At one of the great horticultural shows in Paris, ... moving about among the fruits and flowers, we saw a woman of the medium size, plainly and rather peculiarly dressed, and accompanied by a pale young man who resembled her so strongly that we at once pronounced them mother and son. The woman was in the autumn of life, the young man in the early summer. On her face the woman wore marks of care and time, a tired, disappointed look, such as they wear who, after hard climbing, have reached a height of fame, and find it uncompensating. There were remnants of beauty in the face, but they were only remnants. There were deep, gray eyes under brows too heavy for a woman, a head crowned with a considerable wealth of carelessly arranged hair just threaded with gray, and picturesquely draped with lace. There was the little stoop of the shoulders, that comes of the habit of thinking hard and writing steadily. Wherever this woman and her companion went, the spectators turned to look at them. The face and figure are clear-cut in my memory to-day, and there is nothing commonplace in it. You would have known that this was a distinguished person. It was a face with a soul behind it. The movements were those of a person accustomed to be looked at and accustomed to homage. One looked at this woman—almost an aged woman—and felt the magnetism of genius. We asked of a by-stander who it was, and were told that it was George Sand and her son.
Paul Vevay: Quoted in ‘The Record of the Year.’ Published by G. W. Carleton, September, 1876.
Her own account of her character.
I am but a good old woman, to whom people have attributed a ferocity of character altogether fantastical. I have also been accused of having proved unable to love with passion. It seems to me I have lived a life of tenderness, and that ought to have satisfied people.
Now, thank God, nothing except affection is expected from me; and those who are good enough to love me, in spite of the want of lustre in my life and the dulness of my wit, do not complain of me.
My disposition has remained inclined to gaiety; though devoid of initiative for amusing others, I am efficient in helping them to enjoy themselves.
I must possess some great defects, but, like every body else, mine do not strike me. I am also ignorant of the existence of any quality or virtue in me. I much pondered over truth, and when one is so engaged the sentiment of self vanishes more and more daily.
George Sand: Letter to M. Louis Ulbach, November, 1869, in ‘Letters of George Sand.’