george sand-第48章

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In　conclusion；　we　would　say　just　a　few　words　about　George　Sand's　genius；　and　the　place　that　she　takes　in　the　history　of　the　French　novel。

On　comparing　George　Sand　with　the　novelists　of　her　time；　what　strikes　us　most　is　how　different　she　was　from　them。　　She　is　neither　like　Balzac；　Stendhal；　nor　Merimee；　nor　any　story…teller　of　our　thoughtful；　clever　and　refined　epoch。　　She　reminds　us　more　of　the　〃old　novelists；〃　of　those　who　told　stories　of　chivalrous　deeds　and　of　old　legends；　or；　to　go　still　further　back；　she　reminds　us　of　the　_aedes_　of　old　Greece。　　In　the　early　days　of　a　nation　there　were　always　men　who　went　to　the　crowd　and　charmed　them　with　the　stories　they　told　in　a　wordy　way。　　They　scarcely　knew　whether　they　invented　these　stories　as　they　told　them；　or　whether　they　had　heard　them　somewhere。　　They　could　not　tell　either　which　was　fiction　and　which　reality；　for　all　reality　seemed　wonderful　to　them。　　All　the　people　about　whom　they　told　were　great；　all　objects　were　good　and　everything　beautiful。　　They　mingled　nursery…tales　with　myths　that　were　quite　sensible；　and　the　history　of　nations　with　children's　stories。　　They　were　called　poets。

George　Sand　did　not　employ　a　versified　form　for　her　stories；　but　she　belonged　to　the　family　of　these　poets。　　She　was　a　poet　herself　who　had　lost　her　way　and　come　into　our　century　of　prose；　and　she　continued　her　singing。

Like　these　early　poets；　she　was　primitive。　　Like　them；　she　obeyed　a　god　within　her。　　All　her　talent　was　instinctive；　and　she　had　all　the　ease　of　instinctive　talent。　　When　Flaubert　complained　to　George　Sand　of　the　〃tortures〃　that　style　cost　him；　she　endeavoured　to　admire　him。

〃When　I　see　the　difficulty　that　my　old　friend　has　in　writing　his　novel；　I　am　discouraged　about　my　own　case；　and　I　say　to　myself　that　I　am　writing　poor　sort　of　literature。〃

This　was　merely　her　charity；　for　she　never　understood　that　there　could　be　any　effort　in　writing。　　Consequently　she　could　not　understand　that　it　should　cause　suffering。　　For　her；　writing　was　a　pleasure；　as　it　was　the　satisfaction　of　a　need。　　As　her　works　were　no　effort　to　her；　they　left　no　trace　in　her　memory。　　She　had　not　intended　to　write　them；　and；　when　once　written；　she　forgot　them。

〃_Consuelo　and　La　Comtesse　de　Rudolstadt_；　what　are　these　books？〃　she　asks。　　〃Did　I　write　them？　　I　do　not　remember　a　single　word　of　them。〃

Her　novels　were　like　fruit；　which；　when　ripe；　fell　away　from　her。　　George　Sand　always　returned　to　the　celebration　of　certain　great　themes　which　are　the　eternal　subjects　of　all　poetry；　subjects　such　as　love　and　nature；　and　sentiments　like　enthusiasm　and　pity。　　The　very　language　completes　the　illusion。　　The　choice　of　words　was　often　far　from　perfect；　as　George　Sand's　vocabulary　was　often　uncertain；　and　her　expression　lacked　precision　and　relief。　　But　she　had　the　gift　of　imagery；　and　her　images　were　always　delightfully　fresh。　　She　never　lost　that　rare　faculty　which　she　possessed　of　being　surprised　at　things；　so　that　she　looked　at　everything　with　youthful　eyes。　　There　is　a　certain　movement　which　carries　the　reader　on；　and　a　rhythm　that　is　soothing。　　She　develops　the　French　phrase　slowly　perhaps；　but　without　any　confusion。　　Her　language　is　like　those　rivers　which　flow　along　full　and　limpid；　between　flowery　banks　and　oases　of　verdure；　rivers　by　the　side　of　which　the　traveller　loves　to　linger　and　to　lose　himself　in　dreams。

The　share　which　belongs　to　George　Sand　in　the　history　of　the　French　novel　is　that　of　having　impregnated　the　novel　with　the　poetry　in　her　own　soul。　　She　gave　to　the　novel　a　breadth　and　a　range　which　it　had　never　hitherto　had。　　She　celebrated　the　hymn　of　Nature；　of　love　and　of　goodness　in　it。　　She　revealed　to　us　the　country　and　the　peasants　of　France。　　She　gave　satisfaction　to　the　romantic　tendency　which　is　in　every　one　of　us；　to　a　more　or　less　degree。

All　this　is　more　even　than　is　needed　to　ensure　her　fame。　　She　denied　ever　having　written　for　posterity；　and　she　predicted　that　in　fifty　years　she　would　be　forgotten。　　It　may　be　that　there　has　been　for　her；　as　there　is　for　every　illustrious　author　who　dies；　a　time　of　test　and　a　period　of　neglect。　　The　triumph　of　naturalism；　by　influencing　taste　for　a　time；　may　have　stopped　our　reading　George　Sand。　　At　present　we　are　just　as　tired　of　documentary　literature　as　we　are　disgusted　with　brutal　literature。　　We　are　gradually　coming　back　to　a　better　comprehension　of　what　there　is　of　〃truth〃　in　George　Sand's　conception　of　the　novel。　　This　may　be　summed　up　in　a　few　words　to　charm；　to　touch　and　to　console。　　Those　of　us　who　know　something　of　life　may　perhaps　wonder　whether　to　console　may　not　be　the　final　aim　of　literature。　　George　Sand's　literary　ideal　may　be　read　in　the　following　words；　which　she　wrote　to　Flaubert：

〃You　make　the　people　who　read　your　books　still　sadder　than　they　were　before。　　I　want　to　make　them　less　unhappy。〃　　She　tried　to　do　this；　and　she　often　succeeded　in　her　attempt。　　What　greater　praise　can　we　give　to　her　than　that？　　And　how　can　we　help　adding　a　little　gratitude　and　affection　to　our　admiration　for　the　woman　who　was　the　good　fairy　of　the　contemporary　novel？




THE　END