CHAPTER IV

George Sand

Now let us say a few words about the literary productions of the year 1832. We have seen its important theatrical works: _Térésa, Louis XI., Dix Ans de la vie d'une femme, Un duel sous Richelieu, La Tour de Nesle, Clotilde, Périnet Leclerc_ and _Le Roi s'amuse._

M. Lesur's Annual List, which sums up the year's work, complains of the _lack of productiveness_ of those twelve months, which only produced TWO HUNDRED AND FIFTY-SEVEN works, among which are the eight dramas above mentioned.

See what the chronologist says about the novels; his usual kindly inclination towards contemporary literature will be detected therein:--

"Romances multiply as fast as ever; they swarm everywhere and jostle one another in order to put before us an energetic display of trivialities: novels of manners, historical novels, psychological, physiological, pathological novels; tales and comic and fantastic stories of every sort and colour!"

Yes, Monsieur Lesur; and, among those abounding novels, we have, in fact, two masterpieces by Madame Sand, _Indiana_ and _Valentine,_ and one of Eugène Sue's best works, _La Salamandre._

But let us deal first with Madame Sand, that hermaphrodite genius who combined the strength of a man with the grace of a woman; who, like the ancient sphinx, the ever-mysterious enigma, crouched on the extreme borders of art with the face of a woman, the claws of a lion and the wings of an eagle. We will return afterwards to Eugène Sue.

Madame Sand came to Paris a short time before the Revolution of 1830. What did she come there to do? She will herself tell you with her accustomed frankness. Madame Sand wears a woman's clothes, but only as garments to cover her and not for purposes of concealment; of what use is hypocrisy when one possesses strength?

"A short time before the Revolution of 1830," says the authoress of _Indiana,_ "I came to Paris with the object of finding occupation, not so much of a lucrative nature as a sufficiency. I had never worked except for pleasure; I knew in common with everybody else that _un peu de_ _tout_ meant _rien en somme._ I laid great stress on work which would permit me to remain in my own home. I did not know what to turn to. Drawing, music, botany, languages, history, I had nibbled at them all, and I regretted very much that I had not gone deeply into any of them; for, of all occupations, the one that attracted me least was to write for the public. It seemed to me that, apart from a rare talent for it, which I did not feel to possess, it was of less use than any other. I should, then, much have preferred a particular profession. I had often written for my own personal amusement. It appeared to me to be very impertinent to pretend to be able to amuse or interest other people, and nothing could have been less congenial to my reserved character, a dreamer, and eager for intimate friendships rather than for public exposure of one's most intimate thoughts. In addition to this, I knew my own language only very imperfectly. Educated on classical reading, I saw romanticism spreading everywhere. I had at first scoffed at it and rejected it from the solitudes of my own private corner, and from the depths of my inner conscience, but, when I acquired a taste for it, I became enthusiastic; my taste, which was then unformed, wavered between the past and the present, without knowing where to settle, liking both without knowledge and without seeking a means of reconciling them."

It is impossible better to describe the state of perplexity in which genius is placed during a certain period of life, drawn forward by faith and backward by doubt. Meanwhile, as the author of _Indiana_ was then only twenty-five, and had to choose between the bread of independence and daily bread, she took up both painting on fans and painting portraits at 15 francs apiece and also wrote a novel. It was all very precarious work, the poorest transfer copies varnished over produced a greater effect than the young artist's water-colours; for 5 francs--and a better likeness than hers--the same portraits could be had which she sold for 15; finally, the novel seemed so poor to George Sand that she did not even attempt to turn it to account. However, she felt that her true vocation was literature, and she decided to consult some successful literary man.

There was at this period a _littérateur_ in Paris of incontestable and almost uncontested genius, a writer of the first rank, at all events as regards originality. He had published various novels, and the most striking of them had obtained as strange a success as, at the present moment, _Ourika_ and _Édouard_ have had. He had tried the theatre and written a comedy for the Français; it had collapsed amidst thunderous noise! I have given an account of his first and only performance. His name was Henri de Latouche. He was a compatriot of George Sand and a friend of the family. George Sand decided to look him up.

De Latouche, as I have already said, I knew but slightly, and, about 1832, I quarrelled with him because I was not Republican enough to suit him, or, rather, because I belonged to a different style of Republicanism than his. He was at this time a man of forty-five, with a face that scintillated with intellect, with a rather corpulent frame and very courteous manners, although they covered an infinite fund of irony. His language was choice and his speech pure and well-modulated; he spoke as he wrote, or, rather, as he dictated. Was he a suitable guide for a beginner? I have my doubts. De Latouche was arbitrary in his opinions; he thought that all who were not devoted to him were hostile, all not for him against him. As timid as a chamois, he continually believed there was a hatched conspiracy on the way to calumniate and destroy him. He retired into his retreat at la Vallée-aux-Loups. His enemies accused him of cowardice and tried to pursue him there; but, if they ventured too far, they returned with their faces marked as with a tiger's claws. He began by teasing the poor novice cruelly, condemning, like Alcestis, all her literary attempts.

"Nevertheless," says George Sand, "beneath all the jeerings and criticism, the sportive, trenchant, amusing mockery he heaped upon me in our interviews, reason, taste, in a word, art, presented itself to me. No one excelled more than he in the destruction of the illusions of conceitedness; but no one had more kindly delicacy in preserving hope and courage. He had a sweet and touching voice, an aristocratic and clear pronunciation, and a manner that was both alluring and teasing. The eye that was put out when he was a child did not disfigure him in the least, the only trace of the accident left was a kind of red fire which shot from the pupil and gave him a strange look of brilliancy when he was excited."

No, the eye did not disfigure de Latouche's face, but it disfigured his character terribly! Perhaps, also, he owed some portion of his latent talent to this blind eye, as Byron did to his lame foot. We will go on quoting George Sand's own words, which complete the picture of de Latouche's character:--

"M. de Latouche loved to instruct, to reprove, to lay down the law; but he quickly lost patience with vain people, and turned his wit against them in derisive compliments, which were inexpressibly malicious. When he met a mind disposed to profit by his lessons, his satire was more kindly; his clutch became paternal and his fiery eye softened; and, after he had emptied the overflowings of his wit upon you, he let you see a tender, sensitive heart beneath, full of devoted and generous feeling."

Six months went by in this kind of work between pupil and master, the master pointing out what the scholar ought to read, himself reading them to her in his own fashion--namely, relating the book to her instead of reading it, adding to the author's narrative the brilliant embroideries of his imagination, letting fall from his lips at every word he uttered a pearl or diamond, as did the fairy in the _Thousand and One Nights,_ of whom we all read in our childhood.

De Latouche was editor of _Le Figaro_ at this period; a species of hussar of opposition, an officer of light cavalry which daily tilted against the Government. The ordinary editors of the paper were Félix Pyat and Jules Sandeau. George Sand was added to them. This addition was a sort of diploma of bachelor of letters. De Latouche's three pupils (I hope, since George Sand accepted the title, that the others will not disown it) had one common editorial office where they met daily at a given hour. It was in this office, seated at the little tables covered with green cloths, that they each wrote _copy._ Copy, be it understood, is in this case very improperly the synonym for manuscript. De Latouche gave out a subject; they enlarged upon it, and the paper appeared to be written by one single mind, since it had but a single spirit, and that spirit descended, like the Holy Spirit upon the apostles, in tongues of fire upon his disciples. But all these attentions did not serve to make the poor pupil able to dispense with her master. The future author of _Indiana_ and of _Valentine,_ and of so many other wonderful books, did not know how to write a newspaper article, nor how to be brief. De Latouche reserved for her all the sentimental anecdotes which admitted of some enlargement of treatment; but George Sand found she always had to confine herself to the narrow limits of half a column, a column, or a column and a half at most, and, when the article had _begun_ to _begin,_ it had to be ended off; there was no room left for more.

Out of the ten articles George Sand gave to her editor-in-chief, often not a single one was of any use, and often he lit his fire with the copy which, she declares, was no good for anything else. Yet every day he said to her--

"Do not be discouraged, my child. You cannot write an article in ten lines; but, some day, you will write novels in ten volumes. Try, first of all, to rid your mind of imitations; all beginners start by copying others. Don't be anxious, you will gradually find your own feet, and be the first to forget how it all came to you."

And, as a matter of fact, during six weeks of the spring of 1832, which she spent in the country, George Sand wrote a novel in two volumes. That novel was _Indiana._ She returned from the country, went to see Latouche and confessed, trembling, the fresh crime she had just committed.

"What good luck!" exclaimed de Latouche; "it will be said that I foresaw this; I have looked for and found you a publisher; give him your novel."

"Will you not have a look at it, then?" asked the author.

"No, you are hard to read, and I do not like reading manuscript. Take the two volumes to the publisher, claim your 1200 francs, and I will criticise the work in its printed form."

As George Sand knew of nothing better to do than to follow this advice, she did as she was told. Sometimes we say _he_ and sometimes _she_; I hope George Sand will excuse us! Have we not said that her wonderful genius was as hermaphrodite as _la Bragoletta_ of her master!

A month later, George Sand received from her publisher the twelve copies reserved for the author. _Indiana_ had been published that very day. De Latouche entered.

"Oh! oh!" he said, scenting out the volumes fresh from the press, as the ogre in Tom Thumb smelt the fresh flesh; "what is this?"

"Alas!" replied the trembling pupil, "it is my book."

"Ah! yes, _Indiana,_ I remember."

But we will let George Sand herself tell about this momentous occasion in her life.

"He seized a volume with avidity, cut the first pages with his fingers, and began to make fun as usual, exclaiming, 'Ah! imitation, imitation, the usual style! Here is Balzac, _were that possible_!' Coming out with me on the balcony which runs round the roof of my house, he said over again to me all the clever, excellent things he had already told me, upon the necessity of being oneself, and not imitating others. At first, I thought he was unjust, but, as he went on speaking, I agreed with him. He said I must return to my water-colours upon screens and snuff-boxes, which amused me, certainly, more than other pursuits, but for which, unfortunately, I found no sale. My position had become desperate; and yet, whether because I had not entertained any hope of success, or was provided with the light-heartedness of youth, I was not upset by my judge's sentence, and passed a very tranquil night. Upon awaking, I received this letter from him which I have always kept:--

"'Forget all my severe remarks of yesterday, forget all the hard things I have said to you the last six months; I have spent the night reading your book, etc....'

"There follow two lines of praise, which only friendship could have prompted, but which he had the bad taste to put down, and the note ends with the paternal words: 'Oh, my child, I am proud of you!'"

With _Indiana,_ George Sand put one foot inside the literary world; with _Valentine_ she put both. You know now how the masculine and virile genius who calls herself George Sand began her career.