george sand-第46章

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unhappy　lot？　　He　is　fairly　well　off　and　he　has　great　talent。　　How　many　people　would　envy　him！　　He　complains　of　life；　such　as　it　is　for　every　one；　and　of　the　present　conditions　of　life；　which　had　never　been　better　for　any　one　at　any　epoch。　　What　is　the　use　of　getting　irritated　with　life；　since　we　do　not　wish　to　die？　　Humanity　seemed　despicable　to　him；　and　he　hated　it。　　Was　he　not　a　part　of　this　humanity　himself？　　Instead　of　cursing　our　fellow…men　for　a　whole　crowd　of　imperfections　inherent　to　their　nature；　would　it　not　be　more　just　to　pity　them　for　such　imperfections？　　As　to　stupidity　and　nonsense；　if　he　objected　to　them；　it　would　be　better　to　pay　no　attention　to　them；　instead　of　watching　out　for　them　all　the　time。　　Beside　all　this；　is　there　not　more　reason　than　we　imagine　for　every　one　of　us　to　be　indulgent　towards　the　stupidity　of　other　people？

〃That　poor　stupidity　of　which　we　hear　so　much；〃　exclaimed　George　Sand。　　〃I　do　not　dislike　it；　as　I　look　on　it　with　maternal　eyes。〃　　The　human　race　is　absurd；　undoubtedly；　but　we　must　own　that　we　contribute　ourselves　to　this　absurdity。

There　is　something　morbid　in　Flaubert's　case；　and　with　equal　clearness　of　vision　George　Sand　points　out　to　him　the　cause　of　it　and　the　remedy。　　The　morbidness　is　caused　in　the　first　place　by　his　loneliness；　and　by　the　fact　that　he　has　severed　all　bonds　which　united　him　to　the　rest　of　the　universe。　　Woe　be　to　those　who　are　alone！　　The　remedy　is　the　next　consideration。　　Is　there　not；　somewhere　in　the　world；　a　woman　whom　he　could　love　and　who　would　make　him　suffer？　　Is　there　not　a　child　somewhere　whose　father　he　could　imagine　himself　to　be；　and　to　whom　he　could　devote　himself？　　Such　is　the　law　of　life。　　Existence　is　intolerable　to　us　as　long　as　we　only　ask　for　our　own　personal　satisfaction；　but　it　becomes　dear　to　us　from　the　day　when　we　make　a　present　of　it　to　another　human　being。

There　was　the　same　antagonism　in　their　literary　opinions。　　Flaubert　was　an　artist；　the　theorist　of　the　doctrine　of　art　for　art；　such　as　Theophile　Gautier；　the　Goncourt　brothers　and　the　Parnassians　comprehended　it；　at　about　the　same　epoch。　　It　is　singularly　interesting　to　hear　him　formulate　each　article　of　this　doctrine；　and　to　hear　George　Sand's　fervent　protestations　in　reply。　　Flaubert　considers　that　an　author　should　not　put　himself　into　his　work；　that　he　should　not　write　his　books　with　his　heart；　and　George　Sand　answers：

〃I　do　not　understand　at　all；　then。　　Oh　no；　it　is　all　incomprehensible　to　me。〃

With　what　was　an　author　to　write　his　books；　if　not　with　his　own　sentiments　and　emotions？　　Was　he　to　write　them　with　the　hearts　of　other　people？　　Flaubert　maintained　that　an　author　should　only　write　for　about　twenty　persons；　unless　he　simply　wrote　for　himself；　〃like　a　_bourgeois_　turning　his　serviette…rings　round　in　his　attic。〃　　George　Sand　was　of　opinion　that　an　author　should　write　〃for　all　those　who　can　profit　by　good　reading。〃　　Flaubert　confesses　that　if　attention　be　paid　to　the　old　distinction　between　matter　and　form；　he　should　give　the　greater　importance　to　form；　in　which　he　had　a　religious　belief。　　He　considered　that　in　the　correctness　of　the　putting　together；　in　the　rarity　of　the　elements；　the　polish　of　the　surface　and　the　perfect　harmony　of　the　whole　there　was　an　intrinsic　virtue；　a　kind　of　divine　force。　　In　conclusion；　he　adds：

〃I　endeavour　to　think　well　always；　_in　order　to_　write　well；　but　I　do　not　conceal　the　fact　that　my　object　is　to　write　well。〃

This；　then；　was　the　secret　of　that　working　up　of　the　style；　until　it　became　a　mania　with　him　and　developed　into　a　torture。　　We　all　know　of　the　days　of　anguish　which　Flaubert　spent　in　searching　for　a　word　that　escaped　him；　and　the　weeks　that　he　devoted　to　rounding　off　one　of　his　periods。　　He　would　never　write　these　down　until　he　had　said　them　to　himself；　or；　as　he　put　it　himself；　until　〃they　had　gone　through　his　jaw。〃　　He　would　not　allow　two　complements　in　the　same　phrase；　and　we　are　told　that　he　was　ill　after　reading　in　one　of　his　own　books　the　following　words：　　〃Une　couronne　_de_　fleurs　_d_'oranger。〃

〃You　do　not　know　what　it　is；〃　he　wrote；　〃to　spend　a　whole　day　holding　one's　head　and　squeezing　one's　brains　to　find　a　word。　　Ideas　flow　with　you　freely　and　continually；　like　a　stream。　　With　me　they　come　like　trickling　water；　and　it　is　only　by　a　huge　work　of　art　that　I　can　get　a　waterfall。　　Ah；　I　have　had　some　experience　of　the　terrible　torture　of　style！〃　　No；　George　Sand　certainly　had　no　experience　of　this　kind；　and　she　could　not　even　conceive　of　such　torture。　　It　amazed　her　to　hear　of　such　painful　labour；　for；　personally；　she　let　the　wind　play　on　her　〃old　harp〃　just　as　it　listed。

Briefly；　she　considered　that　her　friend　was　the　victim　of　a　hopeless　error。　　He　took　literature　for　the　essential　thing；　but　there　was　something　before　all　literature；　and　that　something　was　life。　　〃The　Holy　of　Holies；　as　you　call　literature；　is　only　secondary　to　me　in　life。　　I　have　always　loved　some　one　better　than　it；　and　my　family　better　than　that　some　one。〃

This；　then；　was　the　keynote　of　the　argument。　　George　Sand　considered　that　life　is　not　only　a　pretext　for　literature；　but　that　literature　should　always　refer　to　life　and　should　be　regulated　by　life；　as　by　a　model　which　takes　the　precedence　of　it　and　goes　far　beyond　it。　　This；　too；　is　our　opinion。

The　state　of　mind　which　can　be　read　between　the　lines　in　George　Sand's　letters　to　Flaubert　is　serenity；　and　this　is　also　the　characteristic　of　her　work　during　the　last　period　of　her　life。　　Her　〃last　style〃　is　that　of　_Jean　de　la　Rocke_；　published　in　1860。　　A　young　nobleman；　Jean　de　la　Roche；　loses　his　heart　to　the　exquisite　Love　Butler。　　She　returns　his　affection；　but　the　jealousy　of　a　young　brother　obliges　them　to　separate。　　In　order　to　be　near　the　woman　he　loves；　Jean　de　la　Roche　disguises　himself　as　a　guide；　and　accompanies　the　whole　family　in　an　excursion　through　the　Auvergne　mountains。　　A　young　nobleman　as　a　guide　is　by　no　means　an　ordinary　thing；　but　in　love　affairs　such　disguises　are　admitted。　　Lovers　in　the　writings　of　Marivaux　took　the　parts　of　servants；　and　in　former　days　no　one　was　surprised　to　meet　with　princes　in　disguise　on　the　high…roads。

George　Sand's　masterpiece　of　this　kind　is　undoubtedly　_Le　Marquis　de　Villemer_；　published　in　1861。　　A　provincial　_chateau_；　an　old　aristocratic　woman；　sceptical　and　indulgent；　two　brothers　capable　of　being　rivals　without　ceasing　to　be　friends；　a　young　girl　of　noble　birth；　but　poor；　calumny　being　spread　abroad；　but　quickly　repudiated；　some　wonderful　pages　of　description；　and　some　elegant；　sinuous　conversations。　　All　this　has　a　certain　charm。　　The　poor　girl　marries　the　Marquis　in　the　end。　　This；　too；　is　a　return　to　former　days；　to　the　days　when　kings　married　shepherdesses。　　The　pleasure　that　we　have　in　reading　such　novels　is　very　much　like　that　which　we　used　to　feel　on　hearing　fairy…stories。

〃If　some　one　were　to　tell　me　the　story　of　_Peau　d'Ane_；　I　should　be　delighted；〃　confessed　La　Fontaine；　and　surely　it　would　be　bad　form　to　be　more　difficult　and　over…nice　than　he　was。　　Big　children　as　we　are；　we　need　stories　which　give　food　to　our　imagination；　after　being　disappointed　by　the　realities　of　life。　　This　is　perhaps　the　very　object　of　the　novel。　　Romance　is　not　necessarily　an　exaggerated　aspiration　towards　imaginary　things。　　It　is　something　else　too。　　It　is　the　revolt　of　the　soul　which　is　oppressed　by　the　yoke　of　Nature。　　It　is　the　expression　of　that　tendency　within　us　towards　a　freedom　which　is　impossible；　but　of　which　we　nevertheless　dream。　　An　iron　law　presides　over　our　destiny。　　Around　us　and　within　us；　the　series　of　causes　and　effects　continues　to　unwind　its　hard　chain。　　Every　single　one　of　our　deeds　bears　its　consequence；　and　this　goes　on　to　eternity。　　Every　fault　of　ours　will　bring　its　chastisement。　　Every　weakness　will　have　to　be　made　good。　　There　is　not　a　moment　of　oblivion；　not　an　instant　when　we　may　cease　to　be　on　our　guard。　　Romantic　illusion　is；　then；　just　an　attempt　to　escape；　at　least　in　imagination；　from　the　tyranny　of　universal　order。

It　is　impossible；　in　this　volume；　to　consider　all　George　Sand's　works。　　Some　of　her　others　are　charming；　but　the　whole　series　would　perhaps　appear　somewhat　monotonous。　　There　is；　howeve