She and he; Lavinia; Memoir

by George Sand

Certainly, she had no time to spare with the short, dark, December days, and facilities for working not to be compared with those of her own studio in Paris: a wretched light, an enormous room heated very slightly or not at all, and swarms of chattering tourists who, on the pretext of looking at her work, planted themselves in front of her, or annoyed her with their absurd or impertinent reflections. Ill with a severe cold, depressed, and, above all, alarmed by the traces of ennui which she spied in Laurent's eyes, she returned to their apartments at night to find him out of temper, or to wait for him until hunger drove him home. Two days did not pass without his reproaching her for having accepted a degrading task, and urging her to abandon it. Had not he money enough for both, and why should his mistress refuse to share it with him?

Thérèse held firm; she knew that money would not last in Laurent's hands, and that he very likely would not have enough to return home when he was tired of Italy. She begged him to let her work, and to work himself according to his own ideas, but as every artist can and should work when he has his future to build.

He agreed that she was right, and resolved to set to work. He unpacked his boxes, found a studio, and made several sketches; but, whether because of the change of air and of habits, or because of the too recent sight of so many chefs-d'œuvres which had moved him deeply and which he required time to digest, he was conscious of a temporary impotence, and fell into one of those fits of the blues which he could not throw off alone. It would have required some excitement coming from without, superb music descending from the ceiling, an Arabian steed coming through the key-hole, an unfamiliar literary masterpiece at his hand, or, still better, a naval engagement in the harbor of Genoa, an earthquake, or any other exciting event, pleasurable or terrible, which would take him out of himself, and under the spell of which he would feel lifted up and revivified.

Suddenly, amid his vague and confused aspirations, an evil idea sought him out in spite of himself.

"When I think," he reflected, "that formerly" (that was the way he referred to the time when he did not love Thérèse) "the slightest pleasure was enough to restore me to life! I have to-day many things of which I used to dream—money, that is to say, six months of leisure and liberty, Italy under my feet, the sea at my door, a mistress as loving as a mother, and at the same time a serious and intelligent friend; and all these are not enough to rekindle my energy! Whose fault is it? Not mine, surely. I was not spoiled, and formerly it did not require so much to divert me. When I think that the lightest wine used to go to my head as quickly as the most generous vintage; that any saucy minx, with a provoking glance and a problematical costume, was enough to raise my spirits and to persuade me that such a conquest made me like one of the heroes of the Regency! Did I need an ideal creature like Thérèse? How in the devil did I ever persuade myself that both moral and physical beauty were necessary to me in love? I used to be able to content myself with the least; therefore the most was certain to crush me, since better is the enemy of good. And then, too, is there such a thing as true beauty to the passions? The true is that which pleases. That with which one is sated is as if it had never been. And then there is the pleasure of changing, and therein, perhaps, lies the whole secret of life. To change is to renew one's self; to be able to change is to be free. Is the artist born to be a slave, and is it not slavery to remain faithful, or simply to pledge one's faith?"

Laurent allowed himself to be persuaded by these old sophistries, always new to minds that are adrift. He soon felt that he must express them to some one, and that some one was Thérèse. So much the worse for her, since Laurent saw no one else.

The evening conversation always began in about the same way:

"What a frightfully stupid place this is!"

One evening, he added:

"It must be a ghastly bore to be in a picture. I shouldn't like to be that model you are copying. That poor lovely countess in the black and gold dress, who has been hanging there two hundred years, must have damned herself in heaven—if her soft eyes didn't damn her here—to see her image buried in this dismal country."