George Sand: Some Aspects of Her Life and Writings

by René Doumic

In the Histoire de ma vie there is an enigmatical page in which George Sand has intentionally measured and veiled every expression. She speaks of her moral solitude, which, at that time, was profound and absolute, and she adds: "It would have been mortal to a tender mind and to a girl in the flower of her youth, if it had not been filled with a dream which had taken the importance of a great passion, not in my life, as I had sacrificed my life to duty, but in my thoughts. I was in continual correspondence with an absent person to whom I told all my thoughts, all my dreams, who knew all my humble virtues, and who heard all my platonic enthusiasm. This person was excellent in reality, but I attributed to him more than all the perfections possible to human nature. I only saw this man for a few days, and sometimes only for a few hours, in the course of a year. He was as romantic, in his intercourse with me, as I was. Consequently he did not cause me any scruples, either of religion or of conscience. This man was the stay and consolation of my exile, as regards the world of reality." It was this dream, as intense as any passion, that we must study here. We must make the acquaintance of this excellent and romantic man.

Aurelien de Seze was a young magistrate, a few years older than Aurore. He was twenty-six years of age and she was twenty-one. He was the great-nephew of the counsel who pleaded for Louis XVI. There was, therefore, in his family a tradition of moral nobility, and the young man had inherited this. He had met Aurore at Bordeaux and again at Cauterets. They had visited the grottoes of Lourdes together. Aurelien had appreciated the young wife's charm, although she had not attempted to attract his attention, as she was not coquettish. She appreciated in him—all that was so lacking in Casimir—culture of mind, seriousness of character, discreet manners which people took at first for coldness, and a somewhat dignified elegance. He was scrupulously honest, a magistrate of the old school, sure of his principles and master of himself. It was, probably, just that which appealed to the young wife, who was a true woman and who had always wished to be dominated. When they met again at Breda, they had an explanation. This was the "violent grief" of which George Sand speaks. She was consoled by a friend, Zoe Leroy, who found a way of calming this stormy soul. She came through this crisis crushed with emotion and fatigue, but calm and joyful. They had vowed to love each other, but to remain without reproach, and their vow was faithfully kept.

Aurore, therefore, had nothing with which to reproach herself, but with her innate need of being frank, she considered it her duty to write a letter to her husband, informing him of everything. This was the famous letter of November 8, 1825. Later on, in 1836, when her case for separation from her husband was being heard, a few fragments of it were read by her husband's advocate with the idea of incriminating her. By way of reply to this, George Sand's advocate read the entire letter in all its eloquence and generosity. It was greeted by bursts of applause from the audience.

All this is very satisfactory. It is exactly the situation of the Princess of Cleves in Madame de Lafayette's novel. The Princess of Cleves acknowledges to her husband the love she cannot help feeling for Monsieur de Nemours, and asks for his help and advice as her natural protector. This fine proceeding is usually admired, although it cost the life of the Prince of Cleves, who died broken-hearted. Personally, I admire it too, although at times I wonder whether we ought not rather to see in it an unconscious suggestion of perversity. This confession of love to the person who is being, as it were, robbed of that love, is in itself a kind of secret pleasure. By speaking of the love, it becomes more real, we bring it out to light instead of letting it die away in those hidden depths within us, in which so many of the vague sentiments which we have not cared to define, even to ourselves, die away. Many women have preferred this more silent way, in which they alone have been the sufferers. But such women are not the heroines of novels. No one has appreciated their sacrifice, and they themselves could scarcely tell all that it has cost them.

Aurelien de Seze had taken upon himself the role of confidant to this soul that he had allotted to himself. He took his role very seriously, as was his custom in all things. He became the young wife's director in all matters of conscience. The letters which he wrote to her have been preserved, and we know them by the extracts and the analysis that Monsieur Rocheblave has given us and by his incisive commentaries of them.(4) They are letters of guidance, spiritual letters. The laic confessor endeavours, before all things, to calm the impatience of this soul which is more and more ardent and more and more troubled every day. He battles with her about her mania of philosophizing, her wish to sift everything and to get to the bottom of everything. Strong in his own calmness, he kept repeating to her in a hundred different ways the words: "Be calm!" The advice was good; the only difficulty was the following of the advice.

(4) "George Sand avant George Sand," by S. Rocheblave
(Revue de Paris, December 15, 1894).

Gradually the professor lost his hold on his pupil, for it seems as though Aurore were the first to tire. Aurelien finally began to doubt the efficacy of his preaching. The usual fate of sentiments outside the common order of things is that they last the length of time that a crisis of enthusiasm lasts. The best thing that can happen then is that their nature should not change, that they should not deteriorate, as is so often the case. When they remain intact to the end, they leave behind them, in the soul, a trail of light, a trail of cold, pure light.

The decline of this platonic liaison with Aurelien de Seze dates from 1828. Some grave events were taking place at Nohant about this time. For the last few years Casimir had fallen into the vices of certain country squires, or so-called gentlemen farmers. He had taken to drink, in company with Hippolyte Chatiron, and it seems that the intoxication peculiar to the natives of Berry takes a heavy and not a gay form. He had also taken to other bad habits, away from home at first, and later on under the conjugal roof. He was particularly partial to the maid-servants, and, the day following the birth of her daughter, Solange, Aurore had an unpleasant surprise with regard to her husband. From that day forth, what had hitherto been only a vague wish on her part became a fixed idea with her, and she began to form plans. A certain incident served as a pretext. When putting some papers in order, Aurore came upon her husband's will. It was a mere diatribe, in which the future "deceased" gave utterance to all his past grievances against his idiotic wife. Her mind was made up irrevocably from this moment. She would have her freedom again; she would go to Paris and spend three months out of six there. She had a young tutor from the south of France, named Boucoiran, educating her children. This Boucoiran needed to be taken to task constantly, and Baronne Dudevant did not spare him.(5)

(5) An instance of her disposition for lecturing will be
seen in the following curious letter sent by George Sand to
her friend and neighbour, Adolphe Duplomb. This letter has
never been published before, and we owe our thanks for it to
Monsieur Charles Duplomb.
Nohant, July 23,1830.
"Are you so very much afraid of me, my poor Hydrogene? You
expect a good lecture and you will not expect in vain. Have
patience, though. Before giving you the dressing you
deserve, I want to tell you that I have not forgotten you,
and that I was very vexed on returning from Paris, to find
my great simpleton of a son gone. I am so used to seeing
your solemn face that I quite miss it. You have a great many
faults, but after all, you are a good sort, and in time you
will get reasonable. Try to remember occasionally, my dear
Plombeus, that you have friends. If I were your only
friend, that would be a great deal, as I am to be depended
on, and am always at my post as a friend, although I may not
be very tender. I am not very polite either, as I speak the
truth plainly. That is my characteristic, though. I am a
firm friend nevertheless, and to be depended on. Do not
forget what I have said now, as I shall not often repeat
this. Remember, too, that happiness in this world depends
on the interest and esteem that we inspire. I do not say
this to every one, as it would be impossible, but just to a
certain number of friends. It is impossible to find one's
happiness entirely in one's self, without being an egoist,
and I do not think so badly of you that I imagine you to be
one. A man whom no one cares for is wretched, and the man
who has friends is afraid of grieving them by behaving
badly. As Polyte says, all this is for the sake of letting
you know that you must do your best to behave well, if you
want to prove to me that you are not ungrateful for my
interest in you. You ought to get rid of the bad habit of
boasting that you have adopted through frequenting young men
as foolish as yourself. Do whatever your position and your
health allow you to do, provided that you do not compromise
the honour or the reputation of any one else. I do not see
that a young man is called upon to be as chaste as a nun.
But keep your good or bad luck in your love affairs to
yourself. Silly talk is always repeated, and it may chance
to get to the ears of sensible people who will disapprove.
Try, too, not to make so many plans, but to carry out just
one or two of them. You know that is why I quarrel with you
always. I should like to see more constancy in you. You
tell Hippolyte that you are very willing and courageous. As
to physical courage, of the kind that consists in enduring
illness and in not fearing death, I dare say you have that,
but I doubt very much whether you have the courage necessary
for sustained work, unless you have very much altered.
Everything fresh delights you, but after a little time you
only see the inconveniences of your position. You will
scarcely find anything without something that is annoying
and troublesome, but if you cannot learn to put up with
things you will never be a man.
"This is the end of my sermon. I expect you have had enough
of it, especially as you are not accustomed to reading my
bad handwriting. I shall be glad to hear from you, but do
not consider your letter as a State affair, and do not
torment yourself to arrange well-turned phrases. I do not
care for such phrases at all. A letter is always good enough
when the writer expresses himself naturally, and says what
he thinks. Fine pages are all very well for the
schoolmaster, but I do not appreciate them at all. Promise
me to be reasonable, and to think of my sermons now and
then. That is all I ask. You may be very sure that if it
were not for my friendship for you I should not take the
trouble to lecture you. I should be afraid of annoying you
if it were not for that. As it is, I am sure that you are
not displeased to have my lectures, and that you understand
the feeling which dictates them.
"Adieu, my dear Adolphe. Write to me often and tell me
always about your affairs. Take care of yourself, and try
to keep well; but if you should feel ill come back to your
native place. There will always be milk and syrup for you,
and you know that I am not a bad nurse. Every one wishes to
be remembered to you, and I send you my holy blessing.
"AURORE D——"

She considered him idle, and reproached him with his lack of dignity and with making himself too familiar with his inferiors. She could not admit this familiarity, although she was certainly a friend of the people and of the peasants. Between sympathy and familiarity there was a distinction, and Aurore took care not to forget this. There was always something of the grande dame in her. Boucoiran was devoted, though, and she counted on him for looking after her children, for keeping her strictly au courant, and letting her know in case of illness. Perfectly easy on this score, she could live in Paris on an income of sixty pounds by adding to it what she could earn.