians did not loot my house. They HOOKED some littlethings of no importance, a dressing case, a bandbox, some pipes; buton the whole they did no harm. As for my study, it was respected. Ihad buried a large box full of letters and hidden my voluminousnotes on Saint-Antoine. I found all that intact. 

The worst of the invasion for me is that it has aged my poor, dear, old mother by ten years! What a change! She can no longer walkalone, and is distressingly weak! How sad it is to see those whomone loves deteriorate little by little!

In order to think no longer on the public miseries or on my own, Ihave plunged again with fury into Saint-Antoine, and if nothingdisturbs me and I continue at this pace, I shall have finished itnext winter. I am very eager to read to you the sixty pages whichare done. When we can circulate about again on the railroad, do cometo see me for a little while. Your old troubadour has waited for youfor such a long time! Your letter of this morning has saddened me. What a proud fellow you are and what immense courage you have!

I am not like a lot of people whom I hear bemoaning the war ofParis. For my part, I find it more tolerable than the invasion, there is no more despair possible, and that is what proves once moreour abasement. "Ah! God be thanked, the Prussians are there!" is theuniversal cry of the bourgeois. I put messieurs the workmen into thesame pack, and would have them all thrust together into the river!Moreover they are on the way there, and then calm will return. Weare going to become a great, flat industrial country like Belgium. The disappearance of Paris (as center of the government) will renderFrance colorless and dull. She will no longer have a heart, acenter, nor, I think, a spirit. 

As for the Commune, which is about to die out, it is the lastmanifestation of the Middle Ages. The very last, let us hope!

I hate democracy (at least the kind that is understood in France), that is to say, the exaltation of mercy to the detriment of justice, the negation of right, in a word, antisociability. 

The Commune rehabilitates murderers, quite as Jesus pardonedthieves, and they pillage the residences of the rich, because theyhave been taught to curse Lazarus, who was not a bad rich man, butsimply a rich man. "The Republic is above every criticism" isequivalent to that belief: "The pope is infallible!" Alwaysformulas! Always gods!

The god before the last, which was universal suffrage, has justshown his adherents a terrible farce by nominating "the murderers ofVersailles. " What shall we believe in, then? In nothing! That is thebeginning of wisdom. It was time to have done with "principles" andto take up science, and investigation. The only reasonable thing (Ialways come back to that) is a government by mandarins, provided themandarins know something and even that they know many things. Thepeople is an eternal infant, and it will be (in the hierarchy ofsocial elements) always in the last row, since it is number, mass, the unlimited. It is of little matter whether many peasants know howto read and listen no longer to their cure, but it is of greatmatter that many men like Renan or Littre should be able to live andbe listened to! Our safety is now only in a LEGITIMATE ARISTOCRACY, I mean by that, a majority that is composed of more than merenumbers. 

If they had been more enlightened, if there had been in Paris morepeople acquainted with history, we should not have had to endureGambetta, nor Prussia, nor the Commune. What did the Catholics do tomeet a great danger? They crossed themselves while consigningthemselves to God and to the saints. We, however, who are advanced, we are going to cry out, "Long live the Republic!" while recallingwhat happened in '92; and there was no doubt of its success, observethat. The Prussian existed no longer, they embraced one another withjoy and restrained themselves from running to the defiles of theArgonne where there are defiles no longer; never mind, that isaccording to tradition. I have a friend in Rouen who proposed to aclub the manufacture of lances to fight against the breech-loaders!

Ah! it would have been more practical to keep Badinguet, in order tosend him to the galleys once peace was made! Austria did not have arevolution after Sadowa, nor Italy after Novara, nor Russia afterSebastopol! But the good French hasten to demolish their house assoon as the chimney has caught fire. 

Well, I must tell you an atrocious idea; I am AFRAID that thedestruction of the Vendome column is sowing the seeds of a thirdEmpire! Who knows if in twenty or in forty years, a grandson ofJerome will not be our master?

For the moment Paris is completely epileptic. A result of thecongestion caused by the siege. France, on the whole, has lived forseveral years in an extraordinary mental state. The success of laLanterne and Troppman have been very evident symptoms of it. Thatfolly is the result of too great imbecility, and that imbecilitycomes from too much bluffing, for because of lying they had becomeidiotic. They had lost all notion of right and wrong, of beautifuland ugly. Recall the criticism of recent years. What difference didit make between the sublime and the ridiculous? What lack ofrespect; what ignorance! what a mess! "Boiled or roasted, samething!" and at the same time, what servility for the opinion of theday, the dish of the fashion!

All was false! False realism, false army, false credit, and evenfalse harlots. They were called "marquises, " while the great ladiescalled themselves familiarly "cochonnettes. " Those girls who were ofthe tradition of Sophie Arnould, like Lagier, roused horror. Youhave not seen the reverence of Saint-Victor for la Paiva. And thisfalseness (which is perhaps a consequence of romanticism, predominance of passion over form, and of inspiration over rule) wasapplied especially in the manner of judging. They extolled anactress not as an actress, but as a good mother of a family! Theyasked art to be moral, philosophy to be clear, vice to be decent, and science to be within the range of the people. 

But this is a very long letter. When I start abusing mycontemporaries, I never get through with it. 

CLXXXIX. TO GEORGE SANDCroisset, Sunday evening, 10 June, 1871

Dear master, I never had a greater desire or a greater need to see you than now. I have just come from Paris and I don't know to whom to talk. I amchoking. I am overcome, or rather, absolutely disheartened. 

The odor of corpses disgusts me less than the miasmas of egotismthat exhale from every mouth. The sight of the ruins is as nothingin comparison with the great Parisian inanity. With a very fewexceptions it seemed to me that everybody ought to be tied up. 

Half the population wants to strangle the other half, and VICEVERSA. This is clearly to be seen in the eyes of the passers-by. 

And the Prussians exist no longer! People excuse them and admirethem. The "reasonable people" want to be naturalized Germans. Iassure you it is enough to make one despair of the human race. 

I was in Versailles on Thursday. The excesses of the Right inspirefear. The vote about the Orleans is a concession made to it, so asnot to irritate it, and so as to have the time to prepare againstit. 

I except from the general folly, Renan who, on the contrary, seemedto me very philosophical, and the good Soulie who charged me to giveyou a thousand affectionate messages. 

I have collected a mass of horrible and unpublished details which Ispare you. 

My little trip to Paris has troubled me extremely, and I am going tohave a hard time in getting down to work again. What do you thinkof my friend Maury, who kept the tricolor over the Archives allduring the Commune? I think few men are capable of such pluck. 

When history clears up the burning of Paris, it will find severalelements among which are, without any doubt: (1) the Prussians, and(2) the people of Badinguet; they have NO LONGER ANY written proofagainst the Empire, and Haussman is going to present himself boldlyto the elections of Paris. 

Have you read, among the documents found in the Tuileries lastSeptember, a plot of a novel by Isidore? What a scenario!

CXC. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT, at Paris[FOOTNOTE: Evidently an answer to a lost letter. ] Nohant, 23 July, 1871

No, I am not ill, my dear old troubadour, in spite of the sorrowwhich is the daily bread of France; I have an iron constitution andan exceptional old age, abnormal even, for my strength increases atthe age when it ought to diminish. The day that I resolutely buriedmy youth, I grew twenty years younger. You will tell me that thebark undergoes none the less the ravages of time. I don't care forthat, the heart of the tree is very good and the sap still runs asin the old apple trees in my garden, which bear fruit all the betterthe more gnarly they are. Thank you for having worried over theillness which the papers have bestowed upon me. Maurice thanks youalso and embraces you. He is still mingling with his scientific, literary, and agricultural studies, beautiful marionette shows. Hethinks of you every time and says that he would like to have youhere to note his progress, for he continually improves. 

In what condition are we, according to your opinion?

In Rouen, you no longer have any Prussians at your back, that'ssomething, and one would say that the bourgeois Republic wants toimpose itself. It will be foolish. You foretold that, and I don'tdoubt it; but after the inevitable rule of the Philistines, lifewill extend and spread on all sides. The filth of the Commune showsus dangers which were not sufficiently foreseen and which enforce anew political life on everybody, carrying on one's affairs oneselfand forcing the charming proletariat created by the Empire to knowwhat is possible and what is not. Education does not teach honestyand disinterestedness overnight. The vote is immediate education. They have appointed Raoul Rigault and company. They know how muchpeople like that cost now by the yard; let them go on and they willdie of hunger. There is no other way to make them understand in ashort time. 

Are you working? Is Saint-Antoine going well? Tell me what you aredoing in Paris, what you are seeing, what you are thinking. I havenot the courage to go there. Do come to see me before you return toCroisset. I am blue from not seeing you, it is a sort of death. 

G. Sand

CXCI. TO GEORGE SAND25 July, 1871

I find Paris a little less mad than in June, at least on thesurface. They are beginning to hate Prussia in a natural manner, that is to say, they are getting back into French tradition. They nolonger make phrases in praise of her civilizations. As for theCommune, they expect to see it rise again later, and the"established order" does absolutely nothing to prevent its return. They are applying old remedies to new woes, remedies that have nevercured (nor prevented) the least ill. The reestablishment of creditseems to me colossally absurd. One of my friends made a good speechagainst it; the godson of your friend Michel de Bourges, Bardoux, mayor of Clermont-Ferrand. 

I think, like you, that the bourgeois republic can be established. Its lack of elevation is perhaps a guarantee of stability. It willbe the first time that we have lived under a government withoutprinciples. The era of positivism in politics is about to begin. 

The immense disgust which my contemporaries give me throws me backon the past, and I am working on my good Saint-Antoine with all mymight. I came to Paris only for it, for it is impossible for me toget in Rouen the books that I neednow; I am lost in the religions of Persia. I am trying to get aclear idea of the God Horn, and it isn't easy. I spent all the monthof June in studying Buddhism, on which I already had many notes. ButI wanted to get to the bottom of the subject as soon as possible. And I also did a little Buddha that I consider charming. Don't Iwant to read you that book (mine)!

I am not going to Nohant, for I don't care to go further I away frommy mother now. Her society afflicts me and unnerves me, my nieceCaroline takes turns with me in carrying on the dear and painfulburden. 

In a fortnight I shall be back in Croisset. Between the 15th and the20th of August I am expecting the good Tourgueneff there. It wouldbe very kind of you to come after him, dear master. I say comeafter, for we have only one decent room since the visit of thePrussians. Come, make a good effort. Come in September. 

Have you any news of the Odeon? I can't get any response whatsoeverfrom de Chilly. I have been to his house several times and I havewritten three letters to him: not a word! Those gay blades behavetowards one like great lords, which is charming. I don't know if heis still director, or if the management has been given to theBerton, Laurent, Bernard company, do you?

Berton wrote to me to recommend him (and them) to d'Osmoy, deputyand president of the dramatic commission, but since then I have notheard anything mentioned. 

CXCII. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT, at CroisssetNohant, August, 1871

You want to see me, and you need me, and you don't come see me! Thatis not nice; for I too, and all of us here, sigh for you. We partedso gaily eighteen months ago, and so many atrocious things havehappened in the meantime! Seeing each other would be the consolationDUE us. For my part, I cannot stir, I have not a penny, and I haveto work like a negro. And then I have not seen a single Prussian, and I would like to keep my eyes pure from that stain. Ah! myfriend, what years we are going through! We cannot go back again, for hope departs with the rest. 

What will be the reaction from the infamous Commune? Isidore orHenry V. Or the kingdom of incendiaries restored by anarchy? I whohave had so much patience with my species and who have so longlooked on the bright side, now see nothing but darkness. I judgeothers by myself. I had improved my real character, I hadextinguished useless and dangerous enthusiasms, I had sowed grassand flowers that grew well on my volcanoes, and I imagined that allthe world could become enlightened, could correct itself, orrestrain itself; that the years passed over me and over mycontemporaries could not be lost to reason and experience: and now Iawaken from a dream to find a generation divided between idiocy anddelirium tremens! Everything is possible at present. 

However, it is bad to despair. I shall make a great effort, andperhaps I shall become just and patient again; but today I cannot. Iam as troubled as you, and I don't dare to talk, nor to think, norto write, I have such a fear of touching the wounds open in everysoul. 

I have indeed received your other letter, and I was waiting forcourage to answer it; I would like to do only good to those I love, especially to you, who feel so keenly. I am no good at this moment. I am filled with a devouring indignation and a disgust which iskilling me. 

I love you, that is all I know. My children say the same. Embraceyour good little mother for me. 

G. Sand

CXCIII. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERTNohant, 6 September, 1871

Where are you, my dear old troubadour?

I don't write to you, I am quite troubled in the depths of my soul. But that will pass, I hope; but I am ill with the illness of mynation and my race. I cannot isolate myself in my reason and in myown IRREPROACHABILITY. I feel the great bonds loosened and, as itwere, broken. It seems to me that we are all going off, I don't knowwhere. Have you more courage than I have? Give me some of it?

I am sending you the pretty faces of our little girls. They rememberyou, and tell me I must send you their pictures. Alas! they aregirls, we raise them with love like precious plants. What men willthey meet to protect them and continue our work? It seems to me thatin twenty years there will be only hypocrites and blackguards!

Give me news of yourself, tell me of your poor mother, your family, of Croisset. Love us still, as we love you. 

G. Sand

CXCIV. TO GEORGE SANDCroisset, Wednesday, 6 September

Well, dear master, it seems to me that you are forgetting yourtroubadour, aren't you? Are you then quite overwhelmed with work!How long a time it is since I saw your good firm writing! How longit is since we have talked together! What a pity that we should liveso far from each other! I need you very much. 

I don't dare to leave my poor mother! When I am obliged to be away, Caroline comes to take my place. If it were not for that, I shouldgo to Nohant. Shall you stay there indefinitely? Must we wait tillthe middle of the winter to embrace each other?

I should like very much to read you Saint-Antoine, which is halfdone, then to stretch myself and to roar at your side. 

Some one who knows that I love you and who admires you brought me acopy of le Gaulois in which there were parts of an article by you onthe workmen, published in le Temps. How true it is! How just andwell said! Sad! Sad! Poor France! And they accuse me of beingskeptical. 

But what do you think of Mademoiselle Papevoine, the incendiary, who, in the midst of a barricade, submitted to the assaults ofeighteen citizens! That surpasses the end of l'Educationsentimentale where they limit themselves to offering flowers. 

But what goes beyond everything now, is the conservative party, which is not even going to vote, and which is still in a panic! Youcannot imagine the alarm of the Parisians. "In six months, sir, theCommune will be established everywhere" is the answer or rather theuniversal groan. 

I do not look forward to an imminent cataclysm because nothing thatis foreseen happens. The International will perhaps triumph in theend, but not as it hopes, not as they dread. Ah! how tired I am ofthe ignoble workmen, the incompetent bourgeois, the stupid peasantand the odious ecclesiastic!

That is why I lose myself as much as I can in antiquity. Just now Iam making all the gods talk in a state of agony. The subtitle of mybook could be The Height of Insanity. And the printing of itwithdraws further and further into my mind. Why publish? Who pray isbothering about art nowadays? I make literature for myself as abourgeois turns napkin rings in his garret. You will tell me that Ihad better be useful. But how? How can I make people listen to me?

Tourgueneff has written me that he is going to stay in Paris allwinter beginning with October. That will be some one to talk to. ForI can't talk of anything whatever with anyone whatever. 

I have been looking after the grave of my poor Bouilhet today; sotonight I have a twofold bitterness. 

CXCV. TO GEORGE SANDCroisset, 8 September, 1871

Ah! how sweet they are! What darlings! What fine little heads soserious and sweet! My mother was quite touched by it, and so was I. That is what I call a delicate attention, dear master, and I thankyou very much for it. I envy Maurice, his existence is not arid asmine is. Our two letters crossed again. That proves beyond a doubtthat we feel the same things at the same time in the same degree. 

Why are you so said? Humanity offers nothing new. Its irremediablemisery has filled me with sadness ever since my youth. And inaddition I now have no disillusions. I believe that the crowd, thecommon herd will always be hateful. The only important thing is alittle group of minds--always the same--which passed the torch fromone to another. 

As long as we do not bow to mandarins, as long as the Academy ofSciences does not replace the pope, politics as a whole and society, down to its very roots, will be nothing but collection ofdisheartening humbugs. We are floundering in the after-birth of theRevolution, which was an abortion, a failure, a misfire, "whateverthey say. " And the reason is that it proceeded from the Middle Agesand Christianity. The idea of equality (which is all the moderndemocracy) is an essentially Christian idea and opposed to that ofjustice. Observe how mercy predominates now. Sentiment iseverything, justice is nothing. People are now not even indignantagainst murderers, and the people who set fire to Paris are lesspunished than the calumniator of M. Favre. 

In order for France to rise again, she must pass from inspiration toscience, she must abandon all metaphysics, she must enter intocriticism, that is to say into the examination of things. 

I am persuaded that we shall seem extremely imbecile to posterity. The words republic and monarchy will make them laugh, as we on ourpart, laughed, at realism and nominalism. For I defy anyone to showme an essential difference between those two terms. A modernrepublic and a constitutional monarchy are identical. Never mind!They are squabbling about that, they are shouting, they arefighting!

As for the good people, "free and compulsory" education will do it. When every one is able to read le Petit Journal and le Figaro, theywon't read anything else, because the bourgeois and the rich manread only these. The press is a school of demoralization, because itdispenses with thinking. Say that, you will be brave, and if youprevail, you will have rendered a fine service. 

The first remedy will be to finish up with universal suffrage, theshame of the human mind. As it is constituted, one single elementprevails to the detriment of all the others: numbers dominate overmind, education, race and even money, which is worth more thannumbers. 

But society (which always needs a good God, a Saviour), isn't itperhaps capable of taking care of itself? The conservative party hasnot even the instinct of the brute (for the brute at least knows howto fight for its lair and its living). It will be divided by theInternationals, the Jesuits of the future. But those of the past, who had neither country nor justice, have not succeeded and theInternational will founder because it is in the wrong. No ideas, nothing but greed!

Ah! dear, good master, if you only could hate! That is what youlack, hate. In spite of your great Sphinx eyes, you have seen theworld through a golden color. That comes from the sun in your heart;but so many shadows have arisen that now you are not recognizingthings any more. Come now! Cry out! Thunder! Take your great lyreand touch the brazen string: the monsters will flee. Bedew us withthe drops of the blood of wounded Themis. 

Why do you feel "the great bonds broken?" What is broken? Your bondsare indestructible, your sympathy can attach itself only to theEternal. 

Our ignorance of history makes us slander our own times. Man hasalways been like that. Several years of quiet deceived us. That isall. I too, I used to believe in the amelioration of manners. Onemust wipe out that mistake and think of oneself no more highly thanthey did in the time of Pericles or of Shakespeare, atrocious epochsin which fine things were done. Tell me that you are lifting yourhead and that you are thinking of your old troubadour, who cherishesyou. 

CXCVI. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT, at CroissetNohant, 8 September, 1871

As usual our letters have crossed; you should receive today theportraits of my little grandchildren, not pretty at this period oftheir growth, but with such beautiful eyes that they can never beugly. 

You see that I am as disheartened as you are and indignant, alas!without being able to hate either the human race or our poor, dearcountry. But one feels too much one's helplessness to pluck up one'sheart and spirit. One works all the same, even if only turningnapkin rings, as you say: and, as for me, while serving the public, I think about it as little as possible. Le Temps has done me theservice of making me rummage in my waste basket. I find there theprophecies that the conscience of each of us has inspired in him, and these little returns to the past ought to give us courage; butit is not at all so. The lessons of experience are of no use untiltoo late. 

I think that without subvention, the Odeon will be in no conditionto put on well a literary play such as Aisse, and that you shouldnot let them murder it. You had better wait and see what happens. Asfor the Berton company, I have no news of it; it is touring theprovinces, and those who compose it will not be reengaged by Chilly, who is furious with them. 

The Odeon has let Reynard go, an artist of the first rank, whomMontigny had the wit to engage. There really is no one left at theOdeon, as far as I know. Why don't you consider the TheatreFrancais?

Where is the Princess Mathilde? At Enghien, or in Paris, or inEngland? I am sending you a note which you must enclose in the firstletter that you have occasion to write to her. 

I cannot go to see you, dear old man, and yet I had earned one ofthose happy vacations; but I cannot leave the HOME, for all sorts ofreasons too long to tell and of no interest, but inflexible. I donot know even if I shall go to Paris this winter. Here am I so old!I imagine that I can only bore others and that people cannot endureme anywhere except at home. You absolutely must come to see me withTourgueneff, since you are planning to go away this winter; preparehim for this abduction. I embrace you, as I love, and my world doestoo. 

G. Sand

CXCVII. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT14 September, 1871, Nohant[Footnote: Appeared in le Temps, 3 October, 1871, under the title, Reponse a un ami, and published in Impressions et Souvenirs, p. 53. ]

And what, you want me to stop loving? You want me to say that I havebeen mistaken all my life, that humanity is contemptible, hateful, that it has always been and always will be so? And you chide myanguish as a weakness, and puerile regret for a lost illusion? Youassert that the people has always been ferocious, the priest alwayshypocritical, the bourgeois always cowardly, the soldier alwaysbrigand, the peasant always stupid? You say that you have known allthat ever since your youth and you rejoice that you never havedoubted it, because maturity has not brought you any disappointment;have you not been young then? Ah! We are entirely different, for Ihave never ceased to be young, if being young is always loving. 

What, then, do you want me to do, so as to isolate myself from mykind, from my compatriots, from my race, from the great family inwhose bosom my own family is only one ear of corn in the terrestrialfield? And if only this ear could ripen in a sure place, if only onecould, as you say, live for certain privileged persons and withdrawfrom all the others!

But it is impossible, and your steady reason puts up with the mostunrealizable of Utopias. In what Eden, in what fantastic Eldoradowill you hide your family, your little group of friends, yourintimate happiness, so that the lacerations of the social state andthe disasters of the country shall not reach them? If you want to behappy through certain people--those certain people, the favorites ofyour heart, must be happy in themselves. Can they be? Can you assurethem the least security?

Will you find me a refuge in my old age which is drawing near todeath? And what difference now does death or life make to me formyself? Let us suppose that we die absolutely, or that love does notfollow into the other life, are we not up to our last breathtormented by the desire, by the imperious need of assuring thosewhom we leave behind all the happiness possible? Can we gopeacefully to sleep when we feel the shaken earth ready to swallowup all those for whom we have lived? A continuous happy life withone's family in spite of all, is without doubt relatively a greatgood, the only consolation that one could and that one would enjoy. But even supposing external evil does not penetrate into our house, which is impossible, you know very well, I could not approve ofacquiescing in indifference to what causes public unhappiness. 

All that was foreseen. . . . Yes, certainly, I had foreseen it as wellas anyone! I saw the storm rising. I was aware, like all those whodo not live without thinking, of the evident approach of thecataclysm. When one sees the patient writhing in agony is there anyconsolation in understanding his illness thoroughly? When lightningstrikes, are we calm because we have heard the thunder rumble a longtime before?

No, no, people do not isolate themselves, the ties of blood are notbroken, people do not curse or scorn their kind. Humanity is not avain word. Our life is composed of love, and not to love is to ceaseto live. 

The people, you say! The people is yourself and myself. It would beuseless to deny it. There are not two races, the distinction ofclasses only establishes relative and for the most part illusoryinequalities. I do not know if your ancestors were high up in thebourgeoisie; for my part, on my mother's side my roots springdirectly from the people, and I feel them continually alive in thedepth of my being. We all have them, even if the origin is more orless effaced; the first men were hunters and shepherds, then farmersand soldiers. Brigandagecrowned with success gave birth to the first social distinctions. There is perhaps not a title that was not acquired through the bloodof men. We certainly have to endure our ancestors when we have any, but these first trophies of hatred and of violence, are they a gloryin which a mind ever so little inclined to be philosophical, findsgrounds for pride? THE PEOPLE ALWAYS FEROCIOUS, you say? As for me, I say, the nobility always savage!

And certainly, together with the peasants, the nobility is the classmost hostile to progress, the least civilized in consequence. Thinkers should congratulate themselves on not being of it, but ifwe are bourgeois, if we have come from the serf, and from the classliable to forced labor, can we bend with love and respect before thesons of the oppressors of our fathers? Whoever denies the peoplecheapens himself, and gives to the world the shameful spectacle ofapostasy. Bourgeoisie, if we want to raise ourselves again andbecome once more a class, we have only one thing to do, and that isto proclaim ourselves the people, and to fight to the death againstthose who claim to be our superiors by divine right. On account ofhaving failed in the dignity of our revolutionary mandate, of havingaped the nobility, of having usurped its insignia, of having takenpossession of its playthings, of having been shamefully ridiculousand cowardly, we count for nothing; we are nothing any more: thepeople, which ought to unite with us, denies us, abandons us andseeks to oppress us. 

The people ferocious? No, it is not imbecile either, its realtrouble is in being ignorant and foolish. It is not the people ofParis that has massacred the prisoners, destroyed the monuments, andtried to burn the town. The people of Paris is all who stayed inParis after the siege, since whoever had any means hastened tobreathe the air of the provinces and to embrace their absentfamilies after the physical and moral sufferings of the siege. Thosewho stayed in Paris were the merchant and the workman, those twoagents of labor and of exchange, without whom Paris would exist nolonger. Those are what constitutes positively the people of Paris;it is one and the same family, whose political blunders cannotrestore their relationship and solidarity. It is now recognized thatthe oppressors of that torment were in the minority. Then the peopleof Paris was not disposed to fury, since the majority gave evidenceonly of weakness and fear. The movement was organized by men alreadyenrolled in the ranks of the bourgeoisie, who belong no longer tothe habits and needs of the proletariat. These men were moved byhatred, disappointed ambition, mistaken patriotism, fanaticismwithout an ideal, sentimental folly or natural maliciousness--therewas all that in them--and even certain doctrinaire points of honor, unwilling to withdraw in the face of danger. They certainly did notlean on the middle class, which trembled, fled or hid itself. Theywere forced to put in action the real proletariat which had nothingto lose. Well, the proletariat even escaped them to a great degree, divided as it was by various shades of opinion, some wantingdisorder to profit by it, others dreading the consequences of beingdrawn in, the most of them not reasoning at all, because the evilhad become extreme and the lack of work forced them to go to war atthirty sous a day. 

Why should you maintain that this proletariat which was shut up inParis, and was at most eighty thousand soldiers of hunger anddespair, represented the people of France? They do not evenrepresent the people of Paris, unless you desire to maintain thedistinction between the producer and the trader, which I reject. 

But I want to follow you up and ask on what this distinction rests. Is it on more or less education? The limit is incomprehensible ifyou see at the top of the bourgeoisie, cultivated and learnedpeople, if you see at the bottom of the proletariat, savages andbrutes, you have none the less the crowd of intermediaries whichwill show to you, here intelligent and wise proletarians, therebourgeois who are neither wise nor intelligent. The great number ofcivilized citizens dates from yesterday and many of those who knowhow to read and write, have parents still living who can hardly signtheir names. 

Would it then be only more or less wealth that would classify meninto two distinct parties? The question then is where the peoplebegins and where it ends, for each day competencies shift, ruinlowers one, and fortune raises another; roles change, he who was abourgeois this morning is going to become again a proletarian thisevening, and the proletarian of just now, may turn into a bourgeoisin a day, if he finds a purse, or inherits from an uncle. 

You can well see that these denominations have become idle and thatthe work of classifying, whatever method one desired to use, wouldbe impracticable. 

Men are only over or under one another because of more or lessreason or morality. Instruction which develops only egoisticsensuality is not as good as the ignorance of the proletarian, honest by instinct or by custom. This compulsory education which weall desire through respect for human rights, is not, however, apanacea whose miracles need to be exaggerated. Evil natures willfind there only more ingenious and more hidden means to do evil. Itwill be as in all the things that man uses and abuses, both thepoison and the antidote. It is an illusion that one can find aninfallible remedy for our woes. We have to seek from day to day, allthe means immediately possible, we must think of nothing else inpractical life except the amelioration of habits and thereconciliation of interests. France is agonizing, that is certain;we are all sick, all corrupt, all ignorant, all discouraged: to saythat it was WRITTEN, that it had to be so, that it has always beenand will always be, is to begin again the fable of the pedagogue andthe child who is drowning. You might as well say at once. 

It is all the same to me; but if you add: That does not concern me, you are wrong. The deluge comes and death captures us. In vain youare prudent and withdraw, your refuge will be invaded in its turn, and in perishing with human civilization you will be no greater aphilosopher for not having loved, than those who threw themselvesinto the flood to save some debris of humanity. The debris is notworth the effort, very good! They will perish none the less, that ispossible. We shall perish with them, that is certain, but we shalldie while in the fulness of life. I prefer that to a hibernation inthe ice, to an anticipated death. And anyway, I could not dootherwise. Love does not reason. If I asked why you have the passionfor study, you would not explain it to me any better than those whohave a passion for idleness can explain their indolence. 

Then you think me upset, since you preach detachment to me? You tellme that you have read in the papers some extracts from my articleswhich indicate a change of ideas, and these papers which quote mewith good will, endeavor to believe that I am illuminated with a newlight, while others which do not quote me believe that perhaps I amdeserting the cause of the future. Let the politicians think and saywhat they want to. Let us leave them to their criticalappreciations. I do not have to protest, I do not have to answer, the public has other interests to discuss than those of mypersonality. I wield a pen, I have an honorable position of freediscussion in a great paper; if I have been wrongly interpreted, itis for me to explain myself better when the occasion presentsitself. I am reluctant to seize this opportunity of talking ofmyself as an isolated individual; but if you judge me converted tofalse notions, I must say to you and to others who are interested inme: read me as a whole, and do not judge me by detached fragments; aspirit which is independent of party exactions, sees necessarily thepros and cons, and the sincere writer tells both without busyinghimself about the blame or the approbation of partizan readers. Butevery being who is not mad maintains a certain consistency, and I donot think that I have departed from mine. Reason and sentiment arealways in accord in me to make me repulse whatever attempts to makeme revert to childhood in politics, in religion, in philosophy, inart. My sentiment and my reason combat more than ever the idea offactitious distinctions, the inequality of conditions imposed as aright acquired by some, as a loss deserved by others. More than everI feel the need of raising what is low, and of lifting again whathas fallen. Until my heart is worn out it will be open to pity, itwill take the part of the weak, it will rehabilitate the slandered. If today it is the people that is under foot, I shall hold out myhand to the people--if it is the oppressor and executioner, I shalltell it that it is cowardly and odious. What do I care for this orthat group of men, these names which have become standards, thesepersonalities which have become catchwords? I know only wise andfoolish, innocent and guilty. I do not have to ask myself where aremy friends or my enemies. They are where torment has thrown them. Those who have deserved my love, and who do not see through my eyes, are none the less dear to me. The thoughtless blame of those wholeave me does not make me consider them as enemies. All friendshipunjustly withdrawn remains intact in the heart that has not meritedthe outrage. That heart is above self-love, it knows how to wait forthe awakening of justice and affection. 

Such is the correct and easy role of a conscience that is notengaged in the party interests through any personal interest. Thosewho can not say that of themselves will certainly have success intheir environment, if they have the talent to avoid all that candisplease them, and the more they have of this talent, the more theywill find the means to satisfy their passions. But do not summonthem in history to witness the absolute truth. From the moment thatthey make a business of their opinion, their opinion has no value. 

I know sweet, generous and timorous souls, who in this terriblemoment of our history, reproach themselves for having loved andserved the cause of the weak. They see only one point in space, theybelieve that the people whom they have loved and served exist nolonger, because in their place a horde of bandits followed by alittle army of bewildered men has occupied momentarily the theatreof the struggle. 

These good souls have to make an effort to say to themselves thatwhat good there was in the poor and what interest there was in thedisinherited still exists, only it is no longer in evidence and thepolitical disturbance has sidetracked it from the stage. When suchdramas take place, those who rush in light-heartedly are the vain orthe greedy members of the family, those who allow themselves to bepulled in are the idiots. 

There is no doubt that there are greedy souls, idiots, and vainpersons by the thousands in France; but there are as many andperhaps more in the other states. Let an opportunity present itselfsimilar to too frequent opportunities which put our evil passions inplay, and you will see whether other nations are any better than weare. Wait till the Germanic race gets to work, the race whosedisciplinary aptitudes we admire, the race whose armies have justshown us brutal appetites in all their barbarous simplicity, and youwill see what will be its license! The people of Paris will seemsober and virtuous by comparison. 

That ought not to be what is called a crumb of comfort, we shallhave to pity the German nation for its victories as much asourselves for our defeats, because this is the first act of itsmoral dissolution. The drama of its degradation has begun, and asthis is being worked out by its own hands it will move very quickly. All these great material organizations in which right, justice, andthe respect for humanity are not recognized, are colossi of clay, aswe have found to our cost. Well! the moral abasement of Germany isnot the future safety of France, and if we are called upon to returnto her the evil that has been done us, her collapse will not give usback our life. It is not in blood that races are re-invigorated andrejuvenated. Vital exhalations can issue still from the corpse ofFrance, that of Germany will be the focus of the pestilence ofEurope. A nation that has lost its ideals does not survive itself. Its death fertilizes nothing and those who breathe its fetidemanations are struck by the ill that killed it. Poor Germany! thecup of the wrath of the Eternal is poured out on you quite as muchas on us, and while you rejoice and become intoxicated, thephilosophic spirit is weeping over you and prepares your epitaph. This pale and bleeding, wounded thing that is called France, holdsstill in its tense hands, a fold of the starry mantle of the future, and you drape yourself in a soiled flag, which will be your windingsheet. Past grandeurs have no longer a place to take in the historyof men. It is all over with kings who exploit the peoples; it is allover with exploited peoples who have consented to their ownabasement. 

That is why we are so sick and why my heart is broken. 

But it is not in scorn of our misery that I regard the extent of it. I do not want to believe that this holy country, that this cherishedrace, all of whose chords I feel vibrate in me, both harmonious anddiscordant, --whose qualities and whose defects I love in spite ofeverything, all of whose good or bad responsibilities I consent toaccept rather than to detach myself from them through disdain; no, I do not want to believe that my country and my race are struck todeath, I feel it in my suffering, in my mourning, in my hours ofpure dejection even, I love, therefore I live; let us love and live. 

Frenchmen, let us love one another, my God! my God! 1et us love oneanother or we are lost. Let us destroy, let us deny, let usannihilate politics, since it divides us and arms us against oneanother; let us ask from no one what he was and what he wantedyesterday. Yesterday all the world was mistaken, let us know what wewant today. If it is not liberty for all and fraternity towards all, do not let us attempt to solve the problem of humanity, we are notworthy of defining it, we are not capable of comprehending it. Equality is a thing that does not impose itself, it is a free plantthat grows only on fertile lands, in salubrious air. It does nottake root on barricades, we know that now! It is immediately troddenunder the foot of the conqueror, whoever he may be. Let us desire toestablish it in our customs, let us be eager to consecrate it in ourideas. Let us give it for a starting point, patriotic charity, love!It is the part of a madman to think that one issues from a battlewith respect for human rights. All civil war has brought forth andwill bring forth great crime. . . . 

Unfortunate International, is it true that you believe in the liethat strength is superior to right? If you are as numerous, aspowerful as one fancies, is it possible that you profess destructionand hatred as a duty? No, your power is a phantom of death. A greatnumber of men of every nationality would not, could not, deliberateand act in favor of an iniquitous principle. If you are theferocious party of the European people, something like theAnabaptists of Munster, like them you will destroy yourself withyour own hands. If, on the contrary, you are a great and legitimatefraternal association, your duty is to enlighten your adherents andto deny those who cheapen and compromise your principles. I hopestill that you include in your bosom, humane and hard-working men ingreat numbers, and that they suffer and blush at seeing bandits takeshelter under your name. In this case your silence is inept andcowardly. Have you not a single member capable of protesting againstignoble attacks, against idiotic principles, against furiousmadness? Your chosen chiefs, your governors, your inspirers, arethey all brigands and idiots? No, it is impossible; there are nogroups, there is no club, there are no crossroads where a voice oftruth could not make itself heard. Speak then, justify yourself, proclaim your gospel. Dissolve yourself in order to make yourselfover if the discord is in your own midst. Make an appeal to thefuture if you are not an ancient invasion of Barbarians. Tell thosewho still love the people what they ought to do for them, and if youhave nothing to say, if you cannot speak a word of life, if theiniquities of your mysteries are sealed by fear, renounce noblesympathies, live on the scorn of honest folk, and struggle betweenthe jailer and the police. 

All France has heard the word of your destiny which might have beenthe word of hers. She has waited for it in vain. I too, simple, Iwaited. While blaming the means I did not want to prejudice the end. There has always been one in revolutions, and the revolutions thatfail are not always those with the weakest basis. A patrioticfanaticism seems to have been the first sentiment of this struggle. These lost children of the democratic army were going perhaps tosubscribe to an inevitable peace that they judged shameful: Parishad sworn to bury herself under her ruins. 

The democratic people were going to force the bourgeois to keeptheir word. They took possession of the cannon, they were going toturn them on the Prussians, it was mad, but it was grand. . . . Not atall. The first act of the Commune is to consent to the peace, and inall the course of its management, it does not have an insult, not athreat for the enemy, it conceives and commits the remarkablecowardice of overturning under the eyes of the enemy the column thatrecalls his defeats and our victories. It is angry against thepowers emanating from universal suffrage, and yet it invokes thissuffrage in Paris to constitute itself. It is true that this was notfavorable to it; it dispenses with the appearance of legality thatit intended to give itself and functions by brute force, withoutinvoking any other right than that of hate and scorn for all that isnot itself. It proclaims POSITIVE SOCIAL SCIENCE of which it callsitself the sole depository, but about which it does not let a wordescape in its deliberations and in its decrees. It declares that itis going to free man from his shackles and his prejudices, and atthat very instant, it exercises a power without control andthreatens with death whoever is not convinced of its infallibility. At the same time it pretends to take up the tradition of theJacobins, it usurps the papal social authority and assumes thedictatorship. What sort of a republic is that? I see nothing vitalin it, nothing rational, nothing constituted, nothing constitutable. It is an orgy of false reformers who have not one idea, not oneprinciple, not the least serious organization, not the leastsolidarity with the nation, not the least outlook towards thefuture. Ignorance, cynicism and brutality, that is all that emanatesfrom this false social revolution. Liberation of the lowestinstincts, impotence of bold ambitions, scandal of shamelessusurpations. That is the spectacle which we have just seen. Moreover, this Commune has inspired the most deadly disgust in themost ardent political men, men most devoted to the democracy. Afteruseless essays, they have understood that there was noreconciliation possible where there were no principles; theywithdrew from it with consternation, with sorrow, and, the next day, the Commune declared them traitors, and decreed their arrest. Theywould have been shot if they had remained in its hands. 

And you, friend, you want me to see these things with a stoicindifference? You want me to say: man is made thus, crime is hisexpression, infamy is his nature?

No, a hundred times no. Humanity is outraged in me and with me. Wemust not dissimulate nor try to forget this indignation which is oneof the most passionate forms of love. We must make great efforts inbehalf of brotherhood to repair the ravages of hate. We must put anend to the scourge, wipe out infamy with scorn, and inaugurate byfaith the resurrection of the country. 

G. Sand

CXCVIII. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERTNohant, 16 September, 1871

Dear old friend, I answered you day before yesterday, and my letter took suchproportions that I sent it as an article to le Temps for my nextfortnightly contribution; for I have promised to give them twoarticles a month. The letter a un ami does not indicate you by evenan initial, for I do not want to argue against you in public. I tellyou again in it my reasons for suffering and for hoping still. Ishall send it to you and that will be talking with you again. Youwill see that my chagrin is a part of me, and that believingprogress to be a dream does not depend on me. Without this hope noone is good for anything. The mandarins do not need knowledge andeven the education of a limited number of people has no longerreason for existing unless there is hope of influence on the masses;philosophers have only to keep silent and those great minds on whomthe need of your soul leans, Shakespeare, Moliere, Voltaire, etc. Have no reason for existing and for expressing themselves. 

Come, let me suffer! That is worth more than viewing INJUSTICE WITHA SERENE COUNTENANCE, as Shakespeare says. When I have drained mycup of bitterness, I shall feel better. I am a woman, I haveaffections, sympathies, and wrath. I shall never be a sage, nor ascholar. 

I received a kind little note from the Princess Mathilde. Is shethen again settled in Paris? Has she anything to live on from theeffects of M. Demidoff, her late and I think unworthy husband? Onthe whole it is brave and good of her to return near to her friends, at the risk of new upsets. 

I am glad that these little faces of children pleased you. I embraceyou very much, you are so kind, I was sure of it. Although you are amandarin, I do not think that you are like a Chinaman at all, and Ilove you with a full heart. 

I am working like a convict. 

G. Sand

CXCIX. TO GEORGE SAND

Dear master, I received your article yesterday, and I should answerit at length if I were not in the midst of preparations for mydeparture for Paris. I am going to try to finish up with Aisse. 

The middle of your letter made me SHED A TEAR, without convertingme, of course. I was moved, that was all, without being persuaded. 

I look vainly in your article for one word: "justice, " and all ourill comes from forgetting absolutely that first notion of morality, which to my way of thinking composes all morality. Humanitarianism, sentiment, the ideal, have played us sufficiently mean tricks for usto try righteousness and science. 

If France does not pass in a short time to the crisis, I believethat she will be irrevocably lost. Free compulsory education will donothing but augment the number of imbeciles. Renan has said thatvery well in the preface to his Questions contemporaines. What weneed most of all, is a natural, that is to say, a legitimatearistocracy. No one can do anything without a head, and universalsuffrage as it exists is more stupid than divine right. You will seeremarkable things if they let it keep on! The masses, the numbers, are always idiotic. I have few convictions, but I have that onestrongly. But the masses must be respected, however inept they maybe, because they contain the germs of an incalculable fecundity. Give it liberty but not power. 

I believe no more than you do in class distinction. Castes belong toarcheology. But I believe that the poor hate the rich, and that therich are afraid of the poor. It will be so forever. It is as uselessto preach love to the one as to the other. The most important thingis to instruct the rich, who, on the whole, are the strongest. Enlighten the bourgeois first, for he knows nothing, absolutelynothing. The whole dream of democracy is to elevate the proletarianto the level of the imbecility of the bourgeois. The dream is partlyaccomplished. He reads the same papers and has the same passions. 

The three degrees of education have shown within the last year whatthey can accomplish: (1) higher education made Prussia win; (2)secondary education, bourgeois, produced the men of the 4th ofSeptember; (3) primary education gave us the Commune. Its ministerof public instruction was the great Valles, who boasted that hescorned Homer!

In three years every Frenchman can know how to read. Do you thinkthat we shall be the better off? Imagine on the other hand that ineach commune, there was ONE bourgeois, only one, who had readBastiat, and that this bourgeois was respected, things would change. 

However I am not discouraged as you are, and the present governmentpleases me, because it has no principle, no metaphysics, no humbug. I express myself very badly. Moreover you deserve a differentresponse, but I am much hurried. 

I hear today that the mass of the Parisians regrets Badinguet. Aplebiscite would declare for him, I do not doubt it, universalsuffrage is such a fine thing. 

CC. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERTNohant, 10 October, 1871

I am answering your post scriptum, if I had answered Flaubert Ishould not have . . . ANSWERED, knowing well that your heart does notalways agree with your mind, a discordance into which we allmoreover are continually compelled to fall. I answered a part of aletter of some friend whom no one knows, no one can recognize, sinceI address myself to a part of your reasoning that is not youentirely. 

You are a troubadour all the same, and if I had to write to youPUBLICLY the character would be what it ought to be. But our realdiscussions ought to remain between ourselves, like caresses betweenlovers, and even sweeter, since friendship also has its mysterieswithout the storms of personality. 

That letter that you wrote me in haste, is full of well expressedtruths against which I do not protest. But the connection andagreement between your truths of reason and my truths of sentimentmust be found. France, alas! is neither on your side nor my side;she is on the side of blindness, ignorance and folly. Oh! that I donot deny, it is exactly that over which I despair. 

Is this a time to put on Aisse? You told me it was a thing ofdistinction, delicate like all that HE did, and I hear that thepublic of the theatres is more THICKHEADED than ever. You would dowell to see two or three plays, no matter which, in order toappreciate the literary condition of the Parisian. The provinceswill contribute less than in the past. The little fortunes are toomuch cut down to permit frequent trips to Paris. 

If Paris offered, as in my youth, an intelligent and influentialnucleus, a good play would perhaps not have a hundred performances, but a bad play would not have three hundred. But this nucleus hasbecome imperceptible and its influence is swamped. Who then willfill the theatres? The shopkeepers of Paris, without a guide, andwithout good criticism? Well, you are not the master in the matterof Aisse. There is an heir who is impatient, probably. --They writeme that Chilly is very; seriously ill, and that Pierre Berton isreengaged. 

You must be very busy; I will not write a long letter to you. 

I embrace you affectionately, my children love you and ask to beremembered to you. 

G. Sand

CCI. TO GEORGE SAND

Never, dear good master, have you given such a proof of yourinconceivable candor! Now, seriously, you think that you haveoffended me! The first page is almost like excuses! It made me laughheartily! Besides, you can always say everything to me, to me!everything! Your blows will be caresses to me. 

Now let us talk again! I continually repeat my insistence onjustice! Do you see how they are denying it everywhere? Has notmodern criticism abandoned art for history? The intrinsic value of abook is nothing in the school of Sainte-Beuve and Taine. They takeeverything into consideration there except talent. Thence, in thepetty journals, the abuse of personality, the biographies, thediatribes. Conclusion: lack of respect on the part of the public. 

In the theatre, the same thing. They don't bother about the play, but the lesson to be preached. Our friend Dumas dreams the glory ofLacordaire, or rather of Ravignan! To prevent the tucking up ofpetticoats has become with him obsession. We can not have progressedvery far since all morality consists for women, in not committingadultery, and for men in abstaining from theft! In short, the firstinjustice is practised by literature; it has no interest inesthetics, which is only a higher justice. The romantics will have afine account to render with their immoral sentimentality. Do yourecall a bit of Victor Hugo in la Legende des siecles, where asultan is saved because he had pity on a pig? it is always the storyof the penitent thief blessed because he has repented! To repent isgood, but not to do evil is better. The school of rehabilitationshas led us to see no difference between a rascal and an honest man. I became enraged once before witnesses, against Sainte-Beuve, whilebegging him to have as much indulgence for Balzac as he had forJules Lecomte. He answered me, calling me a dolt! That is whereBREADTH OF VIEW leads you. 

They have so lost all sense of proportion, that the war council atVersailles treats Pipe-en-Bois more harshly than M. Courbet, Maroteau is condemned to death like Rossel! It is madness! Thesegentlemen, however, interest me very little. I think that theyshould have condemned to the galleys all the Commune, and haveforced these bloody imbeciles to clear up the ruins of Paris, with achain on their necks, like ordinary convicts. But that would havewounded HUMANITY. They are kind to the mad dogs, and not at all tothe people whom the dogs have bitten. 

That will not change so long as universal suffrage is what it is. Every man (as I think), no matter how low he is, has a right to ONEvoice, his own, but he is not the equal of his neighbor, who may beworth a hundred times more. In an industrial enterprise (Societeanonyme), each holder votes according to the value of hiscontribution. It ought to be so in the government of a nation. I amworth fully twenty electors of Croisset. Money, mind, and even raceought to be reckoned, in short every resource. But up to the presentI only see one! numbers! Ah! dear master, you who have so authority, you ought to take the lead. Your articles in le Temps, which havehad a great success, are widely read and who knows? You wouldperhaps do France a great service?

Aisse keeps me very busy, or rather provokes me. I have not seenChilly, I have had to do with Duquesnel. They are depriving medefinitely of the senior Berton and proposing his son. He is verynice, but he is not at all the type conceived by the author. TheTheatre Francais perhaps would ask nothing better than to takeAisse! I am very perplexed, and it is going to be necessary for meto decide. As for waiting till a literary wind arises, as it willnever arise in my lifetime, it is better to risk the thing at once. 

These theatrical affairs disturb me greatly, for I was in greatform. For the last month I was even in an exaltation bordering onmadness!

I have met the unavoidable Harrisse, a man who knows everyone, andwho is a judge of everything, theatre, novels, finances, politics, etc. What a race is that of enlightened men!!! I have seen Plessy, charming and always beautiful. She asked me to send you a thousandfriendly messages. 

For my part, I send you a hundred thousand affectionate greetings. 

Your old friend

CCII. TO GEORGE SAND14 November, 1871

Ouf! I have just finished MY GODS, that is to say the mythologicalpart of my Saint-Antoine, on which I have been working since thebeginning of June. How I want to read it to you, dear master of thegood God!

Why did you resist your good impulse? Why didn't you come thisautumn? You should not stay so long without seeing Paris. I shall bethere day after tomorrow, and I shall have no amusement there at allthis winter, what with Aisse, a volume of verse to be printed (Ishould like to show you the preface), and Heaven knows what else. Alot of things that are not at all diverting. 

I did not receive the second article that was announced. Your oldtroubadour has an aching head. My longest nights these three monthshave not exceeded five hours. I have been grubbing in a franticmanner. Furthermore, I think I have brought my book to a prettydegree of insanity. The idea of the foolish things that it will makethe bourgeois utter sustains me, or rather I don't need to besustained, as such a situation pleases me naturally. 

The good bourgeois is becoming more and more stupid! He does noteven go to vote! The brute beasts surpass him in their instinct forself-preservation. Poor France! Poor us!

What do you think I am reading now to distract myself? Bichat andCabanis, who amuse me enormously. They knew how to write books then. Ah! how far our doctors of today are from those men!

We suffer from one thing only: Absurdity. But it is formidable anduniversal. When they talk of the brutishness of the plebe, they aresaying an unjust, incomplete thing. Conclusion: the enlightenedclasses must be enlightened. Begin by the head, which is thesickest, the rest will follow. 

You are not like me! You are full of compassion. There are days whenI choke with wrath, I would like to drown my contemporaries inlatrines, or at least deluge their cockscombs with torrents ofabuse, cataracts of invectives. Why? I wonder myself. 

What sort of archeology is Maurice busy with? Embrace your littlegirls warmly for me. 

Your old friend

CCIII. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERTNohant, 23 November, 1871

I hear from Plauchut that you won't let yourself be abducted for ourChristmas Eve REVELS. You say you have too much to do. That is somuch the worse for us, who would have had such pleasure in seeingyou. --You were at Ch. Edmond's successful play, you are well, youhave a great deal to do, you still detest the silly bourgeois; andwith all that, is Saint-Antoine finished and shall we read it soon?

I am giving you an easy commission to do, this is it: I have had toaid a respectable and interesting person [Footnote: Mademoiselle deFlaugergues. ] to whom the Prussians have left for a bed and chair, only an old garden bench. I sent her 300 francs, she needed 600. Ibegged from kind souls. They sent me what was necessary, all exceptthe Princess Mathilde, from whom I asked 200 francs. She answered methe 19th of this month: HOW SHALL I SEND THIS TO YOU?

I replied the same day; simply by mail. But I have received nothing. I do not insist, but I fear that the money may have been stolen orlost, and I am asking you to clear up the affair as quickly aspossible. 

With this, I embrace you, and Lolo, AURORE EMBRACES YOU TOO and allthe family which loves you. 

G. Sand

[The words 'Aurore embraces you too' were written by the little girlherself. ]

CCIV. TO GEORGE SAND1 December

Your letter which I have just found again, makes me remorseful, forI have not yet done your errand to the princess. I was several dayswithout knowing where the princess was. She was to have come to getsettled in Paris, and send me word of her arrival. Today at last Ilearn that she is at Saint-Gratien where I shall go on Sundayevening probably. Anyway your commission shall be done next week. 

You must forgive me, for I have not had for the last two weeks tenminutes of freedom. The revival of Ruy Blas which was going to beput ahead of Aisse had to be PUT OFF (it was a hard job). Well, therehearsals are to begin on Monday next. I read the play to theactors today, and the roles are to be verified tomorrow. I think itwill go well. I have had Bouilhet's volume of verse printed, thepreface of which I re-wrote. In short I am worn out! and sad! sadenough to croak. When I have to get into action I throw myself intoit head first. But my heart is breaking in disgust. That is thetruth. 

I have seen none of our friends except Tourgueneff, whom I havefound more charming than ever. Give a good kiss to Aurore for hersweet message, and let her kiss you for me. 

Your old friend

CCV. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERTNohant, 7 December, 1871

The money was stolen, I did not receive it, and it can not beclaimed, for the sender would be liable to a suit. Thank theprincess just the same for me, and for poor Mademoiselle deFlaugergues whom by the way, the minister is aiding with 200 francs. Her pension is 800. 

You are in the midst of rehearsals, I pity you, and yet I imaginethat in working for a friend one puts more heart in it, moreconfidence and much more patience. Patience, there is everything inthat, and that is acquired. 

I love you and I embrace you, how I would like to have you atChristmas! You can not, so much the worse for us. We shall drink youa toast and many speaches [sic]. 

G. Sand

CCVI. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERTNohant, 4 January, 1872

I want to embrace you at the first of the year and tell you that Ilove my old troubadour now and always, but I don't want you toanswer me, you are in the thick of theatrical things, and you havenot the time and the calmness to write. Here we called you at thestroke of midnight on Christmas, we called your name three times, did you hear it at all?

We are all getting on well, our little girls are growing, we speakof you often; my children embrace you also. May our affection bringyou good luck!

G. Sand

CCVII. TO GEORGE SANDSunday, January, 1872

At last I have a moment of quiet and I can write to you. But I haveso many things to chat with you about, that I hardly know where tobegin: (1) Your little letter of the 4th of January, which came thevery morning of the premiere of Aisse, moved me to tears, dear well-beloved master. You are the only one who shows such delicacies offeeling. 

The premiere was splendid, and then, that is all. The next night thetheatre was almost empty. The press, in general, was stupid andbase. They accused me of having wanted to advertise by INSERTING anincendiary tirade! I pass for a Red (sic). You see where we are!

The management of the Odeon has done nothing for the play! On thecontrary. The day of the premiere it was I who brought with my ownhands the properties for the first act! And on the third performanceI led the supernumeraries. 

Throughout the rehearsals they advertised in the papers the revivalof Ruy Blas, etc. , etc. They made me strangle la Baronne quite asRuy Blas will strangle Aisse. In short, Bouilhet's heir will getvery little money. Honor is saved, that is all. 

I have had Dernieres Chansons printed. You will receive this volumeat the same time as Aisse and a letter of mine to the Conseilmunicipal de Rouen. This little production seemed too violent to leNouvelliste de Rouen, which did not dare to print it; but it willappear on Wednesday in le Temps, then at Rouen, as a pamphlet. 

What a foolish life I have been leading for two and a half months!How is it that I have not croaked with it? My longest nights havenot been over five hours. What running about! What letters! and whatanger!--repressed--unfortunately! At last, for three days I haveslept all I wanted to, and I am stupefied by it. 

I was present with Dumas at the premiere of Roi Carotte. You can notimagine such rot! It is sillier and emptier than the worst of thefairy plays of Clairville. The public agreed with me absolutely. 

The good Offenbach has had another failure at the Opera-Comique withFantasio. Shall one ever get to hating piffle? That would be a finestep on the right path. 

Tourgueneff has been in Paris since the first of December. Everyweek we have an engagement to read Saint-Antoine and to dinetogether. But something always prevents and we never meet. I amharassed more than ever by life and am disgusted with everything, which does not prevent me from being in better health than ever. Explain that to me. 

CCVIII. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERTNohant, 18 January, 1872

You must not be sick, you must not be a grumbler, my dear oldtroubadour. You must cough, blow your nose, get well, say thatFrance is mad, humanity silly, and that we are crude animals; andyou must love yourself, your kind, and your friends above all. Ihave some very sad hours. I look at MY FLOWERS, these two littleones who are always smiling, their charming mother and my wisehardworking son whom the end of the world will find hunting, cataloguing, doing his daily task, and gay withal AS PUNCH, in theRARE moments when he is resting. 

He said to me this morning: "Tell Flaubert to come, I will take avacation at once. I will play the marionettes for him, I will makehim laugh. "

Life in a crowd forbids reflection. You are too much alone. Comequickly to our house and let us love you. 

G. Sand

CCIX. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERTFriday, 19 January, 1872

I did not know about all that affair at Rouen and I now understandyour anger. But you are too angry, that is to say too good, and toogood for them. With a BITTER and vindictive man these louts would beless spiteful and less bold. You have always called them brutes, youand Bouilhet, now they are avenging themselves on the dead and onthe living. Ah! well, it is indeed that and nothing else. 

Yesterday I was preaching the calmness of disdain to you. I see thatthis is not the moment, but you are not wicked, strong men are notcruel! With a bad mob at their heels, these fine men of Rouen wouldnot have dared what they have dared!

I have the Chansons, tomorrow I shall read your preface, frombeginning to end. 

I embrace you. 

CCX. TO GEORGE SAND

You will receive very soon: Dernieres Chansons, Aisse and my Lettreau Conseil municipal de Rouen, which is to appear tomorrow in leTemps before appearing as a pamphlet. 

I have forgotten to tell you something, dear master. I have usedyour name. I have COMPROMISED you in citing you among theillustrious people who have subscribed to the monument for Bouilhet. I found that it looked well in the sentence. An effect of stylebeing a sacred thing with me, don't disavow it. 

Today I am starting again my metaphysical readings for Saint-Antoine. Next Saturday, I shall read a hundred and thirty pages ofit, all that is finished, to Tourgueneff. Why won't you be there!

I embrace you. 

Your old friend

CCXI. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERTNohant, 25 January, 1872

You were quite right to put me down and I want to CONTRIBUTE too. Put me down for the sum you would like and tell me so that I mayhave it sent to you. 

I have read your preface in le Temps: the end of it is verybeautiful and touching. But I see that this poor friend was, likeyou, one who DID NOT GET OVER HIS ANGER, and at your age I shouldlike to see you less irritated, less worried with the folly ofothers. For me, it is lost time, like complaining about being boredwith the rain and the flies. The public which is accused often ofbeing silly, gets angry and only becomes sillier; for angry orirritated, one becomes sublime if one is intelligent, idiotic if oneis silly. 

After all, perhaps this chronic indignation is a need of yourconstitution; it would kill me. I have a great need to be calm so asto reflect and to think things over. At this moment I am doing THEUSEFUL at the risk of your anathemas. I am trying to simplify achild's approach to culture, being persuaded that the first studymakes its impression on all the others and that pedagogy teaches usto look for knots in bulrushes. In short, I am working over APRIMER, do not EAT ME ALIVE. 

I have ONLY ONE regret about Paris: it is not to be a third withTourgueneff when you read your Saint-Antoine. For all the rest, Paris does not call me at all; my heart has affections there that Ido not wish to hurt, by disagreement with their ideas. It isimpossible not to be tired of this spirit of party or of sect whichmakes people no longer French, nor men, nor themselves. They have nocountry, they belong to a church. They do what they disapprove of, so as not to disobey the discipline of the school. I prefer to keepsilent. They would find me cold or stupid; one might as well stay athome. 

You don't tell me of your mother; is she in Paris with hergrandchild? I hope that your silence means that they are well. Everything has gone wonderfully here this winter; the children areexcellent and give us nothing but joy. After the dismal winter of'70 to '71, one ought to complain of nothing. 

Can one live peaceably, you say, when the human race is so absurd? Isubmit, while saying to myself that perhaps I am as absurd as everyone else and that it is time to turn my mind to correcting myself. 

I embrace you for myself and for all mine. 

G. Sand

CCXII. TO GEORGE SAND

No! dear master! it is not true. Bouilhet never injured thebourgeois of Rouen; no one was gentler to them, I add even morecowardly, to tell the truth. As for me, I kept apart from them, thatis all my crime. 

I find by chance just today in Nadar's Memoirs du Geant, a paragraphon me and the people of Rouen which is absolutely exact. Since youown this book, look at page 100. 

If I had kept silent they would have accused me of being a coward. Iprotested naively, that is to say brutally. And I did well. 

I think that one ought never begin the attack; but when one answers, one must try to kill cleanly one's enemy. Such is my system. Frankness is part of loyalty; why should it be less perfect in blamethan in praise?

We are perishing from indulgence, from clemency, from COWISHNESS and(I return to my eternal refrain) from lack of JUSTICE!

Besides, I have never insulted any one, I have kept togeneralities, --as for M. Decorde, my intentions are for openwarfare;--but enough of that! I spent yesterday, a fine day, withTourgueneff to whom I read the hundred and fifteen pages of Saint-Antoine that are finished. After which, I read to him almost half ofthe Dernieres Chansons. What a listener! What a critic! He dazzledme by the depth and the clearness of his judgment. Ah! if all thosewho attempt to judge books had been able to hear, what a lesson!Nothing escapes him. At the end of a passage of a hundred lines, heremembers a weak epithet! he gave me two or three suggestions ofexquisite detail for Saint-Antoine. 

Do you think me very silly since you believe I am going to blame youfor your primer? I have enough philosophic spirit to know that sucha thing is very serious work. 

Method is the highest thing in criticism, since it gives the meansof creating. 

CCXIII. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERTNohant, 28 January, 1872

Your preface is splendid and the book [Footnote: Dernieres Chansons, by Louis Bouilhet. ] is divine! Mercy! I have made a line of poetrywithout realizing it, God forgive me. Yes, you are right, he was notsecond rank, and ranks are not given by decree, above all in an agewhen criticism undoes everything and does nothing. All your heart isin this simple and discreet tale of his life. I see very well now, why he died so young; he died from having lived too extensively inthe mind. I beg of you not to absorb yourself so much in literatureand learning. Change your home, move about, have mistresses orwives, whichever you like, and during these phases, must change theend that one lights. At my advanced age I throw myself intotorrents of far niente; the most infantile amusements, the silliest, are enough for me and I return more lucid from my attacks ofimbecility. 

It was a great loss to art, that premature death. In ten years therewill not be one single poet. Your preface is beautiful and welldone. Some pages are models, and it is very true that the bourgeoiswill read that and find nothing remarkable in it. Ah! if one did nothave the little sanctuary, the interior little shrine, where, without saying anything to anyone, one takes refuge to contemplateand to dream the beautiful and the true, one would have to say:"What is the use?"

I embrace you warmly. 

Your old troubadour. 

CCXIV. TO GEORGE SAND

Dear good master, Can you, for le Temps, write on Dernieres Chansons? It would obligeme greatly. Now you have it. 

I was ill all last week. My throat was in a frightful state. But Ihave slept a great deal and I am again afloat. I have begun anew myreading for Saint-Antoine. 

It seems to me that Dernieres Chansons could lend itself to abeautiful article, to a funeral oration on poetry. Poetry will notperish, but its eclipse will be long and we are entering into theshades. 

Consider if you have a mind for it and answer by a line. 

CCXV. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT, in ParisNohant, 17 February

My troubadour, I am thinking of what you asked me to do and I willdo it; but this week I must rest. I played the fool too much at thecarnival with my grandchildren and my great-nephews. 

I embrace you for myself and for all my brood. 

G. Sand

CCXVI. TO GEORGE SAND

What a long time it is since I have written to you, dear master. Ihave so many things to say to you that I don't know where to begin. Oh! how horrid it is to live so separated when we love each other. 

Have you given Paris an eternal adieu? Am I never to see you againthere? Are you coming to Croisset this summer to hear Saint-Antoine?

As for me, I can not go to Nohant, because my time, considering mystraitened purse, is all counted; but I have still I a full month ofreadings and researches in Paris. After that I am going away with mymother: we are in search of a companion for her. It is not easy tofind one. Then, towards Easter I shall be back at Croisset, andshall start to work again at the manuscript. I am beginning to wantto write. 

Just now, I am reading in the evening, Kant's Critique de la raisonpure, translated by Barni, and I am freshening up my Spinoza. Duringthe day I amuse myself by looking over bestiaries of the middleages; looking up in the "authorities" all the most baroque animals. I am in the midst of fantastic monsters. 

When I have almost exhausted the material I shall go to the Museumto muse before real monsters, and then the researches for the goodSaint-Antoine will be finished. 

In your letter before the last one you showed anxiety about myhealth; reassure yourself! I have never been more convinced that itwas robust. The life that I have led this winter was enough to killthree rhinoceroses, but nevertheless I am well. The scabbard must besolid, for the blade is well sharpened; but everything is convertedinto sadness! Any action whatever disgusts me with life! I havefollowed your counsels, I have sought distractions! But that amusesme very little. Decidedly nothing but sacrosanct literatureinterests me. 

My preface to the Dernieres Chansons has aroused in Madame Colet apindaric fury. I have received an anonymous letter from her, inverse, in which she represents me as a charlatan who beats the drumon the tomb of his friend, a vulgar wretch who debases himselfbefore criticism, after having "flattered Caesar"! "Sad example ofthe passions, " as Prudhomme would say. 

A propos of Caesar, I can not believe, no matter what they say, inhis near return. In spite of my pessimism, we have not come to that!However, if one consulted the God called Universal Suffrage, whoknows?. . . Ah! we are very low, very low!

I saw Ruy Blas badly played except for Sarah. Melingue is a sleep-walking drain-man, and the others are as tiresome. As Victor Hugohad complained in a friendly way that I had not paid him a call, Ithought I ought to do so and I found him . . . Charming! I repeat theword, not at all "the great man, " not at all a pontiff! Thisdiscovery greatly surprised me and did me worlds of good. For I havethe bump of veneration and I like to love what I admire. That is apersonal allusion to you, dear, kind master. 

I have met Madame Viardot whom I found a very curious temperament. It was Tourgueneff who took me to her house. 

CCXVII. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT, at CroisssetNohant, from the 28 to the 29 February 1872. Night of Wednesday toThursday, three o'clock in the morning. 

Ah! my dear old friend, what a dreadful twelve days I have spent!Maurice has been very ill. Continually these terrible sore throats, which in the beginning seem nothing, but which are complicated withabscesses and tend to become membranous. He has not been in danger, but always IN DANGER OF DANGER, and he has had cruel suffering, lossof voice, he could not swallow; every anguish attached to theviolent sore throat that you know well, since you have just had one. With him, this trouble continually tends to get worse, and hismucous membrane has been so often the seat of the same illness thatit lacks energy to react. With that, little or no fever, almostalways on his feet, and the moral depression of a man used tocontinual exercise of body and mind, whom the mind and body forbidsto exercise. We have looked after him so well that he is now, Ithink, out of the woods, although, this morning, I was afraid againand sent for Doctor Favre, our USUAL savior. 

Throughout the day I have been talking to him, to distract him, about your researches on monsters; he had his papers brought so asto hunt among them for what might be useful you; but he has foundonly the pure fantasies of his own invention. I found them sooriginal and so funny that I have encouraged him to send them toyou. They will be of no use to you except to make you burst outlaughing in your hours recreation. 

I hope that we are going to come to life again without new relapses. He is the soul and the life of the house. When he is depressed weare dead; mother, wife, and children. Aurore says that she wouldlike to be very ill in her father's place We love each otherpassionately, we five, and the SACROSANCT LITERATURE as you call it, is only secondary in my life. I have always loved some one more thanit and my family more than that some one. 

Pray why is your poor little mother so irritable and desperate, inthe very midst of an old age that when I last saw her was still sogreen and so gracious? Is her deafness sudden? Did she entirely lackphilosophy and patience before these infirmities? I suffer with youbecause I understand what you are suffering. 

Another old age which is worse, since it is becoming malicious, isthat of Madame Colet. I used to think that all her hatred wasdirected against me, and that seemed to me a bit of madness; for Ihad never done or said anything against her, even after that vilebook in which she poured out all her fury WITHOUT cause. What hasshe against you now that passion has become ancient history?Strange! strange! And, a propos of Bouilhet, she hated him then, himtoo this poor poet? She is mad. 

You may well think that I was not able to write an iota for thesetwelve days. I am going, I hope, to start at work as soon as I havefinished my novel which has remained with one foot in the air at thelast pages. It is on the point of being published but has not yetbeen finished. I am up every night till dawn; but I have not had asufficiently tranquil mind to be distracted from my patient. 

Good night, dear good friend of my heart. 

Heavens! don't work nor sit up too much, as you also have sorethroats. They are terrible and treacherous illnesses. We all loveyou, and we embrace you. Aurore is charming; she learns all that wewant her to, we don't know how, without seeming to notice it. 

What kind of a woman do you want as a companion for your mother?Perhaps I know of such a one. Must she converse and read aloud? Itseems to me that the deafness is a barrier to that. Isn't it aquestion of material care and continual diligence? What are thestipulations and what is the compensation?

Tell me how and why father Hugo did not have one single visit afterRuy Blas? Did Gautier, Saint-Victor, his faithful ones, neglect him?Have they quarreled about politics?

CCXVIII. TO GEORGE SANDMarch, 1872

Dear master, I have received the fantastic drawings, which have diverted me. Isthere perhaps profound symbolism hidden in Maurice's work? But I didnot find it. . . . Revery!

There are two very pretty monsters: (1) an embryo in the form of aballoon on four feet; (2) a death's head emanating from anintestinal worm. 

We have not found a companion yet. It seems difficult to me, we musthave someone who can read aloud and who is very gentle; we shouldalso give her some charge of the household. She would not have muchbodily care to give, as my mother would keep her maid. 

We must have someone who is kind above all, and perfectly honest. Religious principles are not objected to! The rest is left to yourperspicacity, dear master! That is all. 

I am uneasy about Theo. I think that he is getting strangely old. Hemust be very ill, doubtless with heart trouble, don't you think so?Still another who is preparing to leave me. 

No! literature is not what I love most in the world, I explainedmyself badly (in my last letter). I spoke to you of distractions andof nothing more. I am not such a pedant as to prefer phrases toliving beings. The further I go the more my sensibility isexasperated. But the basis is solid and the thing goes on. And then, after the Prussian war there is no further great annoyance possible. 

And the Critique de la raison pure of the previously mentioned Kant, translated by Barni, is heavier reading than the Vie Parisienne ofMarcelin; never mind! I shall end by understanding it. 

I have almost finished the scenario of the last part of SaintAntoine. I am in a hurry to start writing. It is too long since Ihave written. I am bored with style!

And tell me more about you, dear master! Give me at once news ofMaurice, and tell me if you think that the lady you know would suitus. 

And thereupon I embrace you with both arms. 

Your old troubadour always agitated, always as wrathful as SaintPolycarp. 

CCXIX. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT17 March, 1872

No, dear friend, Maurice is almost well again but I have been tired, worn out with URGENT work: finishing my novel, and correcting a massof proof from the beginning. And then unanswered letters, business, no time to breathe! That is why I have not been able to write thearticle on Bouilhet, and as Nanon has begun, as they are publishingfive numbers a week in le Temps, I don't see where I shall publishthat article very soon. 

In the Revue des Deux Mondes, they don't want me to write criticism;whoever is not, or was not of their circle, has no talent, and theydo not give me the right to say the contrary. 

There is, to be sure, a new review wide open to me, which ispublished by very fine people, but it is more widely read in othercountries than in France, and you will find perhaps that an articlein that would not excite comment. It is the Revue universelledirected by Amedee Marteau. Discuss that with Charles Edmond. Askhim if, in spite of the fact that Nanon is being published, he couldfind me a little corner in the body of the paper. 

As for the companion, you may rest assured that I am looking forher. The one whom I had in view is not suitable, for she could notread aloud, and I am not sure enough of the others to propose them. I thought that your poor mother was too deaf to listen to reading, and to converse, and that it would be enough for her to have someone very gentle, and charming, to care for her, and to stay withher. 

That is all, my dear old friend, it is not my fault, I embrace youwith all my heart. For the moment that is the only thing that isfunctioning. My brain is too stupefied. 

G. Sand

CCXX. TO GEORGE SANDCroisset

Here I am, back again here, dear master, and not very happy; mymother worries me. Her decline increases from day to day, and almostfrom hour to hour. She wanted me to come home although the paintershave not finished their work, and we are very inconveniently housed. At the end of next week, she will have a companion who will relieveme in this foolish business of housekeeping. 

As for me, I have quite decided not to make the presses groan formany years, solely not to have "business" to look after, to avoidall connection with publishers, editors and papers, and above allnot to hear of money. 

My incapacity, in that direction, has developed to frightfulproportions. Why should the sight of a bill put me in a rage? Itverges on madness. Aisse has not made money. Dernieres Chansons hasalmost gotten me into a lawsuit. The story of la Fontaine is notended. I am tired, profoundly tired, of everything. 

If only I do not make a failure also of Saint-Antoine. I am going tostart working on it again in a week, when I have finished with Kantand Hegel. These two great men are helping to stupefy me, and when Ileave them I fall with eagerness upon my old and thrice greatSpinoza. What genius, how fine a work the Ethics is!

CCXXI. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT, at Croissset9 April, 1872

I am with you all day and all night, and at every instant, my poordear friend. I am thinking of all the sorrow that you are in themidst of. I would like to be near you. The misfortune of being tiedhere distresses me. I would like a word so as to know if you havethe courage that you need. The end of that noble and dear life hasbeen sad and long; for from the day that she became feeble, shedeclined and you could not distract her and console her. Now, alas!the incessant and cruel task is ended, as the things of this worldend, anguish after struggle! What a bitter achievement of rest! andyou are going to miss this anxiety, I am sure of that. I know thesort of dismay that follows the combat with death. 

In short, my poor child, I can only open a maternal heart to youwhich will replace nothing, but which is suffering with yours, andvery keenly in each one of your troubles. 

G. Sand

CCXXII. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERTNohant, 14 April, 1872

My daughter-in-law has been staying several days with our friends, at Nimes, to stop a bad case of WHOOPING-COUGH that Gabrielle wassuffering with, to separate her from Aurore, from fear of contagion, and to recuperate, for she has not been well for some time. As forme, I am well again. That little illness and this departure suddenlyresolved upon and accomplished, have upset my plans somewhat. I hadto look after Aurore so that she might be reconciled to it, and Ihave not had a moment to answer you. I am wondering too if you don'tlike it better to be left to yourself these first few days. But Ibeguile the need I feel of being near you at this sad time, bytelling you over and over again, my poor, dear friend, how much Ilove you. Perhaps, too, your family has taken you to Rouen or toDieppe, so as not to let you go back at once into that sad house. Idon't know anything about your plans, in case those which you madeto absorb yourself in work are changed. If you have any inclinationto travel, and the sinews of war are lacking, I have ready for you afew sous that I have just earned, and I put them at your disposal. Don't feel constrained with me any more than I would with you, dearchild. They are going to pay me for my novel in five or six days atthe office of le Temps; you need only to write me a line and I shallsee that you get it in Paris. A word when you can, I embrace you, and so does Maurice, very tenderly. 

CCXXIII. TO GEORGE SANDTuesday, 16 April, 1872

Dear good master, I should have answered at once your first, very kind letter. But Iwas too sad. I lacked physical strength. 

At last, today, I am beginning to hear the birds singing and to seethe leaves growing green. The sun irritates me no longer, which is agood sign. If I could feel like working again I should be all right. 

Your second letter (that of yesterday) moved me to tears! You are sogood! What a splendid creature you are! I do not need money now, thank you. But if I did need any, I should certainly ask you for it. 

My mother has left Croisset to Caroline with the condition that Ishould keep my apartments there. So, until the estate is completelysettled, I stay here. Before deciding on the future, I must knowwhat I have to live on, after that we shall see. 

Shall I have the strength to live absolutely alone in solitude? Idoubt it, I am growing old. Caroline cannot live here now. She hastwo dwellings already, and the house at Croisset is expensive. Ithink I shall give up my Paris lodging. Nothing calls me to Parisany longer. All my friends are dead, and the last one, poor Theo, isnot for long, I fear. Ah! it is hard to grow a new skin at fiftyyears of age!

I realized, during the last two weeks, that my poor dear, goodmother was the being that I have loved the most! It is as if someonehad torn out a part of my vitals. 

CCXXIV. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERTNohant, 28 April, 1872

I hold my poor Aurore, who has a terrible case of whooping-cough, day and night in my arms. I have an important piece of work that Imust finish, and which I shall finish in spite of everything. If Ihave not already done the article on Bouilhet, rest assured it isbecause it is IMPOSSIBLE. I shall do it at the same time as that onl'Annee terrible. I shall go to Paris between the 20th and 25th ofMay, at the latest. Perhaps sooner, if Maurice takes Aurore to Nimeswhere Lina and the littlest one are. I shall write to you, you mustcome to see me in Paris, or I will go to see you. 

I thirst too to embrace you, to console you--no, but to tell youthat your sorrows are mine. Good-bye till then, a line to tell me ifyour affairs are getting settled, and if you are coming out on top. 

Your old G. Sand

CCXXV. TO GEORGE SAND

What good news, dear master! In a month and even before a month, Ishall see you at last!

Try not to be too hurried in Paris, so that we may have the time totalk. What would be very nice, would be, if you came back here withme to spend several days. We should be quieter than there; "my poorold mother" loved you very much, would be sweet to see you in herhouse, when she has been gone only such a short time. 

I have started work again, for existence is only tolerable when oneforgets one's miserable self. 

It will be a long time before I know what I have to live on. For allthe fortune that is left to us is in meadowland, and in order todivide it, we have to sell it all. 

Whatever happens, I shall keep my apartments at Croisset. That willbe my refuge, and perhaps even my only habitation. Paris hardlyattracts me any longer. In a little while I shall have no morefriends there. The human being (the eternal feminine included)amuses me less and less. 

Do you know that my poor Theo is very ill? He is dying from boredomand misery. No one speaks his language anymore! We are like fossilswho subsist astray in a new world. 

CCXXVI. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERTNohant, 18 May, 1872

Dear friend of my heart, your inability does not disturb me at all, on the contrary. I have the grippe and the prostration that followsit. I cannot go to Paris for a week yet, and shall be there duringthe first part of June. My little ones are both in the sheepfold. Ihave taken good care of and cured the eldest, who is strong. Theother is very tired, and the trip did not prevent the whooping-cough. For my part, I have worked very hard in caring for my dearone, and as soon as my task was over, as soon as I saw my dear worldreunited and well again, I collapsed. It will be nothing, but I havenot the strength to write. I embrace you, and I count on seeing yousoon. 

G. Sand

CCXXVII. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERTParis, Monday, 3 June, 1872, Rue Gay Lussac, 5

I am in Paris, and for all this week, in the horror of personalbusiness. But next week will you come? I should like to go to seeyou in Croisset, but I do not know if I can. I have taken Aurore'swhooping-cough, and, at my age, it is severe. I am, however, better, but hardly able to go about. Write me a line, so I can reserve thehours that you can give me. I embrace you, as I love you, with afull heart. 

G. Sand

CCXXVIII. TO GEORGE SAND1872

The hours that I could give you, dear Master! Why, all the hours, now, by and by, and forever. 

I am planning to go to Paris at the end of next week, the 14th orthe 16th. Shall you be there still? If not, I shall go earlier. 

But I should like it much better if you came here. We should bequieter, without callers or intruders! More than ever, I should liketo have you now in my poor Croisset. 

It seems to me that we have enough to talk about without stoppingfor twenty-four hours. Then I would read you Saint-Antoine, whichlacks only about fifteen pages of being finished. However, don'tcome if your cough continues. I should be afraid that the dampnesswould hurt you. 

The mayor of Vendome has asked me "to honor with my presence" thededication of the statue of Ronsard, which occurs the 23rd of thismonth: I shall go. And I should even like to deliver an addressthere which would be a protest against the universal modern flap-doodle. The occasion is good. But for the production of a reallyappropriate little gem, I lack the snap and vivacity. 

Hoping to see you soon, dear master, your old troubadour whoembraces you. 

CCXXIX. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT7 June, 1872

Dear friend, Your old troubadour has such a bad cough that a little bit morewould be the last straw. On the other hand, they cannot get onwithout me at our house, and I cannot stay longer than next week, that is to say, the 15th or the 16th. If you could come nextThursday, the 13th, I should reserve the 13th, the 14th, even the15th, to be with you at my house for the day for dinner, for theevening, in short, just as if we were in the country, where we couldread and converse. I would be supposed to have gone away. 

A word at once, I embrace you as I love you. 

G. Sand

CCXXX. TO GEORGE SAND

Dear master, Have you promised your support to the candidacy of Duquesnel? ifnot, I should like to beg you to use to the utmost your influence tosupport my friend, Raymond Deslandes, as if he were

Your old troubadour, G. Flaubert

Thursday, three o'clock, 13 June, 1872. 

Answer me categorically, so that we may know what you will do. 

CCXXXI. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT, at Croissset. . Nohant, 5 July, 1872

I must write to you today. Sixty-eight years old. Perfect health inspite of the cough, which lets me sleep now that I am plunging dailyin a furious little torrent, cold as ice. It boils around thestones, the flowers, the great grasses in a delicious shade. It isan ideal place to bathe. 

We have had some terrible storms: lightning struck in our garden;and our stream, the Indre, has become like a torrent in thePyrenees. It is not unpleasant. What a fine summer! The grain isseven feet high, the wheat fields are sheets of flowers. The peasantthinks that there are too many; but I let him talk, it is so lovely!I go on foot to the stream, I jump, all boiling hot, into the icywater. The doctor says that is madness. I let him talk, too; I amcuring myself while his patients look after themselves and croak. Iam like the grass of the fields: water and sun, that is all I need. 

Are you off for the Pyrenees? Ah! I envy you, I love them so! I havetaken frantic trips there; but I don't know Luchon. Is it lovely, too? You won't go there without seeing the Cirque of Gavarnie, andthe road that leads there, will you? And Cauterets and the lake ofGaube? And the route of Saint-Sauveur? Heavens! How lucky one is totravel and to see the mountains, the flowers, the cliffs! Does allthat bore you?

Do you remember the editors, the theatrical managers, the readersand the public when you are running about the country! As for me, Iforget everything as I do when Pauline Viardot is singing. 

The other day we discovered, about three leagues from here, awilderness, an absolute wilderness of woods in a great expanse ofcountry, where not one hut could be seen, not a human being, not asheep, not a fowl, nothing but flowers, butterflies and birds allday. But where will my letter find you? I shall wait to send it toyou till you give me an address!

CCXXXII. TO GEORGE SANDBagneres de Luchon, 12th July, 1872

I have been here since Sunday evening, dear master, and no happierthan at Croisset, even a little less so, for I am very idle. Theymake so much noise in the house where we are that it is impossibleto work. Moreover, the sight of the bourgeois who surround us isunendurable. I am not made for travelling. The least inconveniencedisturbs me. Your old troubadour is very old, decidedly! DoctorLambron, the physician of this place, attributes my nervoustendencies to the excessive use of tobacco. To be agreeable I amgoing to smoke less; but I doubt very much if my virtue will cureme!

I have just read Dickens's Pickwick. Do you know that? There aresuperb passages in it; but what defective composition! All Englishwriters are the same; Walter Scott excepted, all lack a plot. Thatis unendurable for us Latins. 

Mister ***** is certainly nominated, as it seems. All the people whohave had to do with the Odeon, beginning with you, dear master, willrepent of the support that they have given him. As for me, who, thank Heaven, have no more connection with that establishment, Idon't give a whoop. 

As I am going to begin a book which will exact much reading, andsince I don't want to ruin myself in books, do you know of anydealer in Paris who would rent me all the books that I designated?

What are you doing now? We saw each other so little and soinconveniently the last time. 

This letter is stupid. But they are making such a noise over my headthat it is not clear (my head). 

In the midst of my bewilderment, I embrace you and yours also. Yourold blockhead who loves you. 

CCXXXIII. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERTNohant, 19 July, 1872

Dear old troubadour, We too are going away, but without knowing yet where we are going;it doesn't make any difference to me. I wanted to take my brood toSwitzerland; they would rather go in the opposite direction, to theOcean; the Ocean will do! If only we travel and bathe, I shall beout of my mind with joy. Decidedly our two old troubadourships aretwo opposites. What bores you, amuses me; I love movement and noise, and even the tiresome things about travelling find favor in my eyes, provided they are a part of travelling. I am much more sensible towhat disturbs the calm of sedentary life, than to that which is anormal and necessary disturbance in the life of motion. 

I am absolutely like my grandchildren, who are intoxicatedbeforehand without knowing why. But it is curious to see howchildren, while loving the change, want to take with them theirsurroundings, their accustomed playthings, when they go out into theworld. Aurore is packing her dolls' trunk, and Gabrielle, who likesanimals better, intends to take her rabbits, her little dog, and alittle pig that she is taking care of until she eats it. SUCH ISLIFE [sic]. 

I believe that, in spite of your bad temper, this trip will do yougood. It will make you rest your brain, and if you have to smokeless, so much the better! Health above all. I hope that your niecewill make you move around a bit; she is your child; she ought tohave some authority over you, or the world would be turned upsidedown. 

I cannot refer you to the bookshop that you need for borrowingbooks. I send for such things to Mario Proth, and I don't know wherehe finds them. When you get back to Paris, tell him from me toinform you. He is a devoted fellow, as obliging as possible. Helives at 2 rue Visconti. It occurs to me that Charles Edmond, too, might give you very good information; Troubat, [Footnote: Sainte-Beuve's secretary. ] also. 

You are surprised that spoken words are not contracts; you are verysimple; in business nothing holds except written documents. We areDon Quixotes, my old troubadour; we must resign ourselves to beingtrimmed by the innkeepers. Life is like that, and he who does notwant to be deceived must go to live in a desert. It is not living tokeep away from all the evil of this nether-world. One must swallowthe bitter with the sweet. 

As to your Saint-Antoine, if you let me, I shall see about findingyou a publisher or a review on my next trip to Paris, but we oughtto talk about it together and you ought to read it to me. Whyshouldn't you come to us in September? I shall be at home untilwinter. 

You ask me what I am doing now: I have done, since I left Paris, anarticle on Mademoiselle de Flaugergues, which will appear inl'Opinion nationale with a work by her; an article for le Temps onVictor Hugo, Bouilhet, Leconte de Lisle and Pauline Viardot. I hopethat you will be pleased with what I said about your friend; I havedone a second fantastic tale for the Revue des Deux Mondes, a talefor children. I have written about a hundred letters, for the mostpart to make up for the folly or to soften the misery of imbecilesof my acquaintance. Idleness is the plague of this age, and life ispassed in working for those who do not work. I do not complain. I amwell! every day I plunge into the Indre and into its icy cascades, my sixty-eight years and my whooping-cough. When I am no longeruseful nor agreeable to others, I want to go away quietly withoutsaying OUF! or at least, not saying anything except that againstpoor mankind, which is not worth much, but of which I am part, notbeing worth perhaps very much myself. 

I love you and I embrace you. My family does too, Plauchut included. He is going to travel with us. 

When we are SOMEWHERE FOR SEVERAL DAYS I shall write to you fornews. 

G. Sand

CCXXXIV. TO GEORGE SANDCroisset, Thursday

Dear master, In the letter I received from you at Luchon a month ago, you told methat you were packing up, and then that was all. No more news! Ihave permitted myself to assume, as the good Brantome would say, that you were at Cabourg! When do you return? Where do you go then?To Paris or to Nohant? A question. 

As for me, I am not leaving Croisset. From the 1st to the 20th or25th of September I shall have to go about a bit on business. Ishall go to Paris. Write then to rue Murillo. 

I should like very much to see you: (1) to see you; (2) to read youSaint-Antoine, then to talk to you about another more importantbook, etc. , and to talk about a hundred other things privately. 

CCXXXV. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERTNohant, 31 August, 1872

My old troubadour, Here we are back again at home, after a month passed, just as yousaid, at Cabourg, where chance more than intention placed us. We alltook wonderful sea baths, Plauchut, too. We often talked of you withMadame Pasca who was our neighbor at table, and had the room nextus. We have returned in splendid health, and we are glad to see ourold Nohant again, after having been glad to leave it for a littlechange of air. 

I have resumed my usual work, and I continue my river baths, but noone will accompany me, it is too cold. As for me, I found fault withthe sea for being too warm. Who would think that, with my appearanceand my tranquil old age, I would still love EXCESS? My dominantpassion on the whole is my Aurore. My life depends on hers. She wasso lovely on the trip, so gay, so appreciative of the amusementsthat we gave her, so attentive to what she saw, and curious abouteverything with so much intelligence, that she is real andsympathetic company at every hour. Ah! how UNLITERARY I am! Scorn mebut still love me. 

I don't know if I shall find you in Paris when I go there for myplay. I have not arranged with the Odeon for the date of itsperformance. I am waiting for Duquesnel for the final reading. --Andthen I expect Pauline Viardot about the 20th of September, and Ihope Tourgueneff too, won't you come also? it would be so nice andso complete!

In this hope which I will not give up, I love you and I embrace youwith all my soul, and my children join me in loving you andsummoning you. 

G. Sand

CCXXXVI. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT, at ParisNohant, 25 October, 1872

Your letters fall on me like a rain that refreshes, and develops atonce all that is germinating in the soil; they make me want toanswer your reasons, because your reasons are powerful and inspire areply. 

I do not assume that my replies will be strong too; they aresincere, they issue from the roots of my being, like the plantsaforesaid. That is why I have just written a paper on the subjectthat you raise, addressing myself this time TO A WOMAN FRIEND, whohas written me also in your vein, but less well than you, of course, and a little from an aristocratically intellectual point of view, towhich she has not ALL THE RIGHTS SHE DESIRES. 

My roots, one can't extirpate them, and I am astonished that you askme to make tulips come from them when they can answer you byproducing only potatoes. Since the beginning of my intellectualblooming, when, studying quite alone at the bedside of my paralyzedgrandmother, or in the fields at the times when I entrusted her toDeschartres, I asked myself the most elementary questions aboutsociety; I was no more advanced at seventeen than a child of six, not as much! thanks to Deschartres, my father's teacher, who was acontradiction from his head to his feet, much learning and littlesense; thanks to the convent, into which they stuck me, God knowswhy, as they believed in nothing; thanks also to a purelyRestoration surrounding in which my grandmother, a philosopher, butdying, breathed her last without resisting further the monarchicalcurrent. 

Then I read Chateaubriand, and Rousseau; I passed from the Gospelsto the Contrat social. I read the history of the Revolution writtenby the pious, the history of France, written by philosophers; and, one fine day, I made all that agree like light proceeding from twolamps, and I had PRINCIPLES. Don't laugh, very candid, childishprinciples which have remained with me through all, through Leliaand the romantic epoch, through love and doubt, enthusiasm anddisenchantments. To love, to make sacrifices, only to reconsiderwhen the sacrifice is harmful to those who are the object of it, andto sacrifice oneself again in the hope of serving a real cause, love. 

I am not speaking here of personal passion, but of love of race, ofthe widening sentiment of self-love, of the horror of THE ISOLATEDMOI. And that ideal of JUSTICE of which you speak, I have never seenit apart from love, since the first law on which the existence of anatural society depends, is that we shall serve each other mutually, like the bees and the ants. This concurrence of all to the same end, we have agreed to call instinct among beasts, and it does notmatter, but among men, the instinct is love; he who withdrawshimself from love, withdraws himself from truth, from justice. 

I have experienced revolutions, and I have seen the principal actorsnear to; I have seen the depth of their souls, I should say thebottom of their bag: NO PRINCIPLES! and no real intelligence, noforce, nor endurance. Nothing but means and a personal end. Only onehad principles, not all of them good, but in comparison with theirintegrity, he counted his personality for nothing: Barbes. 

Among artists and literary men, I have found no depth. You are theonly one with whom I have been able to exchange other ideas thanthose of the profession. I don't know if you were at Magny's one daywhen I said to them that they were all GENTLEMEN. They said that oneshould not write for ignoramuses. They spurned me because I wantedto write only for them, as they are the only ones who need anything. The masters are provided for, are rich, satisfied. Imbeciles lackeverything, I am sorry for them. Loving and pitying are not to beseparated. And there you have the uncomplicated mechanism of mythought. 

I have the passion for goodness and not at all for prejudicedsentimentality. I spit with all my might upon him who pretends tohold my principles and acts contrary to them. I do not pity theincendiary and the assassin who fall under the hand of the law; I dopity profoundly the class which a brutal, degenerate life withoutupward trend and without aid, brings to the point of producing suchmonsters. I pity humanity, I wish it were good, because I cannotseparate myself from it; because it is myself; because the evil itdoes strikes me to the heart; because its shame makes me blush;because its crimes gnaw at my vitals, because I cannot understandparadise in heaven nor on earth for myself alone. 

You ought to understand me, you who are goodness from head to foot. 

Are you still in Paris? It has been such fine weather that I havebeen tempted to go there to embrace you, but I don't dare to spendthe money, however little it may be, when there is so much poverty. I am miserly because I know that I am extravagant when I forget, andI continually forget. And then I have so much to do!. . . I don't knowanything and I don't learn anything, for I am always forced to learnit over again. I do very much need, however, to see you again, for alittle bit; it is a part of myself which I miss. 

My Aurore keeps me very busy. She understands too quickly and wehave to take her at a hard gallop. To understand fascinates her, toknow repels her. She is as lazy as monsieur, her father, was. He hasgotten over it so well that I am not impatient. She promises me towrite you a letter soon. You see that she does not forget you. Titite's Punch has lost his head, literally, because he has been soembraced and caressed. He is loved as much without his head; what anexample of fidelity in misfortune! His stomach has become areceptacle where playthings are put. 

Maurice is deep in his archeological studies, Lina is alwaysadorable, and all goes well except that the maids are not clean. What a road the creatures have still to travel who do not keepthemselves clean!

I embrace you. Tell me how you are getting on with Aisse, the Odeonand all that stuff you are busy about. I love you; that is the endof all my discourses. 

G. Sand

CCXXXVII. TO GEORGE SAND

Dear master, In your last letter, among the nice things that you say to me, youpraise me for not being "haughty"; one is not haughty with what ishigh. Therefore, in this aspect, you cannot know me. I object. 

Although I consider myself a good man, I am not always an agreeablegentleman, witness what happened to me Thursday last. After havinglunched with a lady whom I had called "imbecile, " I went to call onanother whom I had said was "ninny"; such is my ancient Frenchgallantry. The first one had bored me to death with herspiritualistic discourses and her pretensions to ideality; thesecond outraged me by telling me that Renan was a rascal. Observethat she confessed to me that she had not read his books. There aresome subjects about which I lose patience, and, when a friend isslandered before my very face, the savage in my blood returns, I seered. Nothing more foolish! for it serves no purpose and hurts mefrightfully. 

This vice, by the way, BETRAYING ONE'S FRIENDS IN PUBLIC, seems tome to be taking gigantic proportions!

CCXXXVIII. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERTNohant, 26 October, 1872

Dear friend, Here is another chagrin for you; a sorrow foreseen, but none theless distressing. Poor Theo! I pity him deeply, not because he isdead, but because he has not been really living for twenty years;and if he had consented to live, to exist, to act, to forget a bithis intellectual personality so as to conserve his materialpersonality, he could have lived a long time yet, and have renewedhis resources which he was too much inclined to make a steriletreasure. They say that he suffered greatly from hardship during thesiege. I understand it, but afterward? why and how?

I am worried at not having had news from you for a long time. Areyou at Croisset? You must have been in Paris for the funeral of thispoor friend. What cruel and repeated separations! I am angry withyou for becoming savage and discontented with life. It seems to methat you regard happiness too much as a possible thing, and that theabsence of happiness which is our chronic state, angers you andastonishes you too much. You shun friends, you plunge into work, andreckon ass lost the time you might employ in loving or in beingloved. Why didn't you come to us with Madame Viardot andTourgueneff? You like them, you admire them, you know that you areadored here, and you run away to be alone. Well, how about gettingmarried? Being alone is odious, it is deadly, and it is cruel alsofor those who love you. All your letters are unhappy and grip myheart. Haven't you any woman whom you love or by whom you would beloved with pleasure? Take her to live with you. Isn't there anywherea little urchin whose father you can believe you are? Bring him up. Make yourself his slave, forget yourself in him. 

What do I know? To live in oneself is bad. There is intellectualpleasure only in the possibility of returning to it when one hasbeen out for a long time; but to live always in this Moi which isthe most tyrannical, the most exacting, the most fantastic ofcompanions, no, one must not. --I beg you, listen to me! You areshutting up an exuberant nature in a jail, you are making out of atender and indulgent heart, a deliberate misanthrope, --and you willnot make a success of it. In short, I am worried about you, and I amsaying perhaps some foolishness to you; but we live in cruel timesand we must not undergo them with curses. We must rise above themwith pity. That's it! I love you, write to me. 

I shall not go to Paris until after a month's time to put onMademoiselle La Quintinie. Where shall you be?

CCXXXIX. TO GEORGE SANDMonday night, 28 October, 1872

You have guessed rightly, dear master, that I had an increase ofsorrow, and you have written me a very tender, good letter, thanks;I embrace you even more warmly than usual. 

Although expected, the death of poor Theo has distressed me. He isthe last of my intimates to go. He closes the list. Whom shall I seenow when I go to Paris? With whom shall I talk of what interests me?I know some thinkers (at least people who are called so), but anartist, where is there any? For my part, I tell you he died from the"putrescence of modern times. " That is his word, and he repeated itto me this winter several times: "I am dying of the Commune, " etc. 

The 4th of September has inaugurated an order of things in whichpeople like him have nothing more in the world to do. One must notdemand apples of orange trees. Artisans in luxury are useless in asociety dominated by plebeians. How I regret him! He and Bouilhethave left an absolute void in me, and nothing can take their place. Besides he was always so good, and no matter what they say, sosimple. People will recognize later (if they ever return seriouslyto literature), that he was a great poet. Meanwhile he is anabsolutely unknown author. So indeed is Pierre Corneille. 

He hated two things: the hate of the Philistines in his youth, thatgave him his talent; the hate of the blackguards in his riper years, this last killed him. He died of suppressed fury, of wrath at notbeing able to say what he thought. He was OPPRESSED by Girardin, byFould, by Dalloz, and by the first Republic. I tell you that, because _I_ HAVE SEEN abominable things and I am the only manperhaps to whom he made absolute confidences. He lacked what was themost important thing in life for him and for others: CHARACTER. Thathe failed of the Academy was to him a dreadful chagrin. Whatweakness! and how little he must have esteemed himself! To seek anhonor no matter what, seems to me, besides, an act ofincomprehensible modesty. 

I was not at his funeral owing to the mistake of Catulle Mendes, whosent me a telegram too late. There was a crowd. A lot of scoundrelsand buffoons came to advertise themselves as usual, and today, Monday, the day of the theatrical paper, there must be bits in thebulletins, THAT WILL MAKE COPY. To resume, I do not pity him, I ENVYHIM. For, frankly, life is not amusing. 

No, I don't think that HAPPINESS IS POSSIBLE, but certainlytranquillity. That is why I get away from what irritates me. A tripto Paris is for me now, a great business. As soon as I shake thevessel, the dregs mount and permeate all. The least conversationwith anyone at all exasperates me because I find everyone idiotic. My feeling of justice is continually revolted. They talk ONLY ofpolitics and in what a fashion! Where is there a sign of an idea?What can one get hold of? What shall one get excited about?

I don't think, however, that I am a monster of egoism. My Moiscatters itself in books so that I pass whole days without noticingit. I have bad moments, it is true, but I pull myself together bythis reflection: "No one at least bothers me. " After that, I regainmy balance. So I think that I am going on in my natural path; am Iright?

As for living with a woman, marrying as you advise me to do that isa prospect that I find fantastic. Why? I don't know. But it is so. Explain the riddle. The feminine being has never been included in mylife; and then, I am not rich enough, and then, and then--. . . I amtoo old, and too decent to inflict forever my person on another. There is in me an element of the ecclesiastical that people don'tknow. We shall talk about that better than we can write of it. 

I shall see you in Paris in December, but in Paris one is disturbedby others. I wish you three hundred performances for Mademoiselle LaQuintinie. But you will have a lot of bother with the Odeon. It isan institution where I suffered horribly last winter. Every timethat I attempted to do anything they dished me. So, enough! enough!"Hide thy life, " maxim of Epictetus. My whole ambition now is toflee from bother, and I am sure by that means never to cause any toothers, that is much. 

I am working like a madman, I am reading medicine, metaphysics, politics, everything. For I have undertaken a work of great scope, which will require a lot of time, a prospect that pleases me. 

Ever since a month ago, I have been expecting Tourgueneff from weekto week. The gout is delaying him still. 

CCXL. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT, at CroisssetNohant, 22 November, 1872

I don't think that I shall go to Paris before February. My play ispostponed on account of the difficulty of finding the chief actor. Iam content about it, for the idea of leaving Nohant, my occupations, and the walks that are so lovely in this weather, didn't look goodto me at all; what a warm autumn and how good for old people! Twohours distant from here, we have a real wilderness, where, the nextday after a rain, it is as dry as in a room, and where there arestill flowers for me, and insects for Maurice. The little childrenrun like rabbits in the heather which is higher than they are. Heavens! how good it is to be alive when all one loves is living andscurrying around one. You are the only BLACK SPOT in my heart-life, because you are sad and don't want to look at the sun. As for thoseabout whom I don't care, I don't care either about the evils or thefollies they can commit against me or against themselves. They willpass as the rain passes. The eternal thing is the feeling of beautyin a good heart. You have both, confound it! you have no right notto be happy. --Perhaps you ought to have had in your life theINCLUSION OF THE FEMININE SENTIMENT which you say you have defied. --I know that the feminine is worth nothing; but, perhaps, in order tobe happy, one must have been unhappy. 

I have been, and I know enough about it; but I forget so well. Well, sad or gay, I love you and I am still waiting for you, although younever speak of coming to see us, and you cast aside the opportunityemphatically; we love you here just the same, we are not literaryenough for you here, I know that, but we love, and that gives lifeoccupation. 

Is Saint-Antoine finished, that you are talking of a work of greatscope? or is it Saint-Antoine that is going to spread its wings overthe entire universe? It could, the subject is immense. I embraceyou, shall I say again, my old troubadour, since you have resolvedto turn into an old Benedictine? I shall remain a troubadour, naturally. 

G. Sand

I am sending you two novels for your collection of my writings: youare not OBLIGED to read them immediately, if you are deep in seriousthings. 

CCXLI. TO GEORGE SANDMonday evening, eleven o'clock, 25 November, 1872

The postman just now, at five o'clock, has brought your two volumesto me. I am going to begin Nanon at once, for I am very curiousabout it. 

Don't worry any more about your old troubadour (who is becoming asilly animal, frankly), but I hope to recover. I have gone through, several times, melancholy periods, and I have come out all right. Everything wears out, boredom with the rest. 

I expressed myself badly: I did not mean that I scorned "thefeminine sentiment. " But that woman, materially speaking, had neverbeen one of my habits, which is quite different. I have LOVED morethan anyone, a presumptuous phrase which means "quite like others, "and perhaps even more than average person. Every affection is knownto me, "the storms of the heart" have "poured out their rain" on me. And then chance, force of circumstances, causes solitude to increaselittle by little around me, and now I am alone, absolutely alone. 

I have not sufficient income to take unto myself a wife, nor even tolive in Paris for six months of the year: so it is impossible for meto change my way of living. 

Do you mean to say that I did not tell you that Saint-Antoine hadbeen finished since last June? What I am dreaming of just now, issomething of greater scope, which will aim to be comic. It wouldtake too long to explain to you with a pen. We shall talk of it whenwe meet. 

Adieu, dear good, adorable master, yours with his best affection, Your old friend. 

Always as indignant as Saint Polycarp. 

Do you know, in all history, including that of the Botocudos, anything more imbecile than the Right of the National Assembly?These gentlemen who do not want the simple and frivolous wordRepublic, who find Thiers too advanced!!! O profoundness! problem, revery!

CCXLII. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERTNohant, 27 November, 1872

Maurice is quite happy and very proud of the letter you wrote him;there is no one who could give him as much pleasure and whoseencouragement counts more with him. I thank you too, for my part;for I agree with him. 

What! you have finished Saint-Antoine? Well, should I find apublisher, since you are not doing so? You cannot keep it in yourportfolio. You don't like Levy, but there are others; say the word, and I will act as if it were for myself. 

You promise me to get well later, but in the mean time you don'twant to do anything to jolt yourself. Come, then, to read Saint-Antoine to me, and we will talk of publishing it. What is cominghere from Croisset, for a man? If you won't come when we are gay andhaving a holiday, come while it is quiet an I am alone. All thefamily embraces you. 

Your old troubadour

G. Sand

CCXLIII. TO GEORGE SAND

Dear master, Here it is a night and a day that I have spent with you. I hadfinished Nanon at four o'clock in the morning, and Francia at threeo'clock in the afternoon. All of it is still dancing around in myhead. I am going to try to gather my ideas together to talk aboutthese excellent books to you. They have done me good. So thank you, dear, good master. Yes, they were like a great whiff of air, and, after having been moved, I feel refreshed. 

In Nanon, in the first place I was charmed with the style, with athousand simple and strong things which are included in the web ofthe work, and which make it what it is; for instance: "as the burdenseemed to me enormous, the beast seemed to me beautiful. " But I didnot pay any attention to any thing, I was carried away, like thecommonest reader. (I don't think that the common reader could admireit as much as I do. ) The life of the monks, the first relationsbetween Emilien and Nanon, the fear caused by the brigands and theimprisonment of Pere Fructueux which could be commonplace and whichit is not at all. What a fine page is 113! and how difficult it wasto stay within bounds! "Beginning with this day, I felt happiness ineverything, and, as it were, a joy to be in the world. "

La Roche aux Fades is an exquisite idyll. One would like to sharethe life of those three fine people. 

I think that the interest slackens a little when Nanon gets the ideaof becoming rich. She becomes too strongminded, too intelligent! Idon't like the episode of the robbers either. The reappearance ofEmilien with his arm cut off, stirred me again, and I shed a tear atthe last page over the portrait of the Marquise de Francqueville inher old age. 

I submit to you the following queries: Emilien seems to me very muchup in political philosophy; at that period did people see as farahead as he? The same objection applies to the prior, whom I thinkotherwise charming, in the middle of the book especially. But howwell all that is brought in, how well sustained, how fascinating, how charming! What a creature you are! What power you have!

I give you on your two cheeks, two little nurse's kisses, and I passto Francia! Quite another style, but none the less good. And in thefirst place I admire enormously your Dodore. This is the first timethat anyone has made a Paris gamin real; he is not too generous, nortoo intemperate, nor too much of a vaudevillist. The dialogue withhis sister, when he consents to her becoming a kept woman, is afeat. Your Madame de Thievre, with her shawl which she slips up anddown over her fat shoulders, isn't she decidedly of the Restoration!And the uncle who wants to confiscate his nephew's grisette! AndAntoine, the good fat tinsmith so polite at the theatre! The Russianis a simple-minded, natural man, a character that is not easy to do. 

When I saw Francia plunge the poignard into his heart, I frownedfirst, fearing that it might be a classic vengeance that would spoilthe charming character of that good girl. But not at all! I wasmistaken, that unconscious murder completed your heroine. 

What strikes me the most in the book is that it is very intelligentand exact. One is completely in the period. 

I thank you from the bottom of my heart for this twofold reading. Ithas relaxed me. Everything then is not dead. There is stillsomething beautiful and good in the world. 

CCXLIV. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERTNohant, 29 November, 1872

You spoil me! I did not dare to send you the novels, which werewrapped up addressed to you for a week. I was afraid of interruptingyour train of thought and of boring you. You stopped everything toread Maurice first, and then me. We should be remorseful if we werenot egoists, very happy to have a reader who is worth ten thousandothers! That helps a great deal; for Maurice and I work in a desert, never knowing, except from each other, if a thing is a success or amess, exchanging our criticisms, and never having relations withaccredited JUDGES. 

Michel never tells us until after a year or two if a book has SOLD. As for Buloz, if it is with him we have to do, he tells usinvariably that the thing is bad or poor. It is only Charles Edmondwho encourages us by asking us for copy. We write withoutconsideration for the public; that is perhaps not a bad idea, but wecarry it too far. And praise from you gives us the courage whichdoes not depart from us, but which is often a sad courage, while youmake it sparkling and gay, and healthful for us to breathe. 

I was right then in not throwing Nanon into the fire, as I was readyto do, when Charles Edmond came to tell me that it was very welldone, and that he wanted it for his paper. I thank you then, and Isend you back your good kisses, for Francia especially, which Bulozonly put in with a sour face and for lack of something better: yousee that I am not spoiled, but I never get angry at all that and Idon't talk about it. That is how it is, and it is very simple. Assoon as literature is a merchandise, the salesman who exploits it, appreciates only the client who buys it, and if the clientdepreciates the object, the salesman declares to the author that hismerchandise is not pleasing. The republic of letters is only amarket in which one sells books. Not making concession to thepublisher is our only virtue; let us keep that and let us live inpeace, even with him when he is peevish, and let us recognize, too, that he is not the guilty one. He would have taste if the public hadit. 

Now I've emptied my bag, and don't let us talk of it again except toadvise about Saint-Antoine, meanwhile telling ourselves that theeditors will be brutes. Levy, however, is not, but you are angrywith him. I should like to talk of all that with you; will you come?or wait until my trip to Paris? But when shall I go? I don't know. 

I am a little afraid of bronchitis in the winter, and I do not leavehome unless I absolutely have to for business reasons. 

I don't think that they will play Mademoiselle La Quintinie. Thecensors have declared that it is a MASTERPIECE OF THE MOST ELEVATEDAND HEALTHIEST MORALITY, but that they could not TAKE UPONTHEMSELVES to authorize the performance. IT WILL HAVE TO BE TAKEN TOHIGHER AUTHORITIES, that is to say, to the minister who will send itto General Ladmirault; it is enough to make you die laughing. But Idon't agree to all that, and I prefer to keep quiet till the newadministration. If the NEW administration is the clerical monarchy, we shall see strange things. As for me, I don't care if they standin my way, but how about the future of our generation?. . . 

CCXLV. TO GEORGE SANDWednesday, 4th December, 1872

Dear master, I notice a phrase in your last letter: "The publisher would havetaste if the public had it. . . Or if the public forced him to haveit. " But that is asking the impossible. They have LITERARY IDEAS, rest assured, and so have messieurs the managers of the theatre. Both insist that they are JUDGES IN THAT RESPECT, and theirestheticism mingling with their commercialism makes a pretty result. 

According to the publishers, one's last book is always inferior tothe preceding one. May I be hung if that is not true. Why does Levyadmire Ponsard and Octave Feuillet more than father Dumas and you?Levy is academic. I have made more money for him than Cuvillier-Fleury has, haven't I? Well, draw a parallel between us two, and youwill see how you will be received. You know that he did not want tosell more than 1200 copies of the Dernieres Chansons, and the 800which were left over, are in my niece's garret, rue de Clichy! Thatis very narrow of me, I agree to that; but I confess that theproceeding has simply enraged me. It seems to me that my prose mighthave been more respected by a man for whom I have turned a penny ortwo. 

Why publish, in these abominable times? Is it to get money? Whatmockery! As if money were the recompense for work, or could be! Thatwill be when one has destroyed speculation, till then, no! And thenhow measure work, how estimate the effort? The commercial value ofthe work remains. For that one would be obliged to suppress allintermediaries between the producer and the purchaser, and eventhen, that question in itself permits of no solution. For I write (Ispeak of an author who respects himself) not for the reader oftoday, but for all the readers who can present themselves as long asthe language lives. My merchandise, therefore, cannot be consumed, for it is not made exclusively for my contemporaries. My serviceremains therefore indefinite, and in consequence, unpayable. 

Why publish then? Is it to be understood, applauded? But yourself, YOU, great George Sand, you confess your solitude. Is there at thistime, I don't say, admiration or sympathy, but the appearance of alittle attention to works of art? Who is the critic who reads thebook that he has to criticise? In ten years they won't know, perhaps, how to make a pair of shoes, they are becoming sofrightfully stupid! All that is to tell you that, until better times(in which I do not believe), I shall keep Saint-Antoine in thebottom of a closet. 

If I publish it, I would rather that it should be at the same timeas another entirely different book. I am working now on one whichwill go with it. Conclusion: the wisest thing is to keep calm. 

Why does not Duquesnel go to find General Ladmirault, Jules Simon, Thiers? I think that the proceeding concerns him. What a fine thingthe censorship is! Let us be reassured, it will always exist, for italways has! Our friend Alexandre Dumas fils, to make an agreeableparadox, has boasted of its advantages in the preface to the Dameaux Camelias, hasn't he?

And you want me not to be sad! I think that we shall soon seeabominable things, thanks to the inept stubbornness of the Right. The good Normans, who are the most conservative people in the world, incline towards the Left very strongly. 

If they consulted the bourgeoisie now, it would make father Thiersking of France. If Thiers were taken away, it would throw itself inthe arms of Gambetta, and I am afraid it will do that soon! Iconsole myself by thinking that Thursday next I shall be fifty-oneyears old. 

If you are not to come to Paris in February, I shall go to see youat the end of January, before going back to the Pan Monceau; Ipromise. 

The princess has written me to ask if you were at Nohant. She wantsto write to you. 

My niece Caroline, to whom I have just given Nanon to read, isenchanted with it. What struck her was the "youth" of the book. Thecriticism seems true to me. It is a real BOOK while Francia, although more simple, is perhaps more finished; more irreproachableas a work. 

I read last week the Illustre Docteur Matheus, by Erckmann-Chatrian. How very boorish! There are two nuts, who have very plebeian souls. 

Adieu, dear good master. Your old troubadour embraces you, I am always thinking of Theo. I am not consoled for his loss. 

CCXLVI. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT, at CroisssetNohant, 8 December, 1872

Oh! well, then, if you are in the realm of the ideal about this, ifyou have a future book in your mind, if you are accomplishing a taskof confidence and conviction, no more anger and no more sadness, letus be logical. 

I myself arrived at a philosophical state of very satisfactoryserenity, and I did not OVERSTATE the matter when I said to you thatall the ill any one can do me, or all the indifference that any onecan show me, does not affect me really any more and does not preventme, not only from being happy outside of literature, but also frombeing literary with pleasure, and from working with joy. 

You were pleased with my two novels? I am repaid, I think that theyare SATISFACTORY, and the silence which has invaded my life (it mustbe said that I have sought it) is full of a good voice that talks tome and is sufficient to me. I have not mounted as high as you in myambition. You want to write for the ages. As for me, I think that infifty years, I shall be absolutely forgotten and perhaps unkindlyignored. Such is the law of things that are not of first rank, and Ihave never thought myself in the first rank. My idea has been ratherto act upon my contemporaries, even if only on a few, and to sharewith them my ideal of sweetness and poetry. I have attained this endup to a certain point; I have at least done my best towards it, I dostill, and my reward is to approach it continually a little nearer. 

That is enough for myself, but, as for you, your aim is greater, Isee that clearly, and success is further off. Then you ought to putyourself more in accord with yourself, by being still calmer andmore content than I am. Your momentary angers are good. They are theresult of a generous temperament, and, as they are neither maliciousnor hateful, I like them, but your sadness, your weeks of spleen, Ido not understand them, and I reproach you for them. I havebelieved, I do still, that there is such a thing as too greatisolation, too great detachment from the bonds of life. You havepowerful reasons to answer me with, so powerful that they ought togive you the victory. 

Search your heart, think it over, and answer me, even if only todispel the fears that I have often on your account; I don't want youto exhaust yourself. You are fifty years old, my son is the same ornearly. He is in the prime of his strength, in his best development, you are too, if you don't heat the oven of your ideas too hot. Whydo you say often that you wish you were dead? Don't you believe thenin your own work? Do let yourself be influenced then by this or thattemporary thing? It is possible, we are not gods, and something inus, something weak and unimportant sometimes, disturbs our theodicy. But the victory every day becomes easier, when one is sure of lovinglogic and truth. It gets to the point even of forestalling, ofovercoming in advance, the subject of ill humor, of contempt or ofdiscouragement. 

All that seems easy to me, when it is a question of self control:the subjects of great sadness are elsewhere, in the spectacle of thehistory that is unrolling around us; that eternal struggle ofbarbarity against civilization is a great bitterness for those whohave cast off the element of barbarity and find themselves inadvance of their epoch. But, in that great sorrow, in these secretangers, there is a great stimulant which rightly raises us up, byinspiring in us the need of reaction. Without that, I confess, formy part, that I would abandon everything. 

I have had a good many compliments in my life, in the time whenpeople were interested in literature. I have always dreaded themwhen they came to me from unknown people; they made me doubt myselftoo much. I have made enough money to be rich. If I am not, it isbecause I did not care to be; I have enough with what Levy makes forme. What I should prefer, would be to abandon myself entirely tobotany, it would be for me a Paradise on earth. But it must not be, that would be useful only to myself, and, if chagrin is good foranything it is for keeping us from egoism, one must not curse norscorn life. One must not use it up voluntarily; you are enamoured ofJUSTICE, begin by being just to yourself, you owe it to yourself toconserve and to develop yourself. 

Listen to me; I love you tenderly, I think of you every day and onevery occasion: when working I think of you. I have gained certainintellectual benefits which you deserve more than I do, and of whichyou ought to make a longer use. Consider too, that my spirit isoften near to yours, and that it wishes you a long life and afertile inspiration in true joys. 

You promise to come; that is a joy and a feast day for my heart, andin my family. 

Your old troubadour

CCXLVII. TO GEORGE SAND12 December 1872

Dear good master, Don't take seriously the exaggerations about my IRE. Don't believethat I am counting "on posterity, to avenge me for the indifferenceof my contemporaries. " I meant to say only this: if one does notaddress the crowd, it is right that the crowd should not pay one. Itis political economy. But, I maintain that a work of art (worthy ofthat name and conscientiously done) is beyond appraisal, has nocommercial value, cannot be paid for. Conclusion: if the artist hasno income, he must starve! They think that the writer, because he nolonger receives a pension from the great, is very much freer, andnobler. All his social nobility now consists in being the equal of agrocer. What progress! As for me, you say to me "Let us be logical";but that's just the difficulty. 

I am not sure at all of writing good things, nor that the book ofwhich I am dreaming now can be well done, which does not prevent mefrom undertaking it. I think that the idea of it is original, nothing more. And then, as I hope to spit into it the gall that ischoking me, that is to say, to emit some truths, I hope by thismeans to PURGE MYSELF, and to be henceforward more Olympian, aquality that I lack entirely. Ah! how I should like to admiremyself!

Mourning once more: I headed the procession at the burial of fatherPouchet last Monday. That gentle fellow's life was very beautiful, and I mourned him. 

I enter today upon my fifty-second year, and I insist on embracingyou today: I do it affectionately, since you love me so well. 

CCXLVIII. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERTNohant, 8 January, 1873

Yes, yes, my old friend, you must come to see me. I am not thinkingof going to Paris before the end of the winter, and it is so hard tosee people in Paris. Bring me Saint-Antoine. I want to hear it, Iwant to live in it with you. I want to embrace you with all my soul, and Maurice does too. 

Lina loves you too, and our little ones have not forgotten you. Iwant you to see how interesting and lovely my Aurore has become. Ishall not tell you anything new about myself. I live so little inmyself. This will be a good reason for you to talk about whatinterests me more, that is to say, about yourself. Tell me ahead sothat I can spare you that horrid coach from Chateauroux to Nohant. If you could bring Tourgueneff, we should be happy, and you wouldhave the most perfect travelling companion. Have you read Peres etEnfants? How good it is!

Now, I hope for you really this time, and I think that our air willdo you good. It is so lovely here!

Your old comrade who loves you, G. SAND

I embrace you six times for the New Year. 

CCXLIX. TO GEORGE SANDMonday evening, 3 February, 1873

Dear master, Do I seem to have forgotten you and not to want to make the journeyto Nohant? Not at all! But, for the last month, every time I go out, I am seized anew with the grippe which gets worse each time. I coughabominably, and I ruin innumerable pocket-handkerchiefs! When willit be over?

I have sworn not to step beyond my doorsill till I am completelywell again, and I am still awaiting the good will of the members ofthe commission for the Bouilhet fountain! For nearly two months, Ihave not been able to get together in Rouen six citizens of Rouen!That is the way friends are! Everything is difficult, the leastundertaking demands great efforts. 

I am reading chemistry now (which I don't understand a bit), and theRaspail theory of medicine, not to mention the Potager moderne ofGressent and the Agriculture of Gasparin. In this connection, Maurice would be very kind, to compile his agronomicalrecollections, so that I may know what mistakes he made and why hemade them. 

What sorts of information don't I need, for the book that I amundertaking? I have come to Paris this winter with the idea ofcollecting some; but if my horrible cold continues, my stay herewill be useless! Am I going to become like the canon of Poitiers, ofwhom Montaigne speaks, who for thirty years did not leave his room"because of his melancholic infirmity, " but who, however, was verywell "except for a cold which had settled on his stomach. " This isto tell you that I am seeing very few people. Moreover whom could Isee? The war has opened many abysses. I have not been able to getyour article on Badinguet. I am planning to read it at your house. 

As regards reading, I have just swallowed ALL the odious Joseph deMaistre. They have saddled us enough with this gentleman! And themodern socialists who have praised him beginning with the saint-simonians and ending with A. Comte. France is drunk with authority, no matter what they say. Here is a beautiful idea that I find inRaspail, THE PHYSICIANS OUGHT to be MAGISTRATES, so they couldforce, etc. 

Your romantic and liberal old dunce embraces you tenderly. 

CCL. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERTNohant, 5 February, 1873

I wrote to you yesterday to Croisset, Lina thinking that you hadreturned there. I asked you the little favor which you have alreadyrendered me, namely, to ask your brother to give his patronage to myfriend Despruneaux in his suit which is going to be appealed. Myletter will probably be forwarded to you in Paris, and reach you asquickly as this one. It is only a question of writing a line to yourbrother, if that does not bother you. 

Pray, what is this obstinate cough? There is only one remedy, aminimum dose, a half-centigram of acetate of morphine taken everyevening after digesting your dinner, for a week at least. I donothing else and I always get over it, I cure all my family the sameway, it is so easy to do and so quickly done! At the end of two orthree days one feels the good effect. I am awaiting your cure withimpatience, for your sake first, and second for myself, because youwill come and because I am hungry and thirsty to see you. 

Maurice is at a loss to know how to answer your question. He has notmade any mistake in his experiments, and knows indeed those thatothers make or could make; but he says that they vary infinitely andthat each mistake is a special one for the conditions in which oneworks. When you are here and he understands really what you want, hecan answer you for everything that concerns the center of France, and the general geology of the planet, if there is any opportunityto generalize. His reasoning has been this: not to make innovations, but to push to its greatest development what exists, in making usealways of the method established by experience. Experience can neverdeceive, it may be incomplete, but never mendacious. With this Iembrace you, I summon you, I await you, I hope for you, but will nothowever torment you. 

But we love you, that is certain; and we would like to infuse in youa little of our Berrichon patience about the things in this worldwhich are not amusing, we know that very well! But why are we inthis world if it is not to learn patience. 

Your obstinate troubadour who loves you. 

G. Sand

CCLI. TO GEORGE SANDTuesday, March 12, 1873

Dear master, If I am not at your house, it is the fault of the big Tourgueneff. Iwas getting ready to go to Nohant, when he said to me: "Wait, I'llgo with you the first of April. " That is two weeks off. I shall seehim tomorrow at Madame Viardot's and I shall beg him to go earlier, as I am beginning to be impatient. I am feeling the NEED of seeingyou, of embracing you, and of talking with you. That is the truth. 

I am beginning to regain my equilibrium again. What is it that Ihave had for the past four months? What trouble was going on in thedepths of my being? I don't know. What is certain, is, that I wasvery ill in an indefinable way. But now I am better. Since the endof January, Madame Bovary and Salammbo have belonged to me and I cansell them. I am doing nothing about it, preferring to do without themoney other than to exasperate my nerves. Such is your oldtroubadour. 

I am reading all sorts of books and I am taking notes for my bigbook which will take five or six years to write, and I am thinkingof two or three others. There will be dreams for a long time, whichis the principal thing. 

Art continues to be "in the marasmus, " as M. Prudhomme says, andthere is no longer any place in this world for people with taste. One must, like the rhinoceros, retire into solitude and await one'sdeath. 

CCLII. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT, in ParisNohant, 15 March, 1873

Well, my old troubadour, we can hope for you very soon. I wasworried about you. I am always worried about you. To tell the truth, I am not happy over your ill tempers, and your PREJUDICES. They lasttoo long, and in effect they are like an illness, you recognize ityourself. Now, forget; don't you know how to forget? You live toomuch in yourself and get to consider everything in relation toyourself. If you were an egoist, and a conceited person, I would saythat it was your normal condition; but with you who are so good andso generous, it is an anomaly, an evil that must be combated. Restassured that life is badly arranged, painful, irritating foreveryone, but do not neglect the immense compensations which it isungrateful to forget. 

That you get angry with this or that person, is of little importanceif it is a comfort to you; but that you remain furious, indignantfor weeks, months, almost years, is unjust and cruel to those wholove you, and who would like to spare you all anxiety and alldeception. 

You see that I am scolding you; but while embracing you, I shallthink only of the joy and the hope of seeing you flourishing again. We are waiting for you with impatience, and we are counting onTourgueneff whom we adore also. 

I have been suffering a good deal lately with a series of verypainful hemorrhages; but they have not prevented me from amusingmyself writing tales and from playing with my LITTLE CHILDREN. Theyare so dear, and my big children are so good to me, that I shalldie, I believe, smiling at them. What difference does it makewhether one has a hundred thousand enemies if one is loved by two orthree good souls? Don't you love me too, and wouldn't you reproachme for thinking that of no account? When I lost Rollinat, didn't youwrite to me to love the more those who were left? Come, so that Imay OVERWHELM you with reproaches; for you are not doing what youtold me to do. 

We are expecting you, we are preparing a mid-Lent fantasy; try totake part. Laughter is a splendid medicine. We shall give you acostume; they tell me that you were very good as a pastry cook atPauline's! If you are better, be certain it is because you havegotten out of your rut and have distracted yourself a little. Parisis good for you, you are too much alone yonder in your lovely house. Come and work, at our house; how perfectly easy to send on a box ofbooks!

Send word when you are coming so that I can have a carriage at thestation at Chateauroux. 

CCLIII. TO GEORGE SANDThursday, 20 March, 1873

Dear master, The gigantic Tourgueneff is at this moment leaving here and we havejust sworn a solemn oath. You will have us at dinner the 12th ofApril, Easter Eve. 

It has not been a small job to get to that point, it is so difficultto succeed in anything, no matter what. 

For my part nothing would prevent me from going tomorrow But ourfriend seems to me to enjoy very little liberty and I myself haveengagements the first week in April. 

I am going this evening to two costume balls! Tell me after thatthat I am not young. 

A thousand affectionate greetings from your old troubadour whoembraces you. 

Read as an example of modern fetidness, in the last number of theVie Parisienne, the article on Marion Delorme. It ought to beframed, if, however, anything fetid can be framed. But nowadayspeople don't look so closely. 

CCLIV. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERTNohant, 23 March, 1873

No, that giant does not do as he likes, I have noticed that. But heis one of the class that finds its happiness in being ruled and Ican understand it, on the whole. Provided one is in good hands, --andhe is. 

Well, we are hoping still, but we are not absolutely counting onanyone but you. You can not give me a greater pleasure than bytelling me that you are going out among people, that you are gettingout of a rut and distracting yourself, absolutely necessary, inthese muddled days. 

On the day when a little intoxication is no longer necessary forself-preservation, the world will be getting on very well. Wehaven't come to that yet. 

That FETID thing is not worth the trouble of reading, I didn'tfinish it, one turns away from such things, one does not spoil one'ssense of smell by breathing them. But I do not think that the man towhom one offers that in a censer would be satisfied with it. 

Do come with the swallows and bring Saint-Antoine. It is Maurice whois going to be interested in that! He is more of a scholar than Iam, I who will appreciate, thanks to my ignorance about many things, only the poetic and great side of it. I am sure of it, I knowalready that it is there. 

Keep on going about, you must, and above all continue to love us aswe love you. 

Your old troubadour, G. Sand

CCLV. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERTNohant, 7th April, 1873

I am writing to my friend General Ferri Pisani, whom you know, whoHAS CHARGE at Chateauroux, to reserve you a carriage which will bewaiting for you on the 12th, at the station, at twenty minutes pastthree. You must leave Paris at ten minutes past nine o'clock by theEXPRESS. Otherwise the trip is too long and stupid. I hope that thegeneral will come with you, if there is any decision contrary toyour promise send him a telegram to Chateauroux so that he shall notwait for you. He usually comes on horseback. 

We are looking forward IMPATIENTLY to seeing you. 

Your old troubadour

G. Sand

CCLVI. TO GEORGE SAND23 April, 1873

It is only five days since we parted, and I am missing you like thedevil. I miss Aurore and all the household down to Fadette. Yes, that is the way it is, one is so happy at your house! you are sogood and so interesting. 

Why can't we live together, why is life always so badly arranged?Maurice seems to me to be the type of human happiness. What does helack? Certainly, he is no more envied by anyone than by me. 

Your two friends, Tourgueneff and Cruchard philosophized about thatfrom Nohant to Chateauroux, very comfortably borne along in yourcarriage at a smart pace by two horses. Hurrah for the postillionsof La Chatre! But the rest of the trip was horrid because of thecompany we had in our car. I was consoled for it by strong drink, asthe Muscovite had a flask full of excellent brandy with him. We bothfelt a little heavy hearted. We did not talk, we did not sleep. 

We found here the barodetien folly in full flower again. On theheels of this affair has developed during the last three days, Stoppfel! another bitter narcotic! Oh! Heavens! Heavens! what a boreto live in such times! How wise you are live so far from Paris!

I have begun my readings again, and, in a week I shall begin myexcursions hereabouts to discover a countryside that may serve formy two good men. After which, about the 12th or the 15th, I shallreturn to my house at the water-side. I want very much, this summer, to go to Saint Gervais, to bleach my nose and to strengthen mynerves. For ten years I have been finding a pretext for doingwithout it. But it is high time to beautify myself, not that I haveany pretensions at pleasing and seducing by my physical graces, butI hate myself too much when I look in my mirror. The older onegrows, the more care one should take of oneself. 

I shall see Madame Viardot this evening, I shall go early and wewill talk of you. 

When shall we meet again, now? How far Nohant is from Croisset!

Yours, dear good master, all my affection. 

Gustave Flaubert

otherwise called the R. P. Cruchard of the Barnabites, director ofthe Ladies of Disillusion. 

CCLVII. TO GEORGE SAND

Dear master, Cruchard should have thanked you sooner for sending him your lastbook; but his reverence is working like ten thousand negroes, thatis his excuse. But it did not hinder him from reading "Impressionset Souvenirs. " I already knew some of it, from having read it in leTemps (a pun). [Footnote: "Dans de temps" means also, "some timeago. "]

This is what was new to me and what struck me: (1) the firstfragment; (2) the second in which there is a charming and just pageon the Empress. How true is what you say of the proletariat! Let ushope that its reign will pass like that of the bourgeois, and forthe same causes, as a punishment for the same folly and a similaregoism. 

The "Reponse a un ami" I knew, as it was addressed to me. 

The "Dialogue avec Delacroix" is instructive; two curious pages onwhat he thought of father Ingres. 

I am not entirely of your opinion as regards the punctuation. Thatis to say that I would shock you by my exaggeration in that respect;but I do not lack, naturally, good reasons to defend my point ofview. 

"J'allume le fagot, " etc. , all of this long article charmed me. 

In the "Idees d'un maitre d'ecole, " I admire your pedagogic spirit, dear master, there are many pretty a b c phrases. 

Thank you for what you say of my poor Bouilhet!

I adore your "Pierre Bonin. " I have known people like him, and asthese pages are dedicated to Tourgueneff it is the moment to ask youif you have read "I'Abandonnee"? For my part, I find it simplysublime. This Scythian is an immense old fellow. 

I am not at such high-toned literature now. Far from it! I amhacking and re-hacking "le Sexe faible. " I wrote the first act in aweek. It is true that my days are long. I spent, last week, one ofeighteen hours, and Cruchard is as fresh as a young girl, not tired, no headache. In short, I think that I shall be through that work inthree weeks. After that, God knows what!

It would be funny if Carvalho's fantasticality was crowned withsuccess!

I am afraid that Maurice has lost his wager, for I want to replacethe three theological virtues by the face of Christ appearing in thesun. What do you think about it? When the correction is made and Ihave strengthened the massacre at Alexandria and clarified thesymbolism of the fantastic beasts, "Saint-Antoine" will be finishedforever, and I shall start at my two good fellows who were set asidefor the comedy. 

What a horrid way of writing is required for the stage! Theellipses, the delays, the questions and the repetitions have to belavish, if movement is desired, and all that in itself is very ugly. 

I am perhaps blinding myself, but I think that I am now writingsomething very quick and easy to play. We shall see. 

Adieu, dear master, embrace all yours for me. 

Your old good-for-nothing Cruchard, friend of Chalumeau. Note thatname. It is a gigantic story, but it requires one to toe the mark totell it suitably. 

CCLVIII. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERTNohant, 4 July, 1873

I don't know where you are at present, Cruchard of my heart. I amaddressing this to Paris whence I suppose it will be forwarded toyou. I have been ill, your reverence, nothing except a stupidanemia, no legs, no appetite, continual sweat on the forehead and myheart as jumpy as a pregnant woman; it is unfair, that condition, when one gets to the seventies, I begin my seventieth springtomorrow, cured after a half score of river baths. But I find it socomfortable to rest that I have not yet done an iota of work since Ireturned from Paris, and until I opened my ink-well again to writeto you today. We reread your letter this morning in which you saidthat Maurice had lost his wager. He insists that he has won it asyou are taking out the vertus theologales. 

As for me, bet or no bet, I want you to keep the new version whichis quite in the atmosphere, while the theological virtues are not. --Have you any news of Tourgueneff? I am worried about him. MadameViardot wrote me, several days ago, that he had fallen and hurt hisleg. --Yes, I have read l'Abandonnee, it is very beautiful as is allthat he does. I hope that his injury is not serious! such a thing isalways serious with gout. 

So you are still working frantically? Unhappy one! you don't knowthe ineffable pleasure of doing nothing! And how good work will seemto me after it! I shall delay it however as long as possible. I amgetting more and more of the opinion that nothing is worth thetrouble of being said!

Don't believe a word of that, do write lovely things, and love yourold troubadour who always cherishes you. 

G. Sand

Love from all Nohant. 

CCLIX. TO GEORGE SANDThursday

Why do you leave me so long without any news of yourself, dear goodmaster? I am cross with you, there!

I am all through with the dramatic art. Carvalho came here lastSaturday to hear the reading of le Sexe faible, and seemed to me tobe satisfied with it. He thinks it will be a success. But I put solittle confidence in the intelligence of all those rascals, that formy part, I doubt it. 

I am exhausted, and I am now sleeping ten hours a night, not tomention two hours a day. That is resting my poor brain. 

I am going to resume my readings for my wretched book, which I shallnot begin for a full year. 

Do you know where the great Tourgueneff is now?

A thousand affectionate greetings to all and to you the best ofeverything from your old friend. 

CCLX. TO GEORGE SANDSunday . . . 

I am not like M. De Vigny, I do not like the "sound of the horn inthe depth of the woods. " For the last two hours now an imbecilestationed on the island in front of me has been murdering me withhis instrument. That wretched creature spoils my sunlight anddeprives me of the pleasure of enjoying the summer. For it is lovelyweather, but I am bursting with anger. I should like, however, totalk a bit with you, dear master. 

In the first place, congratulations on your seventieth year, whichseems more robust to me than the twentieth of a good many others!What a Herculean constitution you have! Bathing in an icy stream isa proof of strength that bewilders me, and is a mark of a "reserveforce" that is reassuring to your friends. May you live long. Takecare of yourself for your dear grandchildren, for the good Maurice, for me too, for all the world, and I should add: for literature, ifI were not afraid of your superb disdain. 

Ha! good! again the hunting horn! The man is mad. I want to go andfind the rural guard. 

As for me, I do not share your disdain, and I am absolutely ignorantof, as you say, "the pleasure of doing nothing. " As soon as I nolonger hold a book, or am not dreaming of writing one, A LAMENTABLEboredom seizes upon me. Life, in short seems tolerable to me only bylegerdemain. Or else one must give oneself up to disordered pleasure. . . And even then!

Well, I have finished with le Sexe faible, which will be played, atleast so Carvalho promises, in January, if Sardou's l'Oncle Sam ispermitted by the censorship; if otherwise, it will be in November. 

As I have been accustomed during the last six weeks to seeing thingsfrom a theatrical point of view, to thinking in dialogue, here I amstarting to build the plot of another play! It will be called leCandidat. My written plot is twenty pages long. But I haven't anyoneto show it to. Alas! I shall therefore leave it in a drawer andstart at my old book. I am reading l'Histoire de la Medecine byDaremberg, which amuses me a great deal, and I have finished l'Essaisur les facultes de l'entendement by Gamier, which I think verysilly. There you have my occupations. THINGS seem to be gettingquieter. I breathe again. 

I don't know whether they talk as much of the Shah in Nohant as theydo around here. The enthusiasm has been immense. A little more andthey would have proclaimed him Emperor. His sojourn in Paris hashad, on the commercial shop-keeping and artisan class, a monarchicaleffect which you would not have suspected, and the clericalgentlemen are doing very well, very well indeed!

On the other side of the horizon, what horrors they are committingin Spain! So that the generality of humanity continues to becharming. 

CCLXI. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT, at CroisssetNohant, 30 August, 1873

Where are you to be found now? where are you nestled? As for me, Ihave just come from Auvergne with my whole household, Plauchutincluded. Auvergne is beautiful, above all it is pretty. The florais always rich and interesting, the walking rough, the livingaccommodations poor. I got through it all very well, except for theelevation of two thousand meters at Sancy, which combining an icywind with a burning sun, laid me flat for four days with a fever. After that I got into the running again, and I am returning here toresume my river baths till the frost. 

There was no more question of any work, of any literature at all, than if none of us had ever learned to read. The LOCAL POETS pursuedme with books and bouquets. I pretended to be dead and was left inpeace. I am square with them now that I am home, by sending a copyof something of mine, it doesn't matter what, in exchange. Ah! whatlovely places I have seen and what strange volcanic combinations, where we ought to have heard your Saint-Antoine in a SETTING worthyof the subject! Of what use are these pleasures of vision, and howare these impressions transformed later? One does not know ahead, and, with time and the easy ways of life, everything is met withagain and preserved. 

What news of your play? Have you begun your book? Have you chosen aplace to study? Do tell me what is becoming of my Cruchard, theCruchard of my heart. Write to me even if only a word! Tell me thatyou still love us as I love you and as all of us here love you. 

G. Sand

CCLXII. TO GEORGE SANDCroisset, Friday, 5th September, 1873

On arriving here yesterday, I found your letter, dear good master. All is well with you then, God be praised!

I spent the month of August in wandering about, for I was in Dieppe, in Paris, in Saint-Gratien, in Brie, and in Beauce, hunting for acertain country that I had in mind, and I think that I have found itat last in the neighborhood of Houdan. But, before starting at myterrifying book, I shall make a last search on the road that goesfrom Loupe to Laigle. After that, good night. 

The Vaudeville begins well. Carvalho up to now has been charming. His enthusiasm is so strong even that I am not without anxieties. One must remember the good Frenchmen who cried "On to Berlin, " andthen received such a fine drubbing. 

Not only is the aforesaid Carvalho content with the le Sexe faible, but he wants me to write at once another comedy, the scenario ofwhich I have shown him, and which he would like to produce a yearfrom now. I don't think the thing is quite ready to be put intowords. But on the other hand, I should like to be through with itbefore undertaking the story of my good men. Meanwhile, I am keepingon with my reading and note-taking. 

You are not aware, doubtless, that they have forbidden Coetlogon'splay formally, BECAUSE IT CRITICISED THE EMPIRE. That is thecensorship's answer. As I have in the le Sexe faible a ratherridiculous general, I am not without forebodings. What a fine thingis Censorship! Axiom: All governments curse literature, power doesnot like another power. 

When they forbade the playing of Mademoiselle La Quintinie, you weretoo stoical, dear master, or too indifferent. You should alwaysprotest against injustice and folly, you should bawl, froth at themouth, and smash when you can. If I had been in your place with yourauthority, I should have made a grand row. I think too that FatherHugo was wrong in keeping quiet about le Roi s'amuse. He oftenasserts his personality on less legitimate occasions. 

At Rouen they are having processions, but the effect is completelyspoiled, and the result of it is deplorable for fusion! What amisfortune! Among the imbecilities of our times, that (fusion) isperhaps the greatest. I should not be surprised if we should seelittle Father Thiers again! On the other hand many Reds, from fearof the clerical reaction, have gone over to Bonapartism. One needs afine dose of simplicity to keep any political faith. 

Have you read the Antichrist? I find that indeed a beautiful book, aside from some faults of taste, some modern expressions applied toancient things. Renan seems to me on the whole to have progressed. Ipassed all one evening recently with him and I thought him adorable. 

CCLXIII. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT, at CroisssetNohant, 3d October, 1873

The existence of Cruchard is a beautiful poem, so much in keeping, that I don't know if it is a fictitious biography or the copy for areal article done in good faith. I had to laugh a bit after thedeparture of all the Viardots (except Viardot) and the bigMuscovite, who was charming although very much indisposed from timeto time. He left very well and very gay, but regretting not to havebeen to see you. The truth is that he was ill just then. He has hada disordered stomach, like me, for some time. I get well by beingmoderate, and he does not! I excuse him; after these crises one isfamished, and if it is because of an empty stomach that one has tofill up, he must be terribly famished. What a kind, excellent andworthy man! And what modest talent! Everyone adores him here and Igive them the example. We adore you too, Cruchard of my heart. Butyou love your work better than your friends, and in that you areinferior to the real Cruchard, who at least adored our holyreligion. 

By the way, I think that we shall have Henry V. They tell me that Iam seeing the dark side of things; I don't see anything, but Iperceive the odor of sacristies that increases. If that should notlast a long time, I should like our clerical bourgeois to undergothe scorn of those whose lands they have bought and whose titlesthey have taken. It would be a good thing. 

What lovely weather in our country! I still go every day to dip intothe cold rush of my little river and I feel better. I hope to resumetomorrow my work that has been absolutely abandoned for six months. Ordinarily, I take shorter holidays; but the flowering of the meadowsaffron always warns me that it is time to begin grubbing again. Here it is, let us grub. Love me as I love you. 

My Aurore, whom I have not neglected, and who is world: well, sendsyou a big kiss. Lina, Maurice send affection. 

G. Sand

CCLXIV. TO GEORGE SANDCroisset, Thursday

Whatever happens, Catholicism will receive a terrible blow, and if Iwere a devotee, I should spend my time before a crucifix saying:"Maintain the Republic for us, O my God!"

But THEY ARE AFRAID of the monarchy. Because of itself and becauseof the reaction which would follow. Public opinion is absolutelyagainst it. The reports of messieurs the prefects are disquieting;the army is divided into Bonapartists and Republicans; the body ofbig business in Paris has pronounced against Henry V. Those are thebits of information that I bring back from Paris, where I have spentten days. In a word, dear master, I think now that THEY will beswamped! Amen!

I advise you to read the pamphlet by Cathelineau and the one bySegur also. It is curious! The basis is clearly to be seen. Thosepeople think they are in the XIIth century. 

As for Cruchard, Carvalho asked him for some changes which herefused. (You know that sometimes Cruchard is not easy. ) Theaforesaid Carvalho finally realized that it was impossible to changeanything in le Sexe faible without distorting the real idea of theplay. But he is asking to play le Candidat first, it is not finishedbut it delights him--naturally. Then when the thing is finished, reviewed and corrected, perhaps he won't want it. In short, if afterl'Oncle Sam, le Candidat is finished, it will be played. If not, itwill be le Sexe faible. 

However, I don't care, I am so eager to start my novel which willtake me several years. And moreover, the theatrical style isbeginning to exasperate me. Those little curt phrases, thiscontinual scintillation irritates like seltzer water, which ispleasing at first but shortly seems like nasty water. Between nowand January I am going to compose dialogues in the best mannerpossible, after that I am coming back to serious things. 

I am glad to have diverted you a little with the biography ofCruchard. But I find it is hybrid and the character of Cruchard isnot consistent! A man with such an executive ability does not haveso many literary preoccupations. The archeology is superfluous. Itbelongs to another kind of ecclesiastics. Perhaps there is atransition that is lacking. Such is my humble criticism. 

They had said in a theatrical bulletin that you were in Paris; I hada mistaken joy about it, dear good master whom I adore and whom Iembrace. 

CCLXV. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT

Your poor old troubadour, just getting well from a cruel attack ofrheumatism, during which he could not lie down, nor eat, nor dresswithout aid, is at last up again. He suffered liver trouble, jaundice, rash, fever, in short he was fit to be thrown out on apile of rubbish. 

Here he is up again, very feeble, but able to write a few lines andto say with you AMEN to the buried catholic dictatorships; it is noteven Catholics that they should be called, those people are not. They are only clericals. 

I note today in the papers that they have played l'Oncle Sam. I hearthat it is bad, but it may very well be a success all the same. Ithink that your play is surely postponed and Carvalho seems ascapricious too, to me, as hard to put your finger on as othertheatrical managers. 

All Nohant embraces you and I embrace you even more, but I cannotwrite any more. 

G. Sand Monday

Hard work? When indeed can I start at it? I am NO GOOD. 

CCLXVI. TO GEORGE SANDJanuary, 1874

As I have a quiet moment, I am going to profit by it by talking alittle with you, dear good master! And first of all, embrace for meall your family and accept all my wishes for a Happy New Year!

This is what is happening now to your Father Cruchard. 

Cruchard is very busy, but serene and very calm, which surpriseseverybody. Yes, that's the way it is. No indignations, no boilingover. The rehearsals of le Candidat have begun, and the thing willbe on the boards the first of February. Carvalho seems to me verysatisfied with it! Nevertheless he has insisted on my combining twoacts in one, which makes the first act inordinately long. 

I did this work in two days, and Cruchard has been splendid! Heslept seven hours in all, from Thursday morning (Christmas Day) toSaturday, and he is only the better for it. 

Do you know what I am going to do to complete my ecclesiasticalcharacter? I am going to be a godfather. Madame Charpentier in herenthusiasm for Saint-Antoine came to beg me to give the name Antoineto the child that she is expecting! I refused to inflict on thisyoung Christian the name of such an agitated man, but I had toaccept the honor that was done me. Can you see my old top-knot bythe baptismal font, beside the chubby-cheeked baby, the nurse andthe relatives? O civilization, such are your blows! Good manners, such are your exactions!

I went on Sunday to the civic funeral of Francois-Victor Hugo. Whata crowd! and not a cry, not the least bit of disorder! Days likethat are bad for Catholicism. Poor father Hugo (whom I could nothelp embracing) was very broken, but stoical. 

What do you think of le Figaro, which reproached him for wearing athis son's funeral, "a soft hat"?

As for politics, a dead calm. The Bazaine trial is ancient history. Nothing shows better the contemporary demoralization than the pardongranted to this wretched creature! Besides, the right of pardon ifone departs from theology is a denial of justice. By what right cana man prevent the accomplishment of the law?

The Bonapartists should have let this alone; but not at all: theydefended him bitterly, out of hatred for the 4th of September. Whydo all the parties regard themselves as having joint interests withthe rascals who exploit them? It is because all parties areexecrable, imbecile, unjust, blind! An example: the history of Azor(what a name!). He robbed the ecclesiastics. Never mind! theclericals consider themselves attacked. 

As regards the church. I have read in full (which I never didbefore) Lamennais' Essai sur l'indifference. I know now, andthoroughly, all the great buffoons who had a disastrous influence onthe XIXth century. To establish common sense or the prevailing modeand custom as the criterion of certitude, that is preparing the wayfor universal suffrage, which is, to my way of thinking, the shameof human kind. 

I have just read also, la Chretienne by the Abbe Bautain. A curiousbook for a novelist. It smacks of its period of modern Paris. Igulped a volume by Garcin de Tassy on Hindustani literature, to getclean. One can breathe, at least, in that. 

You see that your Father Cruchard is not entirely stupefied by thetheatre. However, I haven't anything to complain of in theVaudeville. Everyone there is polite and exact! How different fromthe Odeon!

Our friend Chennevieres is now our superior, since the theatres arein his division. The theatrical people are enchanted. 

I see the Muscovite every Sunday. He is very well and like himbetter and better. 

Saint-Antoine will be in galley proof at the end of January. 

Adieu, dear master! When shall we meet? Nohant is very far away! andI am going to be, all this winter, very busy. 

CCLXVII. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERTJanuary, 1874

I am seized with a headache, but, although perfectly imbecile, Iwant to embrace you and thank you for having written to me on NewYear's day. All Nohant loves you and smacks you, as they say in thecountry. 

We wish you a magnificent success and we are glad that it is not tobe at the cost of annoyances. However, that is hardly the way of theactors whom I have known, and at the Vaudeville I have found onlythose who were good natured. Have you a part for my friend Parade?And for Saint-Germain, who seemed to you idiotic one day whenperhaps he had lunched too well, but who nevertheless is a fineaddlepate, full of sympathy and spirit. And with real talent!

I am not reading all these horrid things that you feed on so as tosense better apparently the good things with which you sandwichthem. I have stopped laughing at human folly, I flee it and try toforget it. As for admiration, I am always ready, it is thehealthiest regime by far, and too, I am glad to know that I shallsoon read Saint-Antoine again. 

Keep in touch with your play and don't get ill this hateful winter. 

Your old troubadour who loves you. 

G. Sand

CCLXVIII. TO GEORGE SANDSaturday evening, 7th February, 1874

I have at last a moment to myself, dear master; now let us talk alittle. 

I knew through Tourgueneff that you were doing very well. That isthe main thing. Now I am going lo give you some news about thatexcellent Father Cruchard. 

Yesterday I signed the final proof for Saint-Antoine. . . . But theaforesaid old book will not be published until the first of April(like an April fool trick?) because of the translations. It isfinished, I am not thinking any more about it! Saint-Antoine isrelegated, as far as I am concerned, to the condition of a memory!However I do not conceal from you that I had a moment of greatsadness when I looked at the first proof. It is hard to separateoneself from an old companion!

As for le Candidat, it will be played, I think, between the 2oth andthe 25th of this month. As that play gave me very little trouble andas I do not attach great importance to it, I am rather calm aboutthe results of it. 

Carvalho's leaving irritated and disturbed me for several days. Buthis successor Cormon is full of zeal. Up to now I have nothing butpraise for him, as for all the others in fact. The people at theVaudeville are charming. Your old troubadour, whom you pictureagitated and always angry, is gentle as a lamb and even goodnatured! First I made all the changes that THEY wanted, and thenTHEY put back the original text. But of my own accord I have cut outwhat seemed to me too long, and it goes well, very well. Delannoyand Saint-Germain have excellent wigs and play like angels. I thinkit will be all right. 

One thing vexes me. The censorship has ruined the role of a littlelegitimist ragamuffin, so that the play, conceived in the spirit ofstrict unpartisanship, has now to flatter the reactionaries: aresult that distresses me. For I don't want to please the politicalpassions of anyone, no matter who it may be, having, as you know, anessential hatred of all dogmatism, of all parties. 

Well, the good Alexander Dumas has made the plunge! Here he is anAcademician! I think him very modest. He must be to think himselfhonored by honors. 

CCLXIX. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERTNohant, 15 February, 1874

Everything is going well, and you are satisfied, my troubadour. Thenwe are happy here over your satisfaction and we are praying forsuccess, and we are waiting impatiently Saint-Antoine so as to readit again. Maurice has had a cold which attacks him every other day. Lina and I are well, little girls superlatively so. Aurore learnseverything with admirable facility and docility; that child is mylife and ideal. I no longer enjoy anything except her progress. Allmy past, all that I have been able to acquire or to produce, has novalue in my eyes unless it can profit her. If a certain portion ofintelligence and goodness was granted to me, it is so that she mayhave a greater share. You have no children, be therefore alitterateur, an artist, a master; that is logical, that is yourcompensation, your happiness, and your strength. And do tell us thatyou are getting on, that seems to us the main thing in life. --Andkeep well, I think that these rehearsals which make you go to andfro are good for you. 

We all embrace you fondly. 

G. Sand

CCLXX. TO GEORGE SANDSaturday evening, 28 February, 1874

Dear master, The first performance of le Candidat is set for next Friday, unlessit is Saturday, or perhaps Monday the 9th? It has been postponed byDelannoy's illness and by l'Oncle Sam, for we had to wait until thesaid Sam had come down to under fifteen hundred francs. 

I think that my play will be very well given, that is all. For Ihave no idea about the rest of it, and I am very calm about theresult, a state of indifference that surprises me greatly. If I werenot harassed by people who ask me for seats, I should forgetabsolutely that I am soon to appear on the boards, and to exposemyself, in spite of my great age, to the derision of the populace. Is it stoicism or fatigue?

I have been having and still have the grippe, the result of it foryour Cruchard, is a general lassitude accompanied by a violent (orrather a profound) melancholy. While spitting and coughing beside myfire, I muse over my youth. I dream of all my dead friends, I wallowin blackness! Is it the result of a too great activity for the pasteight months, or the radical absence of the feminine element in mylife? But I have never felt more abandoned, more empty, morebruised. What you said to me (in your last letter) about your dearlittle girls moved me to the depths of my soul! Why haven't I that?I was born with all the affections, however! But one does not makeone's destiny, one submits to it. I was cowardly in my youth, I hada fear of life! One pays for everything. 

Let us speak of other things, it will be gayer. 

H. M. The Emperor of all the Russias does not like the Muses. Thecensorship of the "autocrat of the north" had formally forbidden thetransportation of Saint-Antoine, and the proofs were returned mefrom Saint Petersburg, last Sunday; the French edition even will beprohibited. That is quite a serious money loss to me. It would havetaken very little for the French censorship to forbid my play. Ourfriend Chennevieres gave me a good boost. Except for him I shouldnot be played. Cruchard does not please the temporal powers. Isn'tit funny, this simple hatred of authority, of all governmentwhatever, for art!

I am reading now books on hygiene. Oh! but they are comic! Whatassurance physicians have! what effrontery! what asses for the mostpart! I have just finished the Gaule poetique of Marchangy (theenemy of Beranger). This book gave me hysterics. 

So as to retemper myself in something stronger, I reread the great, the most holy, the incomparable Aristophanes. There is a man, thatfellow! What a world in which such work were produced!

CCLXXI. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERTNohant, March, 1874

Our two little girls cruelly ill with the grippe have taken up allmy time, but I am following, in the papers, the course of your play. I would go to applaud it, my cherished Cruchard, if I could leavethese dear little invalids. So it is on Wednesday that they aregoing to judge it. The jury may be good or stupid, one never knows!

I have started grubbing again after having rested from the long andsuccessful novel published by the Revue. I shall send it to you whenit is published in book form. 

Don't you delay to give me the news on Thursday, I don't need totell you that success and the lack of it prove nothing, and that itis a ticket in a lottery. It is agreeable to succeed; to aphilosophical spirit it ought not to be very distressing to fail. Asfor me, without knowing the play, I predict a success on the firstday. As for its continuance, that is always unknown and unforeseenfrom day to day. 

We all embrace you very affectionately. 

G. Sand

CCLXXII. TO GEORGE SANDThursday, one o'clock, 12 March, 1874

Speaking of FROSTS, this is one! People who want to flatter meinsist that the play will do better before the real public, but Idon't think so! I know the defects of my play better than anyone. IfCarvalho had not, for a month, bored me to death with correctionsthat I have cut out, I would have made re-touches or perhapschanges which would perhaps have modified the final issue. But I wasso disgusted with it that I would not have changed a line for amillion francs. In a word, I am dished. 

It must be said too that the hall was detestable, all fops andstudents who did not understand the material sense of the words. They made jokes of the poetical things. A poet says: "I am of 1830, I learned to read in Hernani, and I wanted to be Lara. " Thereupon aburst of ironical laughter, etc. 

And moreover I have fooled the public in regard to the title. Theyexpected another Rabagas! The conservatives have been vexed becauseI did not attack the republicans. Similarly the communists wouldhave liked some insults against the legitimists. 

My actors played superbly, Saint-Germain among others; Delannoy whocarries all the play, is distressed, and I don't know what to do tosoften his grief. As for Cruchard, he is calm, very calm! He haddined very well before the performance, and after it he supped evenbetter. Menu: two dozen oysters from Ostend, a bottle of champagnefrappe, three slices of roast beef, a truffle salad, coffee and achaser. Religion and the stomach sustain Cruchard. 

I confess that I should have liked to make some money, but as myfall involves neither art nor sentiment I am profoundly unconcerned. 

I tell myself: "well, it's over!" and I experience a feeling offreedom. The worst of it all is the scandal about the tickets. Observe that I had twelve orchestra seats and a box! (Le Figaro hadeighteen orchestra seats and three boxes. ) I did not even see thechief of the claque. One would say that the management of theVaudeville had arranged for me to fail. Its dream is fulfilled. 

I did not give away a quarter of the seats that I needed and Ibought a great many for people who slandered me eloquently in thelobbies. The "bravos" of a devoted few were drowned at once by the"hushes. " When they mentioned my name at the end, there was applause(for the man but not for the work) accompanied by two beautiful cat-calls from the gallery gods. That is the truth. 

La Petite Presse of this morning is polite. I can ask no more of it. Farewell, dear good master, do not pity me, for I don't feelpitiable. 

P. S. --A nice bit from my servant when he handed me your letter thismorning. Knowing your handwriting, he said sighing: "Ah! the bestone was not there last evening!" That is just what I think. 

CCLXXIII TO GEORGE SANDWednesday, April, 1874

Thank you for your long letter about le Candidat. Now here are thecriticisms that I add to yours: we ought to have: (1) lowered thecurtain after the electoral meeting and put the entire half of thethird act into the beginning of the fourth; (2) cut out theanonymous letter, which is unnecessary, since Arabelle informsRousselin that his wife has a lover; (3) inverted the order of thescenes in the fourth act, that is to say, beginning with theannouncement of the tryst between Madame Rousselin and Julien and, making Rousselin a little more jealous. The anxieties of hiselection turn him aside from his desire to go to entrap his wife. Not enough is made of the exploiters. There should be ten instead ofthree. Then, he gives his daughter. The end was there, and at theinstant that he notices the blackguardism, he is elected. Then hisdream is accomplished, but he feels no joy over it. In that mannerthere would have been moral progress. 

I think, whatever you say about it, that the subject was good, butthat I have spoiled it. Not one of the critics has shown me in what. But I know, and that consoles me. What do you think of La Rounat, who in his page implores me, "in the name of our old friendship, "not to have my play printed, he thinks it so "silly and badlywritten"! A parallel between me and Gondinet follows. 

The theatrical mystery is one of the funniest things of this age. One would say that the art of the theatre goes beyond the limits ofhuman intelligence, and that it is a secret reserved for those whowrite like cab drivers. The QUESTION OF IMMEDIATE SUCCESS leads allothers. It is the school of demoralization. If my play had beensustained by the management, it could have made money like another. Would it have been the better for that?

The Tentation is not doing badly. The first edition of two thousandcopies is exhausted. Tomorrow the second will be published. I havebeen torn in pieces by the petty journals and praised highly by twoor three persons. On the whole nothing serious has appeared yet, norwill appear, I think. Renan does not write any more (he says) in theDebats, and Taine is busy getting settled at Annecy. 

I have been EXECRATED by the Messrs. Villemessant and Buloz, whowill do all they can to be disagreeable to me. Villemessantreproaches me for not "having been killed by the Prussians. " Allthat is nauseous!

And you beg me not to notice human folly, and to deprive myself ofthe pleasure of depicting it! But the comic is the only consolationof virtue. There is, moreover, a manner of taking it which iselevated; that is what I am aiming at with two good people. Don'tfear that they are too realistic! I am afraid, on the contrary, thatit may seem beyond the bounds of possibility, for I shall push theidea to the limit. This little work that I shall start in six weekswill keep me busy for four or five years!

CCLXXIV. TO GEORGE SANDApril, 1874

As it would have necessitated a STRUGGLE, and as Cruchard haslawsuits in horror, I have withdrawn my play on the payment of fivethousand francs, so much the worse! I will not have my actorshissed! The night of the second performance when I saw Delannoy comeback into the wings with his eyes wet, I felt myself a criminal andsaid to myself: "Enough. " (Three persons affect me: Delannoy, Tourgueneff and my servant!) In short, it is over. I am printing myplay, you will get it towards the end of the week. 

I am jumped on on all sides! le Figaro and le Rappel; it iscomplete! Those people to whom I lent money or for whom I did favorscall me an idiot. I have never had less nerves. My stoicism (orpride) surprises myself even, and when I look for the causes, I askmyself, dear master, if you are not one of them. 

I recall the first night of Villemer, which was a triumph, and thefirst night of Don Juan de Village, which was a failure. You do notknow how much I admired you on those two occasions! The dignity ofyour character (a thing rarer still than genius) edified me! and Iformulated within myself this prayer: "Oh! how I wish I could belike her, on a similar occasion. " Who knows, perhaps your examplehas sustained me? Forgive the comparison! Well, I don't bat an eye-lid. That is the truth. 

But I confess to regretting the THOUSANDS OF FRANCS which I shouldhave made. My little milk-jug is broken. I should have liked torenew the furniture at Croisset, fooled again!

My dress rehearsal was deadly! Every reporter in Paris! They madefun of it all. I shall underline in your copy, all the passages thatthey seized on. Yesterday and the day before they did not seize onthem any more. Oh! well, so much the worse! It is too late. Perhapsthe PRIDE of Cruchard has killed it. 

And they have written articles on MY dwellings, my SLIPPERS, my DOG. The chroniclers have described my apartment where they saw "on thewalls, pictures and bronzes. " But there is nothing at all on thewalls! I know that one critic was enraged because I did not go tosee him; and a third person came to tell me so this morning, adding:"What do you want me to tell him?. . . But Messieurs Dumas, Sardou andeven Victor Hugo are not like you. --Oh! I know it!--Then you are notsurprised, etc. "

Farewell, dear good adored master, friendly regards to yours. Kissesto the dear little girls, and all my love to you. 

P. S. Could you give me a copy or the original of Cruchard'sbiography; I have no draft of it and I want to reread it to freshenup MY IDEAL. 

CCLXXV. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT, at CroisssetNohant, 10 April, 1874

Those who say that I do not think Saint-Antoine beautiful! andexcellent, lie about it, I do not need to tell you. Let me ask youhow I could have confided in the Levy clerks whom I do not know! Iremember, as for Levy himself, saying to him last summer, that Ifound the thing superb and first class. 

I would have done an article for you if I had not already refusedMaurice recently, to do one about Hugo's Quatre-vingt-treize. Isaid that I was ill. The fact is, that I do not know how to DOARTICLES, and I have done so many of them for Hugo that I haveexhausted my subject. I wonder why he has never done any for me;for, really, I am no more of a journalist than he is, and I need hissupport much more than he needs mine. 

On the whole, articles are not of any use, now, no more than arefriends at the theatre. I have told you that it is the struggle ofone against all, and the mystery, if there is one, is to turn on anelectric current. The subject then is very important in the theatre. In a novel, one has time to win the reader over. What a difference!I do not say as you do that there is nothing mysterious in that. Yes, indeed, there is something very mysterious in one respect:namely that one can not judge of one's effect beforehand, and thatthe shrewdest are mistaken ten times out of fifteen. You sayyourself that you have been mistaken. I am at work now on a play; itis not possible to know if I am mistaken or not. And when shall Iknow? The day after the first performance, if I have it performed, which is not certain. There is no fun in anything except work thathas not been read to any one. All the rest is drudgery andPROFESSIONAL BUSINESS, a horrible thing. So make fun of all thisGOSSIP; the guiltiest ones are those who report it to you. I thinkit is very odd that they say so much against you to your friends. Noone indeed ever says anything to me: they know that I would notallow it. Be valiant and CONTENT since Saint-Antoine is doing welland selling better. What difference does it make if they cut you upin this or that paper? In former times it meant something; in thesedays, nothing. The public is not the public of other days, andjournalism has not the least literary influence. Every one is acritic and forms his own opinions. They never write articles aboutmy novels. That doesn't make any difference to me. 

I embrace you and we love you. 

Your old troubadour. 

CCLXXVI. TO GEORGE SANDFriday evening, 1st May, 1874

Things are progressing, dear master, insults are accumulating! It isa concerto, a symphony in which each one is intent on his owninstrument. I have been cut up beginning le Figaro up to la Revuedes Deux Mondes, including la Gazette de France and leConstitutionnel. And THEY have not finished yet! Barbey d'Aurevillyhas insulted me personally, and the good Saint-Rene Taillandier, whodeclares me "unreadable, " attributes ridiculous words to me. So muchfor printing. As for speech, it is in accord. Saint-Victor (is itservility towards Michel Levy) rends me at the Brabant dinner, asdoes that excellent Charles Edmond, etc. On the other hand I amadmired by the professors of the Faculty of Theology at Strasbourg, by Renan, and by the cashier at my butcher's! not to mention someothers. There is the truth. 

What surprises me, is that under several of these criticisms thereis a HATRED against me, against me personally, a deliberateslandering, the cause of which I am seeking. I do not feel hurt, butthis avalanche of foolishness saddens me. One prefers inspiring goodfeelings to bad ones. As for the rest, I am not thinking any moreabout Saint-Antoine. That is over with!

I shall start, this summer, another book of about the same calibre;after that I shall return to the novel pure and simple. I have in myhead two or three to write before I die. Just now I am spending mydays at the Library, where I am accumulating notes. In a fortnight, I shall return to my house in the fields. In July I shall go to getrid of my congestion on the top of a Swiss mountain, obeying theadvice of Doctor Hardy, the man who called me "a hysterical woman, "a saying that I consider profound. 

The good Tourgueneff is leaving next week for Russia, his trip willforcibly interrupt his frenzy for pictures, for our friend neverleaves the auction rooms now! He is a man with a passion, so muchthe better for him!

I missed you very much at Madame Viardot's a fortnight ago. She sangIphigenie en Aulide. I can not tell you how beautiful it was, howtransporting, in short how sublime. What an artist that woman is!What an artist! Such emotions console one for life. 

Well! and you, dear good master, that play that they talk about, isit finished? You are going to fall back into the theatre! I pityyou! After having put dogs on the boards at the Odeon, perhaps theyare going to ask you to put on horses! That is where we are now!

And all the household, from Maurice to Fadet, how is it?

Kiss the dear little girls for me and let them return it to you fromme. 

Your old friend. 

CCLXXVII. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERTNohant, 4th May, 1874

Let them say what they like, Saint-Antoine is a masterpiece, amagnificent book. Ridicule the critics, they are blockheads. Thepresent century does not like lyricism. Let us wait for thereaction, it will come for you, and a splendid one. Rejoice in yourinsults, they are great promises for the future. 

I am working still on my play, I don't at all know if it is worthanything and don't worry about it. I shall be told that when it isfinished, and if it does not seem interesting I shall lock it up. Itwill have amused me for six weeks, that is the most certain thingfor us about our profession. 

Plauchut is the joy of the salons! happy old man! always contentwith himself and with others; that makes him as good as an angel, Iforgive him all his graces. 

You were happy at hearing the Diva Paulita, we had her, withIphigenie, for two weeks in Nohant last autumn. Ah! yes, there isbeauty and grandeur! Try to come to see us before going to Croisset, you would make us happy. 

We all love you and all my dear world embraces you with a GREAT GOODHEART. 

Your old troubadour always, G. Sand

CCLXXVIII. TO GEORGE SANDCroisset, Tuesday, 26th March, 1874

Dear good master, Here I am back again in my solitude! But I shall not remain in itlong, for, in a short month, I shall go to spend three weeks on theRighi, so as to breathe a bit, to relax myself, to deneurasthenizemyself! It is a long time since I took the air, I am tired. I need alittle rest. After that I shall start at my big book which will takeat least four years. It will have that good quality!

Le Sexe faible which was accepted at the Vaudeville Carvalho, wasreturned to me by the said Vaudeville and returned also by Perrin, who thinks the play off-color and unconventional. "Putting a cradleand a nurse on the French stage!" Think of it! Then, I took thething to Duquesnel who has not yet (naturally) given me any answer. How far the demoralization which the theatres bring about extends!The bourgeois of Rouen, my brother included, have been talking to meof the failure of le Candidat in hushed voices (sic) and with acontrite air, as if I had been taken to the assizes under anaccusation of forgery. NOT TO SUCCEED IS A CRIME and success is thecriterion of well doing. I think that is grotesque in a supremedegree. 

Now explain to me why they put mattresses under certain falls andthorns under others? Ah! the world is funny, and it seems chimericalto me to want to regulate oneself according to its opinion. 

The good Tourgueneff must be now in Saint Petersburg; he sent me afavorable article on Saint-Antoine from Berlin. It is not thearticle, but he, that has given me pleasure. I saw him a great dealthis winter, and I love him more and more. I saw a good deal offather Hugo who is (when the political gallery is absent) acharming, good fellow. 

Was not the fall of the Broglie ministry pleasing to you? Very muchso to me! but the next! I am still young enough to hope that thenext Chamber will bring us a change for the better. However?

Ah, confound it! how I want to see you and talk a long time withyou! Everything is poorly arranged in this world. Why not live withthose one loves? The Abbey of Theleme [Footnote: Cf. Rabelais'Gargantua. ] is a fine dream, but nothing but a dream. Embrace warmlythe dear little girls for me, and entirely yours. 

R. P. Cruchard

More Cruchard than ever. I feel like a good-for-nothing, a cow, damned, antique, deliquescent, in short calm and moderate, which isthe last term in decadence. 

CCLXXIX. TO GEORGE SANDKalt-Bad. Righi. Friday, 3d July, 1874

Is it true, dear master, that last week you came to Paris? I wentthrough it to go to Switzerland, and I read "in a sheet" that youhad been to see les Deux Orphelines, had taken a walk in the Bois deBoulogne, had dined at Magny's, etc. ; all of which goes to provethat, thanks to the freedom of the Press, one is not master of one'sown actions. Whence it results that Father Cruchard is wrathful withyou for not having advised him of your presence in the "new Athens. "It seems to me that people are sillier and flatter there than usual. The state of politics has become drivel! They have tickled my earswith the return of the Empire. I don't believe in it! However. . . Weshould have to expatriate ourselves then. But how and where?

Is it for a play that you came? I pity you for having anything to dowith Duquesnel! He had the manuscript of le Sexe faible returned tome by an agent of the theatrical management, without a word ofexplanation, and in the ministerial envelope was a letter from anunderclerk, which is a gem! I will show it to you. It is amasterpiece of impertinence! People do not write in that way to aCarpentras urchin, offering a skit to the Beaumarchais theatre. 

It is that very play le Sexe faible that, last year, Carvalho was soenthusiastic about! Now no one wants it any more for Perrin thinksit unconventional to put on the boards of the Theatre Francais, anurse and a cradle. Not knowing what to do with it, I have taken itto the Cluny Theatre. 

Ah! my poor Bouilhet did well to die! But I think that the Odeoncould show more respect for his posthumous work. 

Without believing in an Holbachic conspiracy, I think that they havebeen knocking me a bit too much of late; and they are so indulgenttowards certain others. 

The American Harrisse maintained to me the other day that Saint-Simon wrote badly. At that I burst out and talked to him in such away that he will never more before me belch his idiocy. It was atdinner at the Princess's; my violence cast a chill. 

You see that your Cruchard continues not to listen to jokes onreligion! He does not become calm! quite the contrary!

I have just read la Creation naturelle by Haeckel, a pretty book, pretty book! Darwinism seems to me to be better expounded there thanin the books of Darwin himself. 

The good Tourgueneff has sent me news from the depths of Scythia. Hehas found the information he wanted for a book that he is going todo. The tone of his letter is frivolous, from which I conclude thathe is well. He will return to Paris in a month. 

A fortnight ago I made a little trip to Lower Normandy, where I havefound at last a neighborhood suitable to place my two good men. Itwill be between the valley of the Orne and the valley of the Auge. Ishall have to return there several times. 

Beginning with September, then, I shall start that hard task! itmakes me afraid, and I am overwhelmed by it in advance. 

As you know Switzerland, it is useless for me to talk to you of it, and you would scorn me if I were to tell you that I am bored toextinction here. I came here obediently because they ordered me to, for the purpose of bleaching my face and calming my nerves! I don'tthink that the remedy will be efficacious; anyhow it has been deadlyboring to me. I am not a man of nature, and I do not understandanything in a country where there is no history. I would give allthese glaciers for the Vatican Museum. One can dream there. Well, inthree weeks I shall be glued to my green table! in a humble refuge, where it seems to me you never want to come!

CCLXXX. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERTNohant, 6th July, 1874 (Yesterday, seventy years. )

I was in Paris from the 30th of May to the 10th of June, you werenot there. Since my return here, I have been ill with the grippe, rheumatic, and often absolutely deprived of the use of my right arm. I have not the courage to stay in bed: I spend the evening with mychildren and I forget my little miseries which will pass; everythingpasses. That is why I was not able to write to you, even to thankyou for the good letter which you wrote to me about my novel. InParis I was overwhelmed by fatigue. That is the way I am growingold, and now I am beginning to feel it; I am not more often ill, now, illness PROSTRATES me more. That is nothing, I have not theright to complain, being well loved and well cared for in my nest. Iurge Maurice to go about without me, since my strength is not equalto going with him. He leaves tomorrow for Cantal with a servant, atent, a lamp, and a quantity of utensils to examine the MICROS ofhis entomological DIVISION I am telling him that you are bored onthe Righi. He cannot understand it. 

The 7th

I am taking up my letter again, begun yesterday; I still find itvery hard to move my pen, and even at this moment, I have a pain inmy side, and I cannot. . . 

Till tomorrow. 

The 8th

At last, I shall be able perhaps today: for I am furious to thinkthat perhaps you are accusing me of forgetting you, when I amprevented by weakness that is entirely physical, in which myaffections count for nothing. You tell me that they KNOCK you toomuch. I read only le Temps and it is a good deal for me even to opena paper to see about what it is talking. You ought to do as I do andIGNORE criticism when it is not serious, and even when it is. I havenever been able to see what good it is to the author criticised. Criticism always starts from a personal point of view, the authorityof which the artist does not recognize. It is because of thatusurpation of powers in the intellectual order of things, thatpeople get to discussing the Sun and the Moon; but that doesnot prevent them in the least from showing us their good tranquilfaces. 

You do not want to be a man of nature, so much the worse for you!therefore you attach too much importance to the details of humanthings, and you do not tell yourself that there is in you a NATURALforce that defies the IFS and the BUTS of human prattle. We are ofnature, in nature, by nature, and for nature. Talent, will, genius, are natural phenomena like the lake, the volcano, the mountain, thewind, the star, the cloud. What man dabbles in is pretty or ugly, ingenious or stupid; what he gets from nature is good or bad; but itis, it exists and subsists. One should not ask from the jumble ofappreciation called CRITICISM, what one has done and what one wantsto do. Criticism does not know anything about it; its business is togossip. 

Nature alone knows how to speak to the intelligence in a languagethat is imperishable, always the same, because it does not departfrom the eternally true, the absolutely beautiful. The hard thing, when one travels, is to find nature, because man has arranged iteverywhere and has almost spoiled it everywhere; probably it isbecause of that that you are bored, it is because it is disguisedand travestied everywhere. However, the glaciers are still intact, Ipresume. 

But I cannot write further, I must tell you quickly that I love you, that I embrace you affectionately. Give me news of yourself. I hopeto be on my feet in a few days. Maurice is waiting until I am robustbefore he goes: I am hurrying as much as I can! My little girlsembrace you, they are superb. Aurore is devoted to mythology (GeorgeCox, Baudry translation). You know that? An adorable work forchildren and parents. Enough, I can no more. I love you; don't haveblack ideas, and resign yourself to being bored if the air is goodthere. 

CCLXXXI. TO GEORGE SANDRighi, 14 July, 1874;

What? ill? poor, dear master! If it is rheumatism, do as my brotherdoes, who in his character of physician, scarcely believes inmedicine. Last year he went to the baths at Aix in Savoy, and in twoweeks he was cured of the pains that had tormented him for sixyears. But to do that you would have to move, to resign your habits, Nohant and the dear little girls. You will remain at home and YOUWILL BE WRONG. You ought to take care of yourself . . . For those wholove you. 

And as regard this, you send me, in your last letter, a horridthing. Could I, for my part, suspect you of forgetting Cruchard!Come now, I have, first of all, too much vanity and next, too muchfaith in you. 

You don't tell me how your play is getting on at the Odeon. 

Speaking of plays, I am going again to expose myself to insults ofthe populace and the penny-a-liners. The manager of the ClunyTheatre, to whom I took le Sexe faible, has written me an admiringletter and is disposed to put on that play in October. He isreckoning on a great money success. Well, so be it! But I amrecalling the enthusiasm of Carvalho, followed by an absolute chill!and all that increases my scorn for the so-called shrewd people whopretend to know all about things. For, in short, there is a dramaticwork, declared by the managers of the Vaudeville and the Cluny"perfect, " by the Theatre Francais "unplayable, " and by the managerof the Odeon "in need of rewriting from one end to the other. " Drawa conclusion now! and listen to their advice! Never mind, as thesefour gentlemen are the masters of your destinies because they havethe money, and as they have more mind than you, never having writtena line, you must believe them and submit to them. 

It is a strange thing how much pleasure imbeciles find infloundering about in the work of another! in cutting it, correctingit, playing the pedagogue! Did I tell you that I was, because ofthat, very much at odds with a certain *****. He wanted to makeover, sometime ago, a novel that I had recommended to him, which wasnot very good, but of which he is incapable of turning the leastphrase. And I did not hide from him my opinion about him; inde irae. However, it is impossible for me to be so modest as to think thatthat good Pole is better than I am in French prose. And you want meto remain calm! dear master! I have not your temperament! I am notlike you, always soaring above the miseries of this world. YourCruchard is as sensitive as if he were divested of skin. Andimbecility, self-sufficiency, injustice exasperate him more andmore. Thus the ugliness of the Germans who surround me shuts off theview of the Righi!!! Zounds! What mugs!

God be thanked, "of my horrible sight I purge their States. "

CCLXXXII. TO GEORGE SANDSaturday, 26 September, 1874

Then, after having been bored like an ass on the top of the Righi, Ireturned home the first of August and started my book. The beginningwas not easy, it was even "direful, " and "methought" I should die ofdespair; but now things are going, I am all right, come what may!But one needs to be absolutely mad to undertake such a book. I fearthat, by its very conception, it is radically impossible. We shallsee, Ah! supposing I should carry it out well . . . What a dream. 

You doubtless know that once more I am exposing myself to the stormsof the footlights (pretty metaphor) and that "braving the publicityof the theatre" I shall appear upon the boards of Cluny, probably, towards the end of December. The manager of that "little theatre" isenchanted with le Sexe faible. But so was Carvalho, which did notprevent him . . . You know the rest. 

Of course every one blames me for letting my play be given in such ajoint. But since the others do not want that play and since I insistthat it shall be presented to make a few sous for the Bouilhetheirs, I am forced to pass that over. I am keeping two or threepretty anecdotes about this to tell you when we meet. Why is thetheatre such a general cause of delirium? Once one is on thatground, ordinary conditions are changed. If one has had themisfortune (slight) not to succeed, friends turn from one. They arevery inconsiderate of one. They never salute one! I swear to you onmy word of honor that that happened to me on account of le Candida. I do not believe in Holbachic conspiracies, but all that they havedone to me since March amazes me. But, I decidedly don't bat anoptic, and the fate of le Sexe faible disturbs me less than theleast of the phrases of my novel. 

Public intelligence seems to me to get lower and lower! To whatdepth of imbecility shall we descend? Belot's last book sold eightthousand copies in two weeks. Zola's Conquete de Plassans, seventeenhundred in six months, and there was an article about it. All theMonday-morning idiots have just been swooning away about M. Scribe'sUne Chaine. France is ill, very ill, whatever they say; and mythoughts are more and more the color of ebony. 

However, there are some pretty comic elements: (1) the Bazaineescape with the episode of the sentinel; (2) l'Histoire d'un Diamantby Paul de Musset (see the Revue des Deux Mondes for September); (3)the vestibule of the former establishment of Nadar near Old England[sic], where one can contemplate a life-size photograph of AlexanderDumas. 

I am sure that you are finding me grouchy and that you are going toanswer me: "What difference does all that make?" But everythingmakes a difference, and we are dying of humbug, of ignorance, ofself-confidence, of scorn of grandeur, of love of banality, andimbecile babble. 

"Europe which hates us, looks at us and laughs, " said Ruy Blas. MyHeavens, she has a right to laugh. 

CCLXXXIII TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERTNohant, 5th November, 1874

What, my Cruchard, you have been ill? That is what I feared, I wholive in the woes of indigestion and yet hardly work at all, I amdisquieted at your kind of life, the excess of intellectualexpenditure and the seclusion. In spite of the charm that I haveproved and appreciated at Croisset, I fear for you that solitudewhere you have no longer anyone to remind you that you must eat, drink and sleep, and above all walk. Your rainy climate makes youkeep to the house. Here, where it does not rain enough, we are atleast hustled out of doors by the beautiful warm sun and thatPhoebus invigorates us, while our Phoebus-Apollo murders us. 

But I am always talking to you as to a Cruchard philosophic anddetached from his personality, to a Cruchard fanatical aboutliterature and drunk with production. When, then, shall you be ableto say to yourself: Lo! this is the time for rest, let us taste theinnocent pleasure of living for life's sake, of watching withamazement the agitations of others and of not giving to themanything except the excess of our overflow. It does one good toruminate over what one has assimilated in life, sometimes withoutattention and without discrimination. 

Old friendships sustain us and all at once they distress us. I havejust lost my poor blind Duvernet, whom you have seen at our house. He expired very quietly without suspecting it and without suffering. There is another great void about us and my nephew, the substitute, has been nominated for Chateauroux. His mother has followed him. 

So we are all alone. Happily we love one another so much that we canlive like that, but not without regret for the absent ones. Plauchutleft us yesterday to return at Christmas. Maurice is already atwork preparing a splendid performance of marionettes for us. Andyou, if you are in Paris, won't you come to keep the Christmas Everevels with us? You will have finished your rehearsals, you willhave had a success, perhaps you will be in the mood to return tomaterial life, eating truffles?

Tell us about yourself, do not be ill, always love your oldtroubadour and his people who love you too. 

G. Sand

CCLXXXIV. TO GEORGE SANDWednesday, 2nd December, 1874

I am having remorse about you. It is a crime to let so long a timeelapse without answering such a letter as your last. I was waitingto write to you until I had something definite to tell you about leSexe faible. What is definite is that I took it away from the Clunya week ago. The cast that Weinschenk proposed to me was odiouslystupid and he did not keep the promises that he made. But, God bethanked, I withdrew in time. At present my play has been offered tothe Gymnase. No news up to now from Montigny. 

I am worrying like five hundred devils about my book, asking myselfsometimes if I am not mad to have undertaken it. But, like ThomasDiafoirus, I am stiffening myself against the difficulties ofexecution which are frightful. I need to learn a heap of thingsabout which I am ignorant. In a month I hope to finish with theagriculture and the gardening, and I shall only then be at thesecond third of my first chapter. 

Speaking of books, do read Fromont et Risler, by my friend Daudet, and les Diaboliques, by my enemy Barbey d'Aurevilly. You will writhewith laughter. It is perhaps owing to the perversity of my mind, which likes unhealthy things, but the latter work seemed to meextremely amusing; it is the last word in the involuntary grotesque. In other respects, dead calm, France is sinking gently like a rottenhulk, and the hope of salvage, even for the staunchest, seemschimerical. You need to be here, in Paris, to have an idea of theuniversal depression, of the stupidity, of the decrepitude in whichwe are floundering. 

The sentiment of that agony penetrates me and I am sad enough todie. When I am not torturing myself about my work, I am groaningabout myself. That is the truth. In my leisure moments, all I do isto think of the dead, and I am going to say a very pretentious thingto you. No one understands me; I belong to another world. The men ofmy profession are so little of my profession! There is hardly anyoneexcept Victor Hugo with whom I can talk of what interests me. Daybefore yesterday he recited by heart to me from Boileau and fromTacitus. That was like a gift to me, the thing is so rare. Moreover, the days when there are not politicians at his house, he is anadorable man. 

CCLXXXV. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT, at CroisssetNohant, 8th December, 1874

Poor dear friend, I love you all the more because you are growing more unhappy. Howyou torment yourself, and how you disturb yourself about life! forall of which you complain, is life; it has never been better foranyone or in any time. One feels it more or less, one understands itmore or less, one suffers with it more or less, and the more one isin advance of the age one lives in, the more one suffers. We passlike shadows on a background of clouds which the sun seldom pierces, and we cry ceaselessly for the sun which can do no more for us. Itis for us to clear away our clouds. 

You love literature too much; it will destroy you and you will notdestroy the imbecility of the human race. Poor dear! imbecility, that, for my part, I do not hate, that I regard with maternal eyes:for it is a childhood and all childhood is sacred. What hatred youhave devoted to it! what warfare you wage on it!

You have too much knowledge and intelligence, you forget that thereis something above art: namely, wisdom, of which art at its apogeeis only the expression. Wisdom comprehends all: beauty, truth, goodness, enthusiasm, in consequence. It teaches us to see outsideof ourselves, something more elevated than is in ourselves, and toassimilate it little by little, through contemplation andadmiration. 

But I shall not succeed in changing you. I shall not even succeed inmaking you understand how I envisage and how I lay hold uponHAPPINESS, that is to say, the acceptation of life whatever it maybe! There is one person who could change you and save you, that isfather Hugo; for he has one side on which he is a great philosopher, while at the same time he is the great artist that you require andthat I am not. You must see him often. I believe that he will quietyou: I have not enough tempest in me now for you to understand me. As for him, I think that he has kept his thunderbolts and that hehas all the same acquired the gentleness and the compassion of age. 

See him, see him often and tell him your troubles, which are great, I see that, and which turn too much to spleen. You think too much ofthe dead, you think that they have too soon reached their rest. Theyhave not. They are like us, they are searching. They labor in thesearch. 

Every one is well, and embraces you. As for me, I do not get well, but I have hopes, well or not, to keep on still so as to bring up mygrandchildren, and to love you as long as I have a breath left. 

G. Sand

CCLXXXVI. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT, at CroisssetNohant, 16th January, 1875

I too, dear Cruchard, embrace you at the New Year, and wish that youmay have a tolerable one, since you do not care to hear the mythhappiness spoken of. You admire my serenity; it does not come frommy depths, it comes from my necessity of thinking only of others. There is but a little time left, old age creeps on and death ispushing me by the shoulders. 

I am as yet, if not necessary, at least extremely useful, and Ishall go on as long as I have a breath, thinking, talking, workingfor them. 

Duty is the master of masters, it is the real Zeus of modern times, the son of Time, and has become his master. It is that which livesand acts outside of all the agitations of the world. It does notreason, does not discuss. It examines without fear, it walks withoutlooking behind it; Cronos, the stupid, swallowed stones, Zeus breaksthem with the lightning, and the lightning is the will. I am not aphilosopher, I am a servant of Zeus, who takes away half of theirsouls from slaves, but who leaves them entire to the brave. 

I have no more leisure to think of myself, to dream of discouragingthings, to despair of human-kind, to look at my past sorrows andjoys and to summon death. 

Mercy! If one were an egoist, one would see it approach with joy; itis so easy to sleep in nothingness, or to awaken in a better life!for it opens these two hypotheses, or to express it better, thisantithesis. 

But, for the one who must continue working, death must not besummoned before the hour when exhaustion opens the doors of liberty. You have had no children. It is the punishment of those who wish tobe too independent; but that suffering is nevertheless a glory forthose who vow themselves to Apollo. Then do not complain for havingto grub, and describe your martyrdom to us; there is a fine book tobe written about that. 

You say that Renan is despairing; for my part, I don't believe that:I believe that he is suffering as are all those who look high andfar ahead; but he ought to have strength in proportion to hisvision. Napoleon shares his ideas, he does well if he shares themall. He has written me a very wise and good letter. He now seesrelative safety in a wise republic, and I, too, think it stillpossible. It will be very bourgeois and not very ideal, but one hasto begin at the beginning. We artists have no patience at all. Wewant the Abbey of Theleme at once; but before saying, "Do what youwant!" one must go through with "Do what you can!" I love you and Iembrace you with all my heart, my dear Polycarp. My children largeand small join with me. 

Come now, no weakness! We all ought to be examples to our friends, our neighbors, our fellow citizens. And how about me, don't youthink that I need help and support in my long task that is not yetfinished? Don't you love anyone, not even your old troubadour, whostill sings, and often weeps, but who conceals himself when heweeps, as cats do when they die?

CCLXXXVII. TO GEORGE SANDParis, Saturday evening

Dear master, I curse once more THE DRAMATIC MANIA and the pleasure that certainpeople have in announcing remarkable news! Someone had told me thatyou were VERY ill. Your good handwriting came to reassure meyesterday morning, and this morning I have received the letter fromMaurice, so the Lord be praised!

What to tell you about myself? I am not stiff, I have . . . I don'tknow what. Bromide of potassium has calmed me and given me eczema onthe middle of my forehead. 

Abnormal things are going on inside me. My psychic depression mustrelate to some hidden cause. I feel old, used up, disgusted witheverything, and others bore me as I do myself. 

However, I am working, but without enthusiasm: as one does a stint, and perhaps it is the work that makes me ill, for I have undertakena senseless book. 

I lose myself in the recollections of my childhood like an old man. . . I do not expect anything further in life than a succession ofsheets of paper to besmear with black. It seems to me that I amcrossing an endless solitude to go I don't know where. And it is Iwho am at the same time the desert, the traveller, and the camel. 

I spent the afternoon today at the funeral of Amedee Achard. TheProtestant ceremonies were as inane as if they had been Catholic. ALL PARIS and the reporters were there in force!

Your friend, Paul Meurice, came a week ago to ask me to "do theSalon" in le Rappel. I declined the honor, for I do not admit thatanyone can criticise an art of which he does not know the technique!And then, what use is so much criticism!

I am reasonable. I go out every day, I exercise, and I come hometired, and still more irritated, that is the good I get out of it. In short, your troubadour (not very troubadourish) has become a sadbonehead. 

It is in order not to bore you with my complaints that I write sorarely to you now, for no one has a livelier sense than I of myunbearableness. 

Send me Flamarande; that will give me a little air. 

I embrace you all, and especially you, dear master, so great, sostrong, and so gentle. Your Cruchard, who is more and more cracked, if cracked is the right word, for I perceive that the contents areescaping. 

CCLXXXVIII. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT20th February

Then you are quite ill, dear old fellow? I am not worried about it, since it concerns only nerves and rheumatisms, and I have livedseventy years with all that nuisance in my body, and I am stillhealthy. But I am sad to know that you are bored, suffering, andyour spirit turned to darkness as it necessarily is when one is ill. 

I was sure that a moment would come when someone would prescribewalking to you. All your illness comes from the lack of exercise, aman of your strength and your complexion ought to have lived anathletic life. 

Don't sulk then about the very wise order that condemns you to anhour's walk each day. 

You fancy that the work of the spirit is only in the brain, you arevery much mistaken, it is also in the legs. 

Tell me that two weeks of this regime has cured you. It will happen, I am sure of it. 

I love you, and I embrace you, as does every one of my brood. 

Your old troubadour

CCLXXXIX. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERTNohant, 25th March, 1875

Don't be worried about me, my Polycarp. I have nothing serious, alittle grippe, and this right arm which hardly moves but whichelectricity will cure. One thinks that it is an effort. 

I am much more worried about you, although you are ten times asstrong as I am, but your morale is affected whereas mine takes whatcomes, in a cowardly way, if you like, but there is perhaps aphilosophy in knowing how to be cowardly rather than angry. 

Do write to me, tell me that you are going out of doors, that youare walking, that you are better. --I have finished going over theproofs of Flamarande. That is the most boring part of the task. 

I shall send you the book when it is published. I know that you donot like to read bit by bit. 

I am a little tired; however, I want to begin something else. Sinceit is not warm enough to go out, I get bored with not havinganything on the stocks. Everything is going well in the nest, exceptfor a few colds. Spring is so peevish this year! At last the palesun will become the dear Phoebus-Appolo with the shining hair, andall will go well. 

Aurore is getting so big that one is surprised to hear her laugh andplay like a child, always good, and tender, the other is always veryfunny and facetious. 

Tell us of yourself and always love us as we love you. 

Your old troubadour

CCXC. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERTNohant, 7th May, 1875

You leave me without news of you? You say that you prefer to beforgotten, rather than to complain ceaselessly, as it is veryuseless and since you will not be forgotten; complain then, but tellus that you are alive and that you still love us. 

As you are much nicer, the more surly you are, I know that you arenot rejoicing over the death of poor Michel. For me, it is a greatloss in every way, for he was absolutely devoted to me and proved itall the time by his care and services without number. 

We are all well here. I am better since it is not cold any more, andI am working a great deal. I am also doing many water colors, I amreading the Iliad with Aurore, who does not like any translationexcept Leconte de Lisle's, insisting that Homer is spoiled byapproximate renderings. 

The child is a singular mixture of precocity and childishness. Sheis nine years old and so large that one would think her twelve. Sheplays dolls with passion, and she is as LITERARY as you or I, meanwhile learning her own language which she does not yet know. 

Are you still in Paris in this lovely weather? Nohant is nowSTREAMING with flowers, from the tips of the trees to the turf;Croisset must be even prettier, for it is cool, and we arestruggling with a drought that has now become chronic in Berry. Butif you are still in Paris, you have that beautiful Pare Monceauunder your eyes where you are walking, I hope, since you have to. Life is at the price of walking!

Won't you come to see us? Whether you are sad or gay, we love youthe same here, and we wish that affection meant something to you, but we shall give it to you, and we give it to you withoutconditions. 

I am thinking of going to Paris next month, shall you be there?

G. Sand

CCXCI. TO GEORGE SANDCroisset, 10th May, 1875

A wandering gout, pains that go all over me, an invinciblemelancholy, the feeling of "universal uselessness" and grave doubtsabout the book that I am writing, that is what is the matter withme, dear and valiant master. Add to that worries about money withmelancholic recollections of the past, that is my condition, and Iassure you that I make great efforts to get out of it. But my willis tired. I cannot decide about anything effective! Ah! I have eatenmy white bread first, and old age is not announcing itself under gaycolors. Since I have begun hydrotherapy, however, I feel a littleless like a COW, and this evening I am going to begin work withoutlooking behind me. 

I have left my apartment in the rue Murillo, and I have taken alarger one which is next to the one that my niece has just reservedon the Boulevard Reine Hortense. I shall be less alone next winter, for I cannot endure solitude. 

Tourgueneff seemed to me, however, to be very well pleased with thetwo first chapters of my frightful book. But Tourgueneff loves metoo much, perhaps to judge impartially. I am not going to leave myhouse for a long time now, for I WILL get ahead in my task, whichweighs on my chest like a burden of a million pounds. My niece willcome to spend all the month of June here. When she has gone away, Ishall make a little archeological and geological excursion inCalvados, and that will be all. 

No, I do not rejoice at Michel Levy's death, and I even envy himthat death so quiet. Just the same, that man did me a great deal ofharm. He wounded me deeply. It is true that I am endowed with anabsurd sensitiveness; what scratches others tears me to pieces. Whyam I not organized for enjoyment as I am for suffering!

The bit you sent me about Aurore who is reading Homer, did me good. That is what I miss: a little girl like that! But one does notarrange one's own destiny, one submits to it. I have always livedfrom day to day, without plans for the future and pursuing my end(one alone, literature) without looking to the right or to the left. Everything that was around me has disappeared, and now I find I amin a desert. In short, the element of distraction is absolutelylacking to me. One needs a certain vivacity to write good things!What can one do to get it again? How can one proceed, to avoidthinking continually about one's miserable person? The sickest thingin me is my humor: the rest doubtless would go well. You see, dear, good master, that I am right to spare you my letters. Nothing is asimbecile as the whiners. 

CCXCII. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERTThursday morning, 10th June, 1875

We are leaving, Lina and I, on Saturday morning, and up to then weshall be on the move. If you wanted to come to dine with us Fridayat Magny's at six o'clock, at least we could say farewell. Youshould be free at nine o'clock, for we go to bed with the chickensin order to leave early the next day. What do you say?

I love you with all my heart. 

CCXCIII. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT

Friend, I shall come at your call as soon as you say to me, "I havefinished. "

I love you, and I embrace you. 

G. Sand

CCXCIV. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERTNohant, 15 August

My poor, dear, old fellow, I learn only today in a letter from that dear, lazy soul of aTourgueneff, about the misfortune which has come to your niece. Isit then irreparable? Her husband is very young and intelligent, can't he begin over again, or take a position that will give him aliving? They have no children, they do not need millions to live on, young and well as they both are. Tourgueneff tells me that yourproperty has been affected by this failure. If it is AFFECTED MERELYyou will bear this serious annoyance philosophically. You have novices to satisfy, nor ambitions to appease. I am sure that you willaccommodate your life to your resources. The hardest thing for youto bear, is the chagrin of that young woman who is as a daughter toyou. But you will give her courage and consolation, it is the momentto be above your own worries, in order to assuage those of others. Iam sure that as I write, you have calmed her mind and soothed herheart. Perhaps, too, the disaster is not what it seems at the firstmoment. There will be a change for the better, a new way will befound, for it is always so, and the worth of men is measuredaccording to their energy, to the hopes which are always a sign oftheir force and intelligence. More than one has risen again bravely. Be sure that better days will come and tell them so continually, forit is true. Your moral and physical welfare must not be shaken bythis rebuff. Think of healing those whom you love, and forgetyourself. We shall be thinking of you, and we shall be suffering foryou; for I am keenly affected at seeing that you have a new subjectof sadness amidst your spleen. 

Come, dear splendid old fellow, cheer up, do us a new successfulnovel, and think of those who love you, and whose hearts aresaddened and torn by your discouragements. Love them, love us, andyou will find once more your strength and your enthusiasm. 

We all embrace you very tenderly. Do not write if it bores you, sayto us only, "I am well, and I love you. "

G. Sand

CCXCV. TO GEORGE SANDWednesday

Will you forgive my long delay, dear master? But I think that I mustbore you with my eternal jeremiads. I repeat myself like a dotard! Iam becoming too stupid! I am boring everybody. In short, yourCruchard has become an intolerable old codger, because he has beenintolerant. And as I cannot do anything that I ought to do, I must, out of consideration for others, spare them the overflow of my bile. 

For the last six months, especially, I don't know what has been thetrouble with me, but I feel dreadfully ill, without being able toget to the root of the matter, and I know many people are in thesame condition. Why? Perhaps we are suffering from the illness ofFrance; here in Paris, where her heart beats, people feel betterthan at her extremities, in the provinces. 

I assure you that every one now is suffering with someincomprehensible trouble. Our friend Renan is one of the mostdesperate, and Prince Napoleon feels exactly the way he does. Butthey have strong nerves. But, as for me, I am attacked by a welldefined melancholia. I should be resigned to it, and I am not. 

I work all the more, so as not to think about myself. But since Ihave undertaken a book that has absurd difficulties in itsexecution, the feeling of my powerlessness adds to my chagrin. 

Don't tell me again that imbecility is sacred like childhood, forimbecility contains no germ. Let me believe that the dead do not"search any more, " and that they are at rest. We are sufficientlytormented on earth to be at rest when we are beneath it! Ah! How Ienvy you, how I long to have your serenity! To say nothing of therest! and your two dear little girls, whom I embrace as tenderly asI do--you. 

CCXCVI. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT, at CroisssetNohant, 7th September, 1875

You are distressed, you are discouraged, you distress me too. Thatis all right, I would rather have you complain than keep silent, dear friend. And I don't want you to stop writing to me. 

I also have great and frequent sorrows. My old friends are dyingbefore I do. One of the dearest, the one who brought up Maurice andwhom I was expecting to help me to bring up my grandchildren, hasjust died, almost in an instant. That is a deep sorrow. Life is asuccession of blows at one's heart. But duty is there: we must go onand do our tasks without saddening those who suffer with us. 

I ask you absolutely to WILL, and not to be indifferent to thegriefs which we are sharing with you. Tell us that calm has comeand that the horizon has cleared. 

We love you, sad or gay. 

Give us news of yourself. 

G. Sand

CCXCVII. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERTNohant, 8th October, 1875

Well, well, your health has come back in spite of you, since you aresleeping all night. The sea air forces you to live and you havemade progress, you have given up a work that would not have made asuccess. Do something more of earth earthy, which would reacheverybody. Tell me what price they would sell Croisset for if theyare obliged to sell it. Is it a house and garden, or is there a farmand grounds! If it is not beyond my means I might buy it and youshould spend the rest of your life there. I have no money, but Ishould try to shift a little capital. Answer me seriously, I beg ofyou; if I can do it, it shall be done. 

I have been ill all the summer, that is to say, that I have sufferedcontinually, but I have worked all the more not to think of it. Infact they are to put on Villemer and Victorine at the TheatreFrancais again. But there is nothing now in preparation. I do notknow at what time in the autumn or winter I shall have to go toParis. I shall find you there ready and courageous, shan't I? If youhave made, through goodness and devotion, as I think, a greatsacrifice for your niece, who, in truth, is your real daughter, youwill forget all about it and will begin your life again as a youngman. Is one old when one does not choose to be? Stay at the seasideas long as you can. The important thing is to patch up the physicalmachine. Here with us it is as warm as in midsummer. I hope that youstill have the sun down there. Study the life of the mollusc! Theyare creatures better endowed than one thinks, and, for my part, Ishould love to take a walk with Georges Pouchet! Natural history isthe inexhaustible source of agreeable occupations for even those whoseek only amusement in it, and if you actually attacked it you wouldbe saved. But you must by all means save yourself, for you aresomebody, and you cannot drop out of the running, as can a mereruined grocer. We all embrace you with our best love. 

G. Sand

CCXCVIII. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT, in ParisNohant, 15 November, 1875

So you are there in Paris, and have you left your apartment at therue Murillo? You are working? Good luck and good courage! The oldman is coming to the top again! I know that they are rehearsingVictorine at the Theatre Francais; but I don't know whether I shallgo to see that revival. I have been so ill all the summer and I amstill suffering so much with intestinal trouble, that I do not knowif I shall ever be strong enough to move in winter. Well, we shallsee. The hope of finding you there will give me courage; that is notwhat will be lacking, but, since I passed my seventieth birthday, Ihave been very much upset, and I do not yet know if I shall get overit. I cannot walk any more, I who used to love to be on my feet somuch, without risking atrocious pains. I am patient with thesemiseries, I work all the more, and I do water-colors in my hours ofrecreation. 

Aurore consoles and charms me; I should like to live long enough toget her married. But God disposes, and one must take death andlife as He wills. 

Well, this is just to say to you that I shall go to embrace youunless the thing is ABSOLUTELY impossible. You shall read me whatyou have begun. Meanwhile, give me news of yourself; for I shall notstir until the last rehearsals. I know my cast, I know that theywill all do well, according to their capabilities, and, besides, that Perrin will look after them. 

We all KISS you very tenderly, and we love you, Cruchard or not. 

G. Sand

CCXCIX. TO GEORGE SANDParis, 11 December, 1875

Things are going a little better, and I am profiting by the occasionto write to you, dear, good, adorable master. 

You know that I have abandoned my big novel in order to write alittle MEDIEVAL bit of nonsense, which won't run to more thanthirty pages. It puts me in a more decent setting than that ofmodern times, and does me good. Then I am hunting for a contemporarynovel, but I am hesitating among several embryonic ideas; I shouldlike to do something concise and violent. The string of the necklace(that is to say, the main idea) is still to seek. 

Externally my life is scarcely changed: I see the same people, Ireceive the same visits. My faithful ones on Sunday are first ofall, the big Tourgueneff, who is nicer than ever, Zola, AlphonseDaudet, and Goncourt. You have never spoken to me of the first two. What do you think of their books?

I am not reading anything at all, except Shakespeare, whom am goingthrough from beginning to end. That tones you up and puts new airinto your lungs, just as if you were on a high mountain. Everythingappears mediocre beside that prodigious felow. 

As I go out very little, I have not yet seen Victor Hugo. However, this evening I am going to resign myself to putting on my boots, sothat I can go to present my compliments to him. His personalitypleases me infinitely, but his court! . . . Mercy!

The senatorial elections are a subject of diversion to the public ofwhich I am a part. There must have occurred, in the corridors of theAssembly, dialogues incredibly grotesque and base. The XlXth centuryis destined to see all religions perish. Amen! I do not mourn any ofthem. 

At the Odeon, a live bear is going to appear on the boards. That isall that I know about literature. 

CCC. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT, in ParisNohant, 18th and 19th December, 1875

At last I discover my old troubadour who was a subject of chagrinand serious worry to me. Here you are yourself again, trusting inthe very natural luck of external events, and discovering inyourself the strength to control them, whatever they may be, byeffort. What is it that you call some one in HIGH FINANCE? For mypart, I don't know; I am in relations with Victor Borie. He will dome a favor if he sees it to his interest. Must I write him?

Then you are going to start grubbing again? So am I; for sinceFlamarande I have done nothing but mark time, while waiting forsomething better. I was so ill all summer! but my strange andexcellent friend Favre has cured me wonderfully, and I am taking anew lease on life. 

What's our next move? For you, of course, DESOLATION, and, for me, consolation. I do not know on what our destinies depend; you seethem pass, you criticise them, you abstain from a literaryappreciation of them, you limit yourself to depicting them, withdeliberate meticulous concealment of your personal feelings. However, one sees them very clearly through your narrative, and youmake the people sadder who read you. As for me, I should like tomake them less sad. I cannot forget that my personal victory overdespair was the work of my will and of a new way of understandingwhich is entirely opposed to what I had before. 

I know that you criticise the intervention of the personal doctrinein literature. Are you right? Isn't it rather a lack of convictionthan a principle of esthetics? One cannot have a philosophy in one'ssoul without its appearing. I have no literary advice to give you, Ihave no judgment to formulate on the author friends of whom youspeak. I, myself have told the Goncourts all my thought; as for theothers, I firmly believe that they have more education and moretalent than I have. Only I think that they, and you especially, lacka definite and extended vision of life. Art is not merelypainting. True painting, moreover, is full of the soul that wieldsthe brush. Art is not merely criticism and satire: criticism andsatire depict only one side of the truth. 

I want to see a man as he is, he is not good or bad, he is good andbad. But he is something more . . . Nuance. Nuance which is for me thepurpose of art, being good and bad, he has an internal force whichleads him to be very bad and slightly good, --or very good andslightly bad. 

I think that your school is not concerned with the substance, andthat it dwells too much on the surface. By virtue of seeking theform, it makes the substance too cheap! it addresses itself to themen of letters. But there are no men of letters, properly speaking. Before everything, one is a man. One wants to find man at the basisof every story and every deed. That was the defect of l'Educationsentimentale, about which I have so often reflected since, askingmyself why there was so general a dislike of a work that was so welldone and so solid. This defect was the absence of ACTION of thecharacters on themselves. They submitted to the event and nevermastered it. Well, I think that the chief interest in a story iswhat you did not want to do. If I were you, I would try theopposite; you are feeding on Shakespeare just now, and you are doingwell! He is the author who puts men at grips with events; observethat by them, whether for good or for ill, the event is alwaysconquered. In his works, it is crushed underfoot. 

Politics is a comedy just now. We have had tragedy, shall we endwith the opera or with the operetta? I read my paper conscientiouslyevery morning; but aside from that moment, it is impossible for meto think of it or to be interested in it. All of it is absolutelyvoid of any ideal whatsoever, and therefore I cannot get up anyinterest in any of the persons concerned in that scullery. All ofthem are slaves of fact because they have been born slaves ofthemselves. 

My dear little girls are well. Aurore is a well-set-up girl, abeautiful upright soul in a strong body. The other one is grace andsweetness. I am always an assiduous and a patient teacher, and verylittle time is left to me to write PROFESSIONALLY, seeing that Icannot keep awake after midnight and that I want to spend all myevening with my family; but this lack of time stimulates me andmakes me find a true pleasure in digging away; it is like aforbidden fruit that I taste in secret. 

All my dear world embraces you and rejoices to hear that you arebetter. Did I send you Flamarande and the pictures of my littlegirls? If not, send me a line, and I send you both. 

Your old troubadour who loves you, G. Sand

Embrace your charming niece for me. What a good and lovely lettershe wrote me! Tell her that I beg her to take care of herself and toplease get well quickly. 

What do you mean! Littre a senator? It is impossible to believe itwhen one knows what the Chamber is. All the same it must becongratulated for this attempt at self-respect. 

CCCI. TO GEORGE SANDDecember, 1875

Your good letter of the 18th, so maternally tender, has made mereflect a great deal. I have reread it ten times, and I shallconfess to you that I am not sure that I understand it. Briefly, what do you want me to do? Make your instructions exact. 

I am constantly doing all that I can to enlarge my brain, and I workin the sincerity of my heart. The rest does not depend on me. 

I do not enjoy making "desolation, " believe me, but I cannot changemy eyes! As for my "lack of convictions, " alas! I choke withconvictions. I am bursting with anger and restrained indignation. But according to the ideal of art that I have, I think that theartist should not manifest anything of his own feelings, and thatthe artist should not appear any more in his work than God innature. The man is nothing, the work is everything! This method, perhaps mistakenly conceived, is not easy to follow. And for me, atleast, it is a sort of permanent sacrifice that I am making to goodtaste. It would be agreeable to me to say what I think and torelieve Mister Gustave Flaubert by words, but of what importance isthe said gentleman?

I think as you do, dear master, that art is not merely criticism andsatire; moreover, I have never tried to do intentionally the one northe other. I have always tried to go into the soul of things and tostick to the greatest generalities, and I have purposely turnedaside from the accidental and the dramatic. No monsters and noheroes!

You say to me: "I have no literary advice to give you; I have nojudgments to formulate on the authors, your friends, etc. " Well?indeed! but I implore advice, and I am waiting for your judgments. Who, pray, should give them, and who, pray, should formulate them, if not you?

Speaking of my friends, you add "my school. " But I am ruining mytemperament in trying not to have a school! A priori, I spurn them, every one. The people whom I see often and whom you designatecultivate all that I scorn and are indifferently disturbed aboutwhat torments me. I regard as very secondary, technical detail, local exactness, in short the historical and precise side of things. I am seeking above all for beauty, which my companions pursue butlanguidly. I see them insensible when I am ravaged with admirationor horror. Phrases make me swoon with pleasure which seem veryordinary to them. Goncourt is very happy when he has seized upon aword in the street that he can stick in a book, and I am wellsatisfied when I have written a page without assonances orrepetitions. I would give all the legends of Gavarni for certainexpressions and master strokes, such as "the shade was NUPTIAL, august and solemn!" from Victor Hugo, or this from Montesquieu: "thevices of Alexander were extreme like his virtues. He was terrible inhis wrath. It made him cruel. "

In short, I try to think well, IN ORDER TO write well. But writingwell is my aim, I do not deny it. 

"I lack a well-defined and extended vision of life. " You are right athousand times over, but by what means could it be otherwise? I askyou that. You do not enlighten my darkness with metaphysics, neithermine nor that of others. The words religion or Catholicism on theone hand; progress, fraternity, democracy on the other, do notcorrespond to the spiritual needs of the moment. The entirely newdogma of equality which radicalism praises is experimentally deniedby physiology and history. I do not see the means of establishingtoday a new principle, any more than of respecting the old ones. Therefore I am hunting, without finding it, that idea on which allthe rest should depend. 

Meanwhile I repeat to myself what Littre said to me one day: "Ah! myfriend, man is an unstable compound, and the earth an inferiorplanet. "

Nothing sustains me better than the hope of leaving it soon, and ofnot going to another which might be worse. "I would rather not die, "as Marat said. Ah! no! enough, enough weariness!

I am writing now a little silly story, which a mother can permit herchild to read. The whole will be about thirty pages, I shall havetwo months more at it. Such is my energy, I shall send it to you assoon as it appears (not my energy, but the little story). 

CCCII. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT, in ParisNohant, 12th January, 1876

My cherished Cruchard, I want to write to you every day; time is lacking absolutely. Atlast here is a free moment; we are buried under the snow; it is thesort of weather that I adore: this whiteness is like generalpurification, and the amusements of the house seem more intimate andsweeter. Can anyone hate the winter in the country? The snow is oneof the most beautiful sights of the year!

It appears that I am not clear in my sermons; I have that much incommon with the orthodox, but I am not of them; neither in my ideaof equality, nor of authority, have I any fixed plan. You seem tothink that I want to convert you to a doctrine. Not at all, I don'tthink of such a thing. Everyone sets off from a point of view, thefree choice of which I respect. In a few words, I can give a resumeof mine: not to place oneself behind an opaque glass through whichone can see only the reflection of one's own nose. To see as far aspossible the good, the bad, about, around, yonder, everywhere; toperceive the continual gravitation of all tangible and intangiblethings towards the necessity of the decent, the good, the true, thebeautiful. 

I don't say that humanity is on the way to the heights. I believe itin spite of everything; but I do not argue about it, it is uselessbecause each one judges according to his own personal vision, andthe general aspect is for the moment poor and ugly. Besides, I donot need to be sure of the safety of the planet and its inhabitantsin order to believe in the necessity of the good and the beautiful;if the planet departs from that law it will perish; if theinhabitants discard it they will be destroyed. Other stars, othersouls will pass over their bodies, so much the worse! But, as forme, I want to gravitate up to my last breath, not with the certitudenor the need of finding elsewhere a GOOD PLACE, but because my solejoy is in keeping myself with my family on an upward road. 

In other words, I am fleeing the sewer, and I am seeking the dry andthe clean, certain that it is the law of my existence. Being a manamounts to little; we are still near the monkey from which they saywe proceed. Very well! a further reason for separating ourselvesstill more from it and for being at least at the height of therelative truth that our race has been admitted to comprehend; a verypoor truth, very limited, very humble! well, let us possess it asmuch as we can and not permit anyone to take it from us. We are, Ithink, quite agreed; but I practice this simple religion and you donot practice it, since you let yourself become discouraged; yourheart has not been penetrated with it, since you curse life anddesire death like a Catholic who yearns for compensation, were itonly the rest eternal. You are no surer than another of thiscompensation. Life is perhaps eternal, and therefore work iseternal. If this is so, let us do our day's work bravely. If it isotherwise, if the MOI perishes entirely, let us have the honor ofhaving done our stated task, it is our duty; for we have evidentduties only toward ourselves and our equals. What we destroy inourselves, we destroy in them. Our abasement lowers them, our fallsdrag them down; we owe it to them to remain erect so that they shallnot fall. The desire for an early death, as that for a long life, istherefore a weakness, and I do not want you to admit any longer thatit is a right. I thought that had it once; I believed, however, whatI believe today; but I lacked strength, and like you I said: "Icannot help it. " I lied to myself. One can help everything. One hasthe strength that one thinks one has not, when one desires ardentlyto GRAVITATE, to mount a step each day, to say to oneself: "TheFlaubert of tomorrow must be superior to the one of yesterday, andthe one of day after tomorrow more steady and more lucid still. "

When you feel you are on the ladder, you will mount very quickly. You are about to enter gradually upon the happiest and mostfavorable time of life: old age. It is then that art reveals itselfin its sweetness; as long as one is young, it manifests itself withanguish. You prefer a well-turned phrase to all metaphysics. I also, I love to see condensed into a few words what elsewhere fillsvolumes; but these volumes, one must have understood them completely(either to admit them or to reject them) in order to find thesublime resume which becomes literary art in its fullest expression;that is why one should not scorn the efforts of the human mind toarrive at the truth. 

I tell you that, because you have excessive prejudices AS TO WORDS. In truth, you read, you dig, you work much more than I and a crowdof others do. You have acquired learning that I shall never attain. Therefore you are a hundred times richer than all of us; you are arich man, and you complain like a poor man. Be charitable to abeggar who has his mattress full of gold, but who wants to benourished only on well-turned phrases and choice words. But brute, ransack your own mattress and eat your gold. Nourish yourself withthe ideas and feelings accumulated in your head and your heart; thewords and the phrases, THE FORM to which you attach so muchimportance, will issue by itself from your digestion. You considerit as an end, it is only an effect. Happy manifestations proceedonly from an emotion, and an emotion proceeds only from aconviction. One is not moved at all by the things that one does notbelieve with all one's heart. 

I do not say that you do not believe: on the contrary, all your lifeof affection, of protection, and of charming and simple goodness, proves that you are the most convinced individual in the world. But, as soon as you handle literature, you want, I don't know why, to beanother man, one who should disappear, one who destroys himself, whodoes not exist! What an absurd mania! what a false rule of GOODTASTE! Our work is worth only what we are worth. 

Who is talking about putting yourself on the stage? That, in truth, is of no use, unless it is done frankly by way of a chronicle. Butto withdraw one's soul from what one does, what is that unhealthyfancy? To hide one's own opinion about the characters that one putson the stage, to leave the reader therefore uncertain about theopinion that he should have of them, that is to desire not to beunderstood, and from that moment, the reader leaves you; for if hewants to understand the story that you are telling him, it is on thecondition that you should show him plainly that this one is a strongcharacter and that one weak. 

L'Education sentimentale has been a misunderstood book, as I havetold you repeatedly, but you have not listened to me. There shouldhave been a short preface, or, at a good opportunity, an expressionof blame, even if only a happy epithet to condemn the evil, tocharacterize the defect, to signalize the effort. All the charactersin that book are feeble and come to nothing, except those with badinstincts; that is what you are reproached with, because people didnot understand that you wanted precisely to depict a deplorablestate of society that encourages these bad instincts and ruins nobleefforts; when people do not understand us it is always our fault. What the reader wants, first of all, is to penetrate into ourthought, and that is what you deny him, arrogantly. He thinks thatyou scorn him and that you want to ridicule him. For my part, Iunderstood you, for I knew you. If anyone had brought me your bookwithout its being signed, I should have thought it beautiful, butstrange, and I should have asked myself if you were immoral, skeptical, indifferent or heart-broken. You say that it ought to belike that, and that M. Flaubert will violate the rules of good tasteif he shows his thought and the aim of his literary enterprise. Itis false in the highest degree. When M. Flaubert writes well andseriously, one attaches oneself to his personality. One wants tosink or swim with him. If he leaves you in doubt, you lose interestin his work, you neglect it, or you give it up. 

I have already combated your favorite heresy, which is that onewrites for twenty intelligent people and does not care a fig for therest. It is not true, since the lack of success irritates you andtroubles you. Besides, there have not been twenty critics favorableto this book which was so well written and so important. So one mustnot write for twenty persons any more than for three, or for ahundred thousand. 

One must write for all those who have a thirst to read and who canprofit by good reading. Then one must go straight to the mostelevated morality within oneself, and not make a mystery of themoral and profitable meaning of one's book. People found that withMadame Bovary. If one part of the public cried scandal, thehealthiest and the broadest part saw in it a severe and strikinglesson given to a woman without conscience and without faith, tovanity, to ambition, to irrationality. They pitied her; art requiredthat, but the lesson was clear, and it would have been more so, itwould have been so for everybody, if you had wished it, if you hadshown more clearly the opinion that you had, and that the publicought to have had, about the heroine, her husband, and her lovers. 

That desire to depict things as they are, the adventures of life asthey present themselves to the eye, is not well thought out, in myopinion. Depict inert things as a realist, as a poet, it's all thesame to me, but, when one touches on the emotions of the humanheart, it is another thing. You cannot abstract yourself from thiscontemplation; for man, that is yourself, and men, that is thereader. Whatever you do, your tale is a conversation between you andthe reader. If you show him the evil coldly, without ever showinghim the good he is angry. He wonders if it is he that is bad, or ifit is you. You work, however, to rouse him and to interest him; youwill never succeed if you are not roused yourself, or if you hide itso well that he thinks you indifferent. He is right: supremeimpartiality is an anti-human thing, and a novel ought to be humanabove everything. If it is not, the public is not pleased in itsbeing well written, well composed and conscientious in every detail. The essential quality is not there: interest. The reader breaks awaylikewise from a book where all the characters are good withoutdistinctions and without weaknesses; he sees clearly that that isnot human either. I believe that art, this special art of narration, is only worth while through the opposition of characters; but, intheir struggle, I prefer to see the right prevail. Let eventsoverwhelm the honest men, I agree to that, but let him not be soiledor belittled by them, and let him go to the stake feeling that he ishappier than his executioners. 

15th January, 1876

It is three days since I wrote this letter, and every day I havebeen on the point of throwing it into the fire; for it is long anddiffuse and probably useless. Natures opposed on certain pointsunderstand each other with difficulty, and I am afraid that you willnot understand me any better today than formerly. However, I amsending you this scrawl so that you can see that I am occupied withyou almost as much as with myself. 

You must have success after that bad luck which has troubled youdeeply. I tell you wherein lie the certain conditions for yoursuccess. Keep your cult for form; but pay more attention to thesubstance. Do not take true virtue for a commonplace in literature. Give it its representative, make honest and strong men pass amongthe fools and the imbeciles that you love to ridicule. Show what issolid at the bottom of these intellectual abortions; in short, abandon the convention of the realist and return to the timereality, which is a mingling of the beautiful and the ugly, the dulland the brilliant, but in which the desire of good finds its placeand its occupation all the same. 

I embrace you for all of us. 

G. Sand

CCCIII. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERTNohant, 6th March, 1876

I am writing to you in a hurry this morning because I have justreceived news from M. Perrin of the first performance of the revivalof the Mariage de Victorine, a play of mine, at the TheatreFrancais. 

I have neither the time to go there, nor the wish to leave like thatat a moment's notice, but I should have liked to send some of myfriends there, and he does not offer me a single seat for them. I amwriting him a letter that he will receive tomorrow, and I am askinghim to send you at least one orchestra seat. If you do not get it, please understand that it was not my fault. I shall have to say thesame thing to five or six other people. 

I embrace you therefore in a hurry, so as not to lose the post. 

Give me news of your niece and embrace her for me. 

G. Sand

CCCIV. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT, at ParisNohant, 8th March, 1876

You scorn Sedaine, you great profane soul! That is where thedoctrine of form destroys your eye! Sedaine is not a writer, that istrue, although he falls but little short of it, but he is a man, with a heart and soul, with the sense of moral truth, the directinsight into human feelings. I don't mind his out-of-date reasoningsand dry phraseology! The right thought is always there, and itpenetrates you deeply!

My dear old Sedaine! He is one of my well-beloved papas, and Iconsider le Philosophe sans le savior far superior to Victorine; itis such a distressing drama and so well carried out! But you onlylook for the well-turned phrase, that is one thing--only one thing, it is not all of art, it is not even half of it, it is a quarter atmost, and if three-quarters are beautiful, one overlooks the partthat is not. 

I hope that you will not go to seek for your country-side before thegood weather; here, we have been pretty well spared; but for thepast three days there has been a deluge, and it makes me ill. Ishould not have been able to go to Paris. Your niece is better, Godbe praised! I love you and I embrace you with all my soul. 

G. Sand

Do tell M. Zola to send me his book. I shall certainly read it withgreat interest. 

CCCV. TO GEORGE SANDWednesday, 9th March, 1876

COMPLETE SUCCESS, dear master. The actors were recalled after eachact, and warmly applauded. The public was pleased and from time totime cries of approval were heard. All your friends who had come atyour summons were sorry that you were not there. 

The roles of Antoine and Victorine were especially well played. Little Baretta is a real treasure. 

How were you able to make Victorine from le Philosophe sans lesavoir? That is beyond me. Your play charmed me and made me weeplike an idiot, while the other bored me to death, absolutely boredme to death; I longed to get to the end. What language! the goodTourgueneff and Madame Viardot made saucer-eyes, comical to behold. In your work, what produced the greatest effect is the scene in thelast act between Antoine and his daughter. Maubant is too majestic, and the actor who plays Fulgence is inadequate. But everything wentvery well, and this revival will have a long life. 

The gigantic Harrisse told me that he was going to write to youimmediately. Therefore his letter will arrive before mine. I shouldhave started this morning for Pont-l'Eveque and Honfleur to see abit of the country that I have forgotten, but the floods stopped me. 

Read, I beg of you, the new novel by Zola, Son Excellence Rougon: Iam very anxious to know what you think of it. 

No, I do not SCORN Sedaine, because I do not scorn what I do notunderstand. He is to me, like Pindar, and Milton, who are absolutelyclosed to me; however, I quite understand that the citizen Sedaineis not exactly of their calibre. 

The public of last Tuesday shared my error, and Victorine, independently of its real worth, gained by contrast. Madame Viardot, who has naturally good taste, said to me yesterday, in speaking ofyou: "How was she able to make one from the other?" That is exactlywhat I think. 

You distress me a bit, dear master, by attributing esthetic opinionsto me which are not mine. I believe that the rounding of the phraseis nothing. But that WRITING WELL is everything, because "writingwell is at the same time perceiving well, thinking well and sayingwell" (Buffon). The last term is then dependent on the other two, since one has to feel strongly, so as to think, and to think, so asto express. 

All the bourgeois can have a great deal of heart and delicacy, befull of the best sentiments and the greatest virtues, withoutbecoming for all that, artists. In short, I believe that the formand the matter are two subtleties, two entities, neither of whichcan exist without the other. 

This anxiety for external beauty which you reproach me with is forme a METHOD. When I discover a bad assonance or a repetition in oneof my phrases, I am sure that I am floundering in error; by dint ofsearching, I find the exact expression which was the only one andis, at the same time, the harmonious one. The word is never lackingwhen one possesses the idea. 

Note (to return to the good Sedaine) that I share all his opinionsand I approve his tendencies. From the archeological point of view, he is curious and from the humanitarian point of view verypraiseworthy, I agree. But what difference does it make to us today?Is it eternal art? I ask you that. 

Other writers of his period have formulated useful principles also, but in an imperishable style, in a more concrete and at the sametime more general manner. 

In short, the persistence of the Comedie Francais in exhibiting thatto us as "a masterpiece" had so exasperated me that, having gonehome in order to get rid of the taste of this milk-food, I readbefore going to bed the Medea of Euripides, as I had no otherclassic handy, and Aurora surprised Cruchard in this occupation. 

I have written to Zola to send you his book. I shall tell Daudetalso to send you his Jack, as I am very curious to have your opinionon these two books, which are very different in composition andtemperament, but quite remarkable, both of them. 

The fright which the elections caused to the bourgeois has beendiverting. 

CCCVI. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT, at CroisssetNohant, 15th March, 1876

I should have a good deal to say about the novels of M. Zola, and itwould be better to say it in an article than in a letter, becausethere is a general question there which must be formulated with arefreshed brain. I should like to read M. Daudet's book first, thebook you spoke of to me, the title of which I cannot recall. Havethe publisher send it to me collect, if he does not want to give itto me; that is very simple. On the whole, the thing that I shall notgainsay, meanwhile making a PHILOSOPHICAL criticism of the method, is that Rougon is a STRONG book, as you say, and worthy of beingplaced in the first rank. 

That does not change anything in my way of thinking, that art oughtto be the search for the truth, and that truth is not the picture ofevil. It ought to be the picture of good and evil. A painter whosees only one is as false as he who sees only the other. Life is notcrammed with monsters only. Society is not formed of rascals andwretches only. The honest people are not the minority, since societyexists in a certain order and without too many unpunished crimes. Imbeciles dominate, it is true, but there is a public consciencewhich weighs on them and obliges them to respect the right. Letpeople show up and chastise the rascals, that is good, it is evenmoral, but let them tell us and show us the opposite; otherwise thesimple reader, who is the average reader, is discouraged, saddened, horrified, and contradicts you so as not to despair. 

How are you? Tourgueneff wrote me that your last work was veryremarkable: then you are not DONE FOR, as you pretend?

Your niece continues to improve, does she not? I too am better, after cramps in my stomach that made me blue, and continued with ahorrible persistence. Physical suffering is a good lesson when itleaves one freedom of spirit. One learns to endure it and to conquerit. Of course one has some moments of discouragement when one throwsoneself on the bed; but, for my part, I always think of what my oldcure used to say to me, when he had the gout: THAT WILL PASS, OR ISHALL PASS. And thereupon he would laugh, content with his joke. 

My Aurore is beginning history, and she is not very well pleasedwith these killers of men whom they call heroes and demigods. Shecalls them horrid fellows. 

We have a confounded spring; the earth is covered with flowers andsnow, one gets numb gathering violets and anemones. 

I have read the manuscript of l'Etrangere. It is not as DECADENT asyou say. There are diamonds that sparkle brightly in thispolychrome. Moreover, the decadences are transformations. Themountains in travail roar and scream, but they sing beautiful airs, also. 

I embrace you and I love you. Do have your legend published quickly, so that we may read it. 

Your old troubadour, G. Sand

CCCVII. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT30th March, 1876

Dear Cruchard, I am enthusiastic about Jack, and I beg you to send my thanks to M. Daudet. Ah, yes! He has talent and heart! and how well all that isdone and SEEN!

I am sending you a volume of old things that have just beencollected. I embrace you, and I love you. 

Your old troubadour, G. Sand

CCCVIII. TO GEORGE SANDMonday evening, 3rd April, 1876

I have received your volume this morning, dear master. I have two orthree others that have been loaned to me for a long time; I shallsend them off, and I shall read yours at the end of the week, duringa little two-days' trip that I am forced to take to Pont-l'Evequeand to Honfleur for my Histoire d'un coeur simple, a trifle now "onthe stocks, " as M. Prudhomme would say. 

I am very glad that Jack has pleased you. It is a charming book, isn't it? If you knew the author you would like him even better thanhis book. I have told him to send you Risler and Tartarin. I am surein advance that you would thank me for the opportunity of readingthese two books. 

I do not share in Tourgueneff's severity as regards Jack, nor in theimmensity of his admiration for Rougon. The one has charm, the otherforce. But neither one is concerned ABOVE ALL else with what is forme the end of art, namely, beauty. I remember having felt my heartbeat violently, having felt a fierce pleasure in contemplating awall of the Acropolis, a perfectly bare wall (the one on the left asyou go up to the Propylaea). Well! I wonder if a book independentlyof what it says, cannot produce the same effect! In the exactness ofits assembling, the rarity of its elements, the polish of itssurface, the harmony of its ensemble, is there not an intrinsicvirtue, a sort of divine force, something eternal as a principle? (Ispeak as a Platonist. ) Thus, why is a relation necessary between theexact word and the musical word? Why does it happen that one alwaysmakes a verse when one restrains his thought too much? Does the lawof numbers govern then the feelings and the images, and is whatseems to be the exterior quite simply inside it? If I shouldcontinue a long time in this vein, I should blind myself entirely, for on the other side art has to be a good fellow; or rather art iswhat one can make it, we are not free. Each one follows his path, inspite of his own desire. In short, your Cruchard no longer knowswhere he stands. 

But how difficult it is to understand one another! There are two menwhom I admire a great deal and whom I consider real artists, Tourgueneff and Zola. Yet they do not admire the prose ofChateaubriand at all, and even less that of Gautier. Phrases whichravish me seem hollow to them. Who is wrong? And how please thepublic when one's nearest friends are so remote? All that saddens mevery much. Do not laugh. 

CCCIX. TO GEORGE SANDSunday evening. . . 1876

You OUGHT to call me inwardly, dear master, "a confounded pig, "--forI have not answered your last letter, and I have said nothing to youabout your two volumes, not to mention a third that I received thismorning from you. But I have been, for the last two weeks, entirelytaken up by my little tale which will be finished soon. I have hadseveral errands to do, various readings to finish up with, and athing more serious than all that, the health of my poor nieceworries me extremely and, at times, disturbs my brain, so that I donot know at all what I am doing! You see that my cup is bitter! Thatyoung woman is anemic to the last degree. She is wasting away. Shehas been obliged to leave off painting, which is her soledistraction. All the usual tonics do no good. Three days ago, by theorders of another physician, who seems to me more learned than theothers, she began hydrotherapy. Will he succeed in making her digestand sleep? in building up her strength? Your poor Cruchard takesless and less pleasure in life, and he even has too much of it, infinitely too much. Let us speak of your books, that will bebetter. 

They have amused me, and the proof is that I have devoured with onegulp and one after another, Flamarande and the Deux Freres. What acharming woman is Madame Flamarande, and what a man is M. Salcede. The narrative of the kidnapping of the child, the trip in thecarriage, and the story of Zamora are perfect passages. Everywherethe interest is sustained and at the same time progressive. Inshort, what strikes me the most in these two novels (as in allyours, moreover), is the natural order of the ideas, the talent, orrather the genius for narrative. But what an abominable wretch isyour M. Flamarande! As for the servant who tells the story and whois evidently in love with Madame, I wonder why you did not show moreplainly his personal jealousy. 

Except for the count, all are virtuous persons in that story, evenextraordinarily virtuous. But do you think them really true to life?Are there many like them? It is true that while reading, one acceptsthem because of the cleverness of the execution; but afterwards?

Well, dear master, and this is to answer your last letter, this is, I think what separates us essentially. You, on the first bound, ineverything, mount to heaven, and from there you descend to theearth. You start from a priori, from the theory, from the ideal. Thence your pity for life, your serenity, and to speak truly, yourgreatness. --I, poor wretch, I am stuck on the earth as with soles oflead; everything disturbs me, tears me to pieces, ravages me, and Imake efforts to rise. If I should take your manner of looking at thewhole of life I should become laughable, that is all. For you preachto me in vain. I cannot have another temperament than my own; noranother esthetics than what is the consequence of it. You accuse meof not letting myself go, according to nature. Well, and thatdiscipline? that virtue? what shall we do with it? I admire M. Buffon putting on cuffs when he wrote. This luxury is a symbol. Inshort I am trying simply to be as comprehensive as possible. Whatmore can one exact?

As for letting my personal opinion be known about the people I puton the stage: no, no, a thousand times no! I do not recognize theright to that. If the reader does not draw from a book the moralthat should be found there, the reader is an imbecile or the book isfalse from the point of view of accuracy. For, the moment that athing is true, it is good. Obscene books likewise are immoral onlybecause they lack truth. Things are not "like that" in life. 

And observe that I curse what they agree to call realism, althoughthey make me one of its high priests; reconcile all that. 

As for the public, its taste disgusts me more and more. Yesterday, for instance, I was present at the first night of the Prix Martin, apiece of buffoonery that, for my part, I think full of wit. Not oneof the witty things in the play produced a laugh, and thedenouement, which seems out of the ordinary, passed unperceived. Then to look for what can please seems to me the most chimerical ofundertakings. For I defy anyone to tell me by what means onepleases. Success is a consequence and must not be an end. I havenever sought it (although I desire it) and I seek it less and less. 

After my little story, I shall do another, --for I am too deeplyshaken to start on a great work. I had thought first of publishingSaint-Julien in a periodical, but I have given the plan up. 

CCCX. TO GEORGE SANDFriday evening. . . 1876

Ah! thank you from the bottom of my heart, dear master! You havemade me pass an exquisite day, for I have read your last volume, laTour de Percemont. --Marianne only to-day; as I had many things tofinish, among others my tale of Saint-Julien, I had shut up theaforesaid volume in a drawer so as not to succumb to the temptation. As my little story was finished last night, I rushed upon your bookwhen morning came and devoured it. 

I find it perfect, two jewels! Marianne moved me deeply and two orthree times I wept. I recognized myself in the character of Pierre. Certain pages seemed to me fragments of my own memoirs, supposing Ihad the talent to write them in such a way! How charming, poetic andtrue to life all that is! La Tour de Percemont pleased me extremely. But Marianne literally enchanted me. The English think as I do, forin the last number of the Athenaeum there is a very fine articleabout you. Did you know that? So then, for this time, I admire youcompletely and without the least reserve. 

There you are, and I am very glad of it. You have never doneanything to me that was not good; I love you tenderly!

CCCXI. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERTSunday, Nohant, 5th April, 1876. 

Victor Borie is in Italy, what must I write him? Are you the man togo to find him and explain the affair to him? He is somewhere nearCivita-Vecchia, very much on the go and perhaps not easy to catch upwith. 

I am sure that he would receive you with open arms, for, although afinancier to his finger-tips he has remained very friendly and niceto us. He does not tell us if he is on his mountain of alum forlong. Lina is writing to him and will know soon, shall she tell himthat you are disposed to go to meet him, or that you will wait untilhis return to Paris? anyway until the 20th of May he will getletters addressed to him at the Hotel Italy in Florence. We shallhave to be on the watch, for he writes AT LONG INTERVALS. 

I have not the time to say any more to you today. People are comingin. I have read Fromont et Risler; I charge you to thank M. Daudet, to tell him that I spent the night in reading it and that I do notknow whether I prefer Jack or Risler; it is interesting, I mightalmost say GRIPPING. 

I embrace you and I love you, when will you give me some Flaubert toread?

G. Sand

CCCXII. To GEOBGE SANDMonday evening

Dear master, Thanks to Madame Lina's kind note, I betook myself toV. Borie's yesterday and was most pleasantly received. My nephewwent to carry him the documents today. Borie has promised to lookafter the affair; will he do it?

I think that he is in just the position to do me indirectly thegreatest service that any one could do me. If my poor nephew shouldget the capital which he needs in order to work, I could get back apart of what I have lost and live in peace the rest of my days. 

I presented myself to Borie under your recommendation, and it is toyou that I owe the cordiality of his reception. I do not thank you(of course) but you can tell him that I was touched by his kindreception (and stimulate his zeal if you think that may be useful). 

I have been working a great deal lately. How I should like to seeyou so as to read my little medieval folly to you! I have begunanother story entitled Histoire d'un coeur simple. But I haveinterrupted this work to make some researches on the period of SaintJohn the Baptist, for I want to describe the feast of Herodias. 

I hope to have my readings finished in a fortnight, after which Ishall return to Croisset from which spot I shall not budge tillwinter, --my long sessions at the library exhaust me. Cruchard isweary. 

The good Tourgueneff leaves this evening for Saint Petersburg. Heasks me if I have thanked you for your last book? Could I be guiltyof such an oversight? You will see by my Histoire d'un coeur simplewhere you will recognize your immediate influence, that I am not soobstinate as you think. I believe that the moral tendency, or ratherthe human basis of this little work will please you!

Adieu, dear good master. Remembrances to all yours. 

I embrace you very tenderly. 

Your old Gustave Flaubert

CCCXIII. To MAURICE SANDTuesday evening, 27th

All I can say to you, in the first place, my dear friend, is, thatyour book has made me pass a sleepless night. I read it instantly, at one fell swoop, only stopping to fill my good pipe from time totime and then to resume my reading. 

When the impression is a little less fresh I shall take up your bookagain to find the flaws in it. But I think that there are very few. You must be content? It ought to please? It is dramatic and asamusing as possible!

Beginning with the first page I was charmed with the sincerity ofthe description. And at the end I admired the composition of thewhole, the logical way the events were worked out and the charactersrelated. 

Your chief character, Miss Mary, is too hateful (to my taste) to beanything but an exact picture. That is one of the choicest parts ofyour book, together with the homelife, the life in New York?

Your good savage makes me laugh out loud when he is at the Opera. 

I was struck by the house of the missionaries (Montaret's firstnight). You make it seem real. Naissa scalping, and then wiping herhands on the grass, seemed to me especially well done. As well asthe disgust that she inspires in Montaret, I venture a timid observation: it seems to me that the flight offather Athanasius and of Montaret, when they escape from theirprison, is not perfectly clear? Is not the material explanation ofthe event too short?

I do not care for, as language, two or three ready-made locutions, such as "break the ice. " You can see that I have read youattentively! What a pedagogue I make, eh! I am telling you all thatfrom memory, for I have lent your book, and it has not been returnedto me yet. But my recollection of it is of a thing very well done. 

Don't you agree with me that a play of very great effect could bemade from it for a boulevard theatre?

By the way, how is Cadio going?

Tell your dear mamma that I adore her. 

Harrisse, from whom I have received a letter today, charges me toremember him to her, and, for my part, I charge you to embrace herfor me. 

And I grasp your two hands heartily and say "bravo" to you again, and faithfully yours. 

Gustave Flaubert

CCCXIV. To MADAM MAURICE SANDThursday evening, 25th May, 1876

Dear Madam, I sent a telegram to Maurice this morning, asking for news of MadamSand. 

I was told yesterday that she was very ill, why has not Mauriceanswered me?

I went to Plauchut's this morning to get details. He is in thecountry, at Le Mans, so that I am in a state of cruel uncertainty. 

Be good enough to answer me immediately and believe me, dear madam, Your very affectionate, Gustave Flaubert

4 rue Murillo, Parc Monceau

CCCXV. To MADAM LINA SAND

Dear Madam, Your note of this morning reassures me a little. But that of lastnight had absolutely upset me. 

I beg you to give me very frequent news of your dear mother-in-law. 

Embrace her for me and believe that I am

Your very devoted

Gustave Flaubert

Beginning with the middle of next week, about Wednesday or Thursday, I shall be at Croisset. 

Saturday morning, 3d June, 1876. 

CCCXVI. To MAURICE SANDCroisset, Sunday, 24 June, 1876

You had prepared me, my dear Maurice, I wanted to write to you, butI was waiting till you were a little freer, more alone. Thank youfor your kind thought. 

Yes, we understood each other, yonder! (And if I did not remainlonger, it is because my comrades dragged me away. ) It seemed to methat I was burying my mother the second time. Poor, dear, greatwoman! What genius and what heart! But she lacked nothing, it is notshe whom we must pity. 

What is to become of you? Shall you stay in Nohant? That good oldhouse must seem horribly empty to you! But you, at least, are notalone! You have a wife. . . A rare one! and two exquisite children. While I was with you, I had, over and above my grief, two desires:to run off with Aurore and to kill M. Marx. [Footnote: A reporter forle Figaro. ] There you have the truth, it is unnecessary to make yousee the psychology of the thing. I received yesterday a verysympathetic letter from good Tourgueneff. He too loved her. Butthen, who did not love her? If you had seen in Paris the anguish ofMartine![Footnote: George Sand's maid. ] That was distressing. 

Plauchut is still in Nohant, I suppose. Tell him that I love himbecause I saw him shed so many tears. 

And let yours flow, my dear friend, do all that is necessary not toconsole yourself, --which would, moreover, be impossible. Never mind!In a short time you will feel a great joy in the idea alone that youwere a good son and that she knew it absolutely. She used to talk ofyou as of a blessing. 

And when you shall have rejoined her, when the great-grand-childrenof the grandchildren of your two little girls shall have joined her, and when for a long time there shall have been no question of thethings and the people that surround us, --in several centuries, --hearts like ours will palpitate through hers! People will read herbooks, that is to say that they will think according to her ideasand they will love with her love. But all that does not give herback to you, does it? With what then can we sustain ourselves ifpride desert us, and what man more than you should have pride in hismother!

Now dear friend, adieu! When shall we meet now? How I should feelthe need of talking of her, insatiably!

Embrace Madam Maurice for me, as I did on the stairway at Nohant, and your little girls. 

Yours, from the depths of my heart, Your Gustave Flaubert

CCCXVII. To MAURICE SANDCroisset, Tuesday, 3rd October, 1876

Thank you for your kind remembrance, my dear friend. Neither do Iforget, and I dream of your poor, dear mamma in a sadness that doesnot disappear. Her death has left a great emptiness for me. Afteryou, your wife and the good Plauchut, I am perhaps the one whomisses her most! I need her. 

I pity you the annoyances that your sister causes you. I too havegone through that! It is so easy moreover to be good! Besides thatcauses less evil. When shall we meet? I want so much to see you, first just to see you--and second to talk of her. 

When your business is finished, why not come to Paris for some time?Solitude is bad under certain conditions. One should not becomeintoxicated with one's grief, however much attraction one finds indoing so. 

You ask me what I am doing. This is it: this year I have written twostories, and I am going to begin another so as to make the threeinto one volume that I want to publish in the spring. After that Ihope to resume the big novel that I laid aside a year ago after myfinancial disaster. Matters are improving in that direction, and Ishall not be forced to change anything in my way of living. If Ihave been able to start at work again, I owe it partly to the goodcounsel of your mother. She had found the best way to bring me backto respect myself. 

In order to get the quicker at work, I shall stay here till NewYear's Day, --perhaps later than that. Do try to put off your visitto Paris. 

Embrace your dear little girls warmly for me, my respects to MadamMaurice, and-sincerely yours, ex imo. 

Gustave Flaubert

CCCXVIII. To MAURICE SANDSaint-Gratien par Sannois, 20th August, 1877

Thank you for your kind remembrance, my dear Maurice. Next winteryou will be in Passy, I hope, --and from time to time we can have agood chat. I even count on seeing myself at your table by the sideof your friends whose "idol" I am. 

You speak to me of your dear and illustrious mamma! Next to you I donot think that any one could think of her more often than I do! HowI miss her! How I need her!

I had begun un coeur simple solely on account of her, only to pleaseher. She died while I was in the midst of this work. Thus it is withour dreams. 

I still continue not to find diversion in existence. In order toforget the weight of it, I work as frantically as possible. 

What sustains me is the indignation that the Imbecility of theBourgeois affords me! Summed up at present by the large party of lawand order, it reaches a dizzy height!

Has there been anything in history more inept than the 16th of May?Where is there an idiot comparable to the Bayard of modern times?

I have been in Paris, or rather at Saint-Gratien, for three days. Day after tomorrow I leave the princess, and in a fortnight I shallmake a little trip to Lower Normandy for the sake of literature. When we meet I shall talk a long time with you, if you areinterested, about the terrible book that I am in the process ofconcocting. I shall have enough work in it to take me three or fouryears. Not less!

Don't leave me so long without news. Give a long look for me at thelittle corner of the holy ground!. . . My regards to your dear wife, embrace the dear little girls and sincerely yours, my good Maurice, Your old friend

Gustave Flaubert

CCCXIX. To MAURICE SANDTuesday morning, April, 1880

My dear Maurice, No! Erase Cruchard and Polycarp and replace those words by what youlike. 

The Public ought not to have all of us, --let us reserve somethingfor ourselves. That seems to me more decent (quod decet). You do notspeak of a COMPLETE EDITION? Ah! your poor dear mamma! How often Ithink of her! And what need I have of her! There is not a day when Ido not say: "If she were there, I should ask her advice. "

I shall be at Croisset till the 8th or the 10th of May. So, my oldfellow, when you wish to come there, you will be welcome. I embraceyou all from the oldest to the youngest. 

Cruchard for you, Polycarp for the human race, Gustave Flaubert for Literature

THE END OF THE GEORGE SAND-GUSTAVE FLAUBERT LETTERS