No More Learning

The latter were called "the good," while there was an intermedi-
ate variety called "the stupid. " Mary G, a bright Irish girl, generally
spoken of as "the boy," became Aurore's best friend, after ridiculing her and
nicknaming her Rising Sun (Aurora) and Some Bread (Du pain). Being
the leading spirit in the devils' camp, she offered to admit Aurore to its
ranks. ]
"You shall be initiated this evening. "
I waited for night and supper very impatiently. Recreation
time began as soon as we left the refectory. In summer the
two classes went to the garden. In winter each class went to
its own room: the seniors to their fine and spacious study; we
to our forlorn quarters, where there was no room to play, and
where our teacher forced us to "amuse >> ourselves quietly,- that
is, not at all. Leaving the refectory always made a momentary
confusion, and I admired the way the "devils" of the two classes
managed to create the slight disorder under whose favor one
could easily escape. The cloister had but one little lamp to
light it: this left the other three galleries in semi-darkness.
Instead of walking straight ahead towards the juniors' room, you
stepped to the left, let the flock pass on, and you were free. I
did so, and found myself in the dark with my friend Mary and
the other "devils" she had told me would be there.
They were all armed, some with logs, others with tongs. I had
nothing, but was bold enough to go to the school-room, get a
poker, and return to my accomplices without being noticed.
•


## p. 12776 (#194) ##########################################

12776
GEORGE SAND
Then they initiated me into the great secret, and we started
on our expedition.
Its
The great secret was the traditional legend of the convent: a
dream handed down from generation to generation, and from
"devil" to "devil," for about two centuries; a romantic fiction
which may have had some foundation of truth at the beginning,
but now rested merely on the needs of our imagination.
object was to deliver the victim. There was a prisoner, some
said several prisoners, shut up somewhere in an impenetrable
retreat: either a cell hidden and bricked up in the thickness of
the walls, or in a dungeon under the vaults of the immense sub-
basements extending beneath the monastery as well as under a
great part of the Saint-Victor district. There were indeed mag-
nificent cellars there,—a real subterranean city, whose limits we
never found,—and they had many mysterious outlets at different
points within the vast area of the inclosure. We were told that
at a great distance off, these cellars joined the excavations run-
ning under the greater part of Paris and the surrounding coun-
try as far as Vincennes. They said that by following our convent
cellars you could reach the Catacombs, the quarries, the Baths of
Julian, and what not. These vaults were the key to a world of
darkness, terrors, mysteries: an immense abyss dug beneath our
feet, closed by iron gates, and whose exploration was as perilous
as the descent into hell of Eneas or Dante. For this reason it
was absolutely imperative to get there, in spite of the insur-
mountable difficulties of the enterprise, and the terrible punish-
ments the discovery of our secret would provoke.
Entering these subterranean domains was one of those unhoped-
for strokes of good luck that occurred once, or at most twice,
in the life of a "devil," after years of perseverance and mental
effort. It was of no use thinking of getting in by the main
door. That door was at the bottom of a wide staircase next
to the kitchens, which were cellars too; and here the lay sisters
congregated.
But we were sure that the vaults could be reached by a
thousand other ways, even by the roof. According to us, every
nailed-up door, every dark corner under a staircase, every hollow.
sounding wall, might communicate mysteriously with the sub-
terranean region; and we looked for that communication most
earnestly up to the very attic.
M AND L
--
"


## p. 12777 (#195) ##########################################

GEORGE SAND
12777
I had read Mrs. Radcliffe's 'Castle of the Pyrenees' at No-
hant, with terror and delight. My companions had many another
Scotch and Irish legend in their heads, all fit to set one's hair
on end. The convent too had innumerable stories of its own
lamentable events,― about ghosts, dungeons, inexplicable appari-
tions, and mysterious noises. All this, and the thought of finally
discovering the tremendous secret of the victim, so kindled our
imaginations that we were sure we heard sighs and groans start
from under the stones, or breathe through the cracks of doors
and walls.
We started off, my companions for the hundredth, I for the
first time, in search of that elusive captive,-languishing no one
knew where, but certainly somewhere, and whom perhaps we
were called to discover. She must have been very old, consider-
ing how long she had been sought in vain! She might have
been over two hundred years old, but we did not mind that!
We sought her, called her, thought of her incessantly, and never
despaired.
That evening I was led into the oldest and most broken-up
part of the buildings,— perhaps the most exciting locality for our
exploration. We selected a little passage with wooden railings
overlooking an empty space without any known outlet. A stair-
case with banisters led to this unknown region, but an oaken
door forbade access to the stairs. We had to get around the
obstacle by passing from the railing to the banisters, and walk
down the outside of the worm-eaten balusters. There was a dark
void below us whose depth we could not fathom. We had only
a little twisted taper (a "rat "), and that hardly let us see more
than the first steps of the mysterious staircase.
We were at the bottom in a moment; and with more joy than
disappointment found that we were directly under the passage,
in a square space without any opening. Not a door nor window,
nor any explicable purpose for this sort of closed vestibule. Why
was there a staircase leading into a blind space? Why was there
a strong padlocked door shutting off the staircase?
The little taper was divided into several lengths, and each
one began examining for herself. The staircase was made of
wood. A secret spring in one of the steps must lead to a pass-
age, another staircase, or a hidden trap. While some explored
the staircase, and tried to force its old planks apart, others groped
along the wall in search of a knob, a crack, a ring, or any of the


## p. 12778 (#196) ##########################################

12778
GEORGE SAND
thousand contrivances mentioned in the chronicles of old manors
as moving a stone, turning a panel, or opening an entrance into
unknown regions.
Alas, there was nothing! The wall was smooth and plastered.
The pavement sounded dull; not a stone was loose, and the
staircase hid no spring. One of us looked further. She declared
that in the extreme corner under the staircase the wall had a
hollow sound; we struck it, and found it true. "It's here! " we
all exclaimed. "There's a walled-up passage in there, but that
passage leads to the awful dungeon. That is the way down to
the sepulchre holding the living victims. " We glued our ears to
the wall, heard nothing; still the discoverer maintained that she
could hear confused groans and clanking chains. What was to
be done?
"Why, it's quite plain," said Mary: "we must pull the wall
down. All of us together can surely make a hole in it. "
Nothing seemed easier to us; and we all went to work,-
some trying to knock it down with their logs, others scraping it
with their shovels and tongs,-never thinking that by worrying
those poor shaky walls, we risked tumbling the building down
on our heads. Fortunately we could not do much harm, because
the noise made by the logs would have attracted some one.
We had to be satisfied with pushing and scratching. Yet we
had managed to make quite a noticeable hole in the plaster,
lime, and stones, when the bell rang for prayers. We had just
time to repeat our perilous escalade, put out our lights, separate,
and grope our way back to the school-rooms. We put off the
continuation of the enterprise till the next day, and appointed
the same place of meeting. Those who got there first were
not to wait for those who might be detained by punishment or
unusual surveillance. Each one was to do her best to scoop out
the wall. It would be just so much done towards the next
day's work. There was no chance of any one's noticing it, as no
one ever went down into that blind hall-way given over to mice
and spiders.
We dusted each other off, regained the cloister, slipped into
our respective class-rooms, and were ready to kneel at prayers
with the others. I forget whether we were noticed and punished
that evening. It happened so often that no single event of the
kind has any special date in the great number. Still we could
often carry on our work with impunity.


## p. 12779 (#197) ##########################################

GEORGE SAND
12779
The search for the great secret and the dungeon lasted the
whole winter I spent in the junior class. The wall was per-
ceptibly damaged, but we were stopped by reaching wooden
girders. We looked elsewhere, ransacked twenty different places,
never having the least success, yet never losing hope.
One day we thought we would look for some mansard win-
dow which might be, so to speak, the upper key to the so
ardently desired subterranean world. There were many such
windows, whose purpose we ignored. There was a little room in
the attic where we practiced on one of the thirty pianos scattered
through the establishment. We had an hour for this practice
every day, and very few of us cared for it. As I always loved
music, I liked to practice. But I was becoming more of an artist
in romance than music; for what more beautiful poem could
there be than the romance in action we were pursuing with our
joint imaginations, courage, and palpitating emotions?
In this way the piano hour became the daily hour for ad-
ventures, without detriment, however, to the evening ones. We
appointed meetings in one of these straggling rooms, and from
there would go to the "I don't know where " or the "As you
please" of fancy.
From the attic where I was supposed to be playing scales,
I could see a labyrinth of roofs, sheds, lofts, and slopes, all cov-
ered with moss-grown tiles and decorated with broken chimneys,
offering a vast field for new explorations. So on to the roof
we went. It was not hard to jump out of the window. Six feet
below us there was a gutter joining two gables. It was more
imprudent than difficult to scale these gables, meet others, jump
from slope to slope, and run about like cats; and danger, far
from restraining, only seemed to stimulate us.
There was something exceedingly foolish, but at the same
time heroic, in this mania of seeking the victim; foolish, because
we had to suppose that the nuns, whose gentleness and kind-
ness we worshiped, were practicing horrible tortures upon some
one; heroic, because we risked our lives every day to deliver an
imaginary creature, who was the object of our most generous
thoughts and most chivalrous undertakings.
We had been out about an hour, spying into the garden,
looking down on a great part of the courts and buildings, and
carefully hiding behind chimneys whenever we saw a black-veiled
nun, who might have raised her head and seen us in the clouds,


## p. 12780 (#198) ##########################################

12780
GEORGE SAND
when we asked ourselves how we should get back. The arrange-
ment of the roofs had allowed us to step or jump down. Going
up was not so easy. I think it would have been impossible
without a ladder. We scarcely knew where we were. At last
we recognized a parlor-boarder's window,- Sidonie Macdonald's,
the celebrated general's daughter. It could be reached by a
final jump, but would be more dangerous than the others. I
jumped too hurriedly, and caught my heel in a flat sky-light,
through which I should have fallen thirty feet into a hall near
the juniors' room, if by chance my awkwardness had not made me
swerve. I got off with two badly flayed knees, but did not give
them a second thought. My heel had broken into a part of the
sash of that deuced window, and smashed half a dozen panes,
which dropped with a frightful crash quite near the kitchen.
entrance. A great noise arose at once among the lay sisters, and
through the opening I had just made, we could hear Sister
Theresa's loud voice screaming, "Cats! " and accusing Whisky-
Mother Alippe's big tom-cat- of fighting with all his fellows,
and breaking all the windows in the house. But Sister Mary
defended the cat's morals, and Sister Helen was sure that a
chimney had fallen on the roof. This discussion started the
nervous giggle that nothing can stop in little girls. We heard
the sisters on the stairs, we should be caught in the very act of
walking on the roofs, and still we could not stir to find refuge.
Then I discovered that one of my shoes was gone,- that it had
dropped through the broken sash into the kitchen hall. Though
my knees were bleeding, my laughter was so uncontrollable that
I could not say a word, but merely showed my unshod foot,
and explained what had happened by dumb show. A new ex-
plosion of laughter followed, although the alarm had been given
and the lay sisters were near.
--
We were soon reassured. Being sheltered and hidden by
overhanging roofs, we could hardly be discovered without get-
ting up to the broken window by a ladder, or following the road
we had taken. And that was something we could safely chal-
lenge any of the nuns to do. So when we had recognized the
advantage of our position, we began to me-ouw Homerically, so
that Whisky and his family might be accused and convicted in
our stead.
Then we made for the window of Sidonie, who did
not welcome us. The poor child was practicing on the piano,
and paying no attention to the feline howls vaguely striking her


## p. 12781 (#199) ##########################################

GEORGE SAND
12781
ear. She was delicate and nervous, very gentle, and quite in-
capable of understanding what pleasure we could find in roaming
over roofs. As she sat playing, her back was turned to the win-
dow; and when we burst into it in a bunch, she screamed aloud.
We lost little time in quieting her. Her cries would attract the
nuns; so we sprang into the room and scampered to the door,
while she stood trembling and staring, seeing all this strange
procession flit by without understanding it nor recognizing any
one of us, so terrified was she. In a moment we had all dis-
persed: one went to the upper room whence we had started, and
played the piano with might and main; another took a round-
about way to the school-room. As for me, I had to find my
shoe, and secure that piece of evidence, if I still had the time.
I managed to avoid the lay sisters, and to find the kitchen entry
free. Audaces fortuna juvat, said I to myself, thinking of the
aphorisms Deschartres* had taught me. And indeed I found
the lucky shoe, where it had fallen in a dark corner and not
been seen. Whisky alone was accused. My knees hurt me very
much for a few days, but I did not brag of them; and the explo-
rations did not slacken.
-
I needed all this romantic excitement to bear up against the
convent regulations, which went very much against me. We
were fed well enough, yet that is a thing I have always cared
least for; but we suffered most cruelly from the cold, and that
year the winter was very severe. The rules for rising and retir-
ing were as harmful as they were disagreeable to me. I have
always loved to sit up late, and not to rise early. At Nohant I
had done as I pleased — read or written in my room at night, and
not been compelled to confront the morning cold. My circulation
is sluggish, and the word "cool-blooded" describes both my phys-
ical and my mental organization. A "devil" among the "devils"
of the convent, I never lost my wits, and did the wildest things
in a solemn way that always delighted my accomplices; but the
cold really paralyzed me, especially during the first half of the
day. The dormitory was in the mansard roof, and so icy that I
could not go to sleep, but sadly heard every hour of the night
strike. At six o'clock two servants came and waked us pitilessly.
It has always seemed a melancholy thing to me to rise and dress.
by lamplight. We had to wash in water whose icy crust we
*Her father's tutor.


## p. 12782 (#200) ##########################################

12782
GEORGE SAND
had to break, and then it could not be washed with. We had
chilblains, and our feet bled in our tight shoes. We went to mass
by candle-light, and shivered on the benches or dozed on our
knees, in the attitude of piety. At seven o'clock we breakfasted
on a piece of bread and a cup of tea. At last, on reaching the
school-room, we could see a little light dawn in the sky, and a
bit of fire in the stove. I never thawed until about noon; I had
frightful colds, and sharp pains in all my limbs, and suffered
from them fifteen years later.
But Mary could not bear complaining; being as strong as a
boy, she made pitiless fun of all who were not stoical. She
taught me to be pitiless towards myself. I deserved some credit
for this, for I suffered more than any one else; and the Paris
climate was killing me already. Sallow, apathetic, and silent, I
seemed the calmest and most submissive of persons when in the
school-room. I never answered back: anger was foreign to my
nature, and I do not remember having an attack of it during
the three years I spent in the convent. Thanks to this disposi-
tion, I was always loved, even at the time of my worst impish-
ness, by my most disagreeable companions and the most exacting
teachers and nuns. The Superior told my grandmother that I
was "still waters. " Paris had frozen the fever of movement I
had had at Nohant. Yet this did not prevent me from climb-
ing over roofs in the month of December, or spending whole
evenings bare-headed in the garden in the middle of winter: for
we hunted "the great secret" in the garden too; and when the
doors were closed, we got down there by the windows. And
that was because we lived by our brain at those times, and I
never noticed then that I was dragging about a sick body.
LÉLIA
[Written in 1833, the period of passion and despair. In this magnificent,
fiery, yet at times absurd poem of doubt and despair, Sténio sometimes
stands for Alfred de Musset, and again for the Ideal; while Lélia is at once
George Sand, and the human soul warred upon and torn by its dual nature. ]
"THE
HE prophets are crying in the desert to-day, and no voice
answers, for the world is indifferent and deaf: it lies
down and stops its ears so as to die in peace. A few
scattered groups of weak votaries vainly try to rekindle a spark


## p. 12783 (#201) ##########################################

GEORGE SAND
12783
of virtue.
As the last remnants of man's moral power, they will
float for a moment about the abyss, then go and join the other
wrecks at the bottom of that shoreless sea which will swallow
up the world. "
"O Lélia, why do you thus despair of those sublime men who
aspire to bring virtue back to our iron age? Even if I were as
doubtful of their success as you are, I would not say so. I should
fear to commit an impious crime. "
"I admire those men," said Lélia, "and would like to be the
least among them. But what will those shepherds bearing a
star on their brows be able to do before the huge monster of
the Apocalypse before that immense and terrible figure outlined
in the foreground of all the prophets' pictures? That woman, as
pale and beautiful as vice,—that great harlot of nations, decked
with the wealth of the East, and bestriding a hydra belching
forth rivers of poison on all human pathways,-is Civilization;
is humanity demoralized by luxury and science; is the torrent
of venom which will swallow up all virtue, all hope of regen-
eration. "
― -
"O Lélia! " exclaimed the poet, struck by superstition, "are
not you that terrible and unhappy phantom? How many times
this fear has taken possession of my dreams! How many times
you have appeared to me as the type of the unspeakable agony
to which the spirit of inquiry has driven man! With your beauty.
and your sadness, your weariness and your skepticism, do you
not personify the excess of sorrow produced by the abuse of
thought? Have you not given up, and as it were prostituted,
that moral power, so highly developed by what art, poetry, and
science have done for it, to every new impression and error? In-
stead of clinging faithfully and prudently to the simple creed of
your fathers, and to the instinctive indifference God has implanted
in man for his peace and preservation; instead of confining your-
self to a pious life free from vain show, you have abandoned
yourself to all the seductions of ambitious philosophy. You have
cast yourself into the torrent of civilization rising to destroy, and
which by dashing along too swiftly has ruined the scarcely laid
foundations of the future. And because you have delayed the
work of centuries for a few days, you think you have shattered
the hour-glass of Eternity. There is much pride in this grief,
Lélia! But God will make this billow of stormy centuries, that
for him are but a drop in the ocean, float by. The devouring


## p. 12784 (#202) ##########################################

12784
GEORGE SAND
hydra will perish for lack of food; and from its world-covering
corpse a new race will issue, stronger and more patient than the
old. "
"You see far into the future, Sténio! You personify Nature
for me, and are her unspotted child. You have not yet blunted
your faculties: you believe yourself immortal because you feel
yourself young and like that untilled valley now blooming in
pride and beauty,-never dreaming that in a single day the
plowshare and the hundred-handed monster called industry can
tear its bosom to rob it of its treasures; you are growing up
full of trust and presumption, not foreseeing your coming life,
which will drag you down under the weight of its errors, disfig-
ure you with the false colors of its promises. Wait, wait a few
years, and you too will say, 'All is passing away! '»
"No, all is not passing away! " said Sténio. "Look at the
sun, and the earth, and the beautiful sky, and these green hills;
and even that ice, winter's fragile edifice, which has withstood
the rays of summer for centuries.
Even so man's frail power
will prevail! What matters the fall of a few generations? Do
you weep for so slight a thing, Lélia? Do you deem it possible
a single idea can die in the universe? Will not that imperish-
able inheritance be found intact in the dust of our extinct races,
just as the inspirations of art and the discoveries of science arise.
alive each day from the ashes of Pompeii or the tombs of Mem-
phis? Oh, what a great and striking proof of intellectual immor-
tality! Deep mysteries had been lost in the night of time; the
world had forgotten its age, and thinking itself still young,
was alarmed at feeling itself so old. It said as you do, Lélia:
'I am about to end, for I am growing weak, and I was born but
a few days ago! How few I shall need for dying, since so few
were needed for living! ' But one day human corpses were ex-
humed from the bosom of Egypt - Egypt that had lived out its
period of civilization, and has just lived its period of barbarism!
Egypt, where the ancient light, lost so long, is being rekindled,
and a rested and rejuvenated Egypt may perhaps soon come
and establish herself upon the extinguished torch of our own.
Egypt, the living image of her mummies sleeping under the dust
of ages, and now awaking to the broad daylight of science in
order to reveal the age of the old world to the new! Is this not
solemn and terrible, Lélia? Within the dried-up entrails of a
human corpse, the inquisitive glance of our century discovered the


## p. 12785 (#203) ##########################################

GEORGE SAND
12785
papyrus, that mysterious and sacred monument of man's eternal
power, the still dark but incontrovertible witness of the impos-
ing duration of creation. Our eager hand unrolls those per-
fumed bandages, those frail and indissoluble shrouds at which
destruction stopped short. These bandages that once enfolded a
corpse, these manuscripts that have rested under fleshless ribs in
the place once occupied perhaps by a soul, are human thought;
expressed in the science of signs, and transmitted by the help
of an art we had lost, but have found again in the sepulchres of
the East, the art of preserving the remains of the dead from
the outrages of corruption,- the greatest power in the universe.
O Lélia, deny the youth of the world if you can, when you see
it stop in artless ignorance before the lessons of the past, and
begin to live on the forgotten ruins of an unknown world. "
"Learning over again
Knowledge is not power," replied Lélia.
is not progress; seeing is not living. Who will give us back the
power to act, and above all, the art of enjoying and retaining?
We have gone too far forward now to retreat. What was merely
repose for eclipsed civilizations will be death for our tired-out
one; the rejuvenated nations of the East will come and intoxi-
cate themselves with the poison we have poured on
The bold barbarian drinkers may perhaps prolong the orgy of
luxury a few hours into the night of time; but the venom we
shall bequeath them will promptly be mortal for them, as it was
for us, and all will drop back into blackness.
In fact,
Sténio, do you not see that the sun is withdrawing from us? Is
not the earth, wearied in its journey, noticeably drifting towards
darkness and chaos? Is your blood so young and ardent as not
to feel the touch of that chill spread like a pall over this planet
abandoned to Fate, the most powerful of the gods? Oh, the
cold! that penetrating pain driving sharp needles into every pore.
That cursed breath that withers flowers and burns them like fire;
that pain at once physical and mental, which invades both soul
and body, penetrates to the depths of thought, and paralyzes
mind as well as blood! Cold the sinister demon who grazes
the universe with his damp wing, and breathes pestilence on be-
wildered nations! Cold, tarnishing everything, unrolling its gray
and nebulous veil over the sky's rich tints, the waters' reflections,
the hearts of flowers, and the cheeks of maidens! Cold, that
casts its white winding-sheet over fields and woods and lakes,
even over the fur and feathers of animals! Cold, that discolors
XXII-800
――
-


## p. 12786 (#204) ##########################################

12786
GEORGE SAND
all in the material as well as in the intellectual world; not only
the coats of bears and hares on the shores of Archangel, but the
very pleasures of man and the character of his habits in the
spots it approaches! You surely see that everything is being
civilized; that is to say, growing cold. The bronzed nations of
the torrid zone are beginning to open their timid and suspicious
hands to the snares of our skill; lions and tigers are being
tamed, and come from the desert to amuse the peoples of the
north. Animals which had never been able to grow accustomed
to our climate, now leave their warm sun without dying, to live
in domesticity among us, and even forget the proud and bitter
sorrow which used to kill them when enslaved. It is because
blood is congealing and growing poorer everywhere, while instinct
grows and develops. The soul rises and leaves the earth, no
longer sufficient for her needs, to steal the fire of Prometheus
from heaven again: but, lost in darkness, it stops in its flight and
falls; for God, seeing its presumption, stretches forth his hand
and deprives it of the sun. "
A TRAVELER'S LETTERS
I
REMEMBER that when I was a child the hunters, towards
autumn, brought home beautiful, gentle, blood-stained ring-
doves. They would give me those that were still alive, and
I took care of them. I did it with all the ardor and tenderness
a mother lavishes upon her children, and was able to cure some
of them. When their strength came back they grew sad, and
refused the fresh beans they had pecked so greedily from my
hand during their illness. As soon as they could spread their
wings they became restless, and wounded themselves by dashing
against the bars of their cage. They would have died of grief
and fatigue if I had not set them free. And so, though I was
a most selfish child, I trained myself to sacrifice the pleasure of
possession to the pleasure of generosity. The day I carried one
of my doves to the window was always one of keen emotion,
triumphant joy, and invincible regret. I would kiss it a thousand
times, and beg it to remember me, return, and feed on the ten-
der beans in my garden. Then I would unclose my hand, but
instantly close it again, so as to retain my friend, and embrace
it anew with a swelling heart and brimming eyes. At last, after


## p. 12787 (#205) ##########################################

GEORGE SAND
12787
much hesitation and many efforts, I would set it on the window-
sill. It would remain motionless for a time, as though amazed,
and almost afraid of its happiness; then start off with a little
cry of joy that went to my very heart. I would follow it a long
time with my eyes; and when it had disappeared behind the
mountain-ash trees of the garden I began to weep bitterly, and
made my mother anxious all day long by looking both ill and
depressed.
When we parted, I was proud and happy to see you restored
to life; and I attributed some of the glory of having brought this
about to the care I had taken of you. I dreamed of better days,
of a calmer life, for you. I saw you revive to youth, to affec-
tion, to glory. But when I had set you on shore,-when I found
myself alone in that gondola as black as a coffin,-I felt that
my soul was departing with you. The wind was tossing nothing
but a sick and stupefied body on the restless lagoon. A man
was waiting for me on the steps of the Piazzetta. "Courage! "
he said. "Yes," I replied, "you said that same word to me one
night when he lay dying in our arms, when we thought he had
but an hour to live. Now he is saved, is on his way, is going
to his country, his mother, his friends, his pleasures. 'Tis well;
but think what you please of me, I regret that horrible night
when his pale head rested on your shoulder and his cold hand
lay in mine.
He was here between us then, he is here no morẹ.
You are weeping too, though you shrug your shoulders. Your
tears, you see, can argue no better than I do.
He is gone; it
was our wish: but he is here no longer-and we are in despair. "
G. SAND.
THE most beautiful object I saw at Chamonix was my
daughter. You cannot imagine the self-possession and pride of
this eight-year-old beauty at liberty in the mountains. Diana
must have looked so as a child, when, as yet unskilled to follow
the wild boar in horrible Erymanthea, she gamboled with young
fawns on the gentle slopes of Hybla. Solange's fresh complexion.
fears neither wind nor sun. Her partly opened bodice leaves her
strong chest bare, and nothing can sully its immaculate white-
ness. Her long fair hair floats in soft ringlets down her supple
and vigorous back, which nothing ever tires: neither the mules'
hard and hurried step, nor race down abrupt and slippery
slopes, nor the tiers of rocks which have to be scaled for hours
together. Brave and serious at all times, her cheek colors with


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12788
GEORGE SAND
pride and scorn when any one tries to help her on. As robust
as a mountain cedar, and fresh as a flower of the valley, she
seems to divine, although she does not yet know, the value of
intelligence; that the finger of God has touched her brow, and
that some day she is destined to rule those by moral force whose
physical power protects her now. At the Glacier des Bossons
she said to me: "When I'm a queen, you may be sure, my dear
George, that I'll give you the whole of Mont Blanc. "
Her brother, although five years older, is less vigorous and
less daring. Tender and gentle, he recognizes and instinctively
reveres his sister's superiority; but he knows equally well that
kind-heartedness is a treasure.
He often says, "She will make.
you proud: I shall make you happy. "
Perpetual care and joy of our life, our despotic. flatterers,
greedy for the very least pleasures, skillful in obtaining them
either by persistency or obstinacy, frankly selfish, instinctively sure
of their too legitimate independence,- children are our masters,
no matter how firm we may pretend to be with them.
In spite
of their natural kindness, mine signalize themselves amongst the
most fiery and difficult to manage; and I confess I know no way
to make them bend to social forms, before society itself makes
them feel its marble angles and iron harrows. I can find no
good reason to give, to a spirit fresh from the hand of God and
enjoying its free integrity, for subjecting it to so many use-
less and foolish servitudes. Unless I had such habits as I have
not, and such charlatanism as I neither could nor would have, I
do not understand how I could dare ask my children to recog-
nize the pretended necessity of our ridiculous fetters. Therefore
I have but one means,-authority: and I use it when I must,-
that is, very rarely; besides, it is a thing I would not advise any
one to try, unless they have the means of making themselves
loved as much as feared.
TRULY, no one had ever sufficiently praised the beauty of the
sky and the charms of Venice to us. On fine evenings the
lagoon is so calm that the stars do not tremble upon it. Out in
the middle, it is so blue and smooth that the eye loses the hori-
zon line, and sky and water become an azure veil, where revery
loses its way and falls asleep The air is so pure and trans-
parent that one discerns five hundred thousand times more stars
in the sky than can be seen in our northern France. I have
seen nights when there were so many stars that their silvery


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12789
whiteness held more space in the vault of the firmament than the
blue of the ether. There was such a sprinkling of diamonds that
there was quite as much light as the moon gives in Paris.
I do
not wish to insinuate anything against our moon: she is a pale
beauty whose melancholy says more to our intellect than this one
does, perhaps. Hazy nights in our mild provinces have charms
that no one has enjoyed more than I, and that no one has less
desire to disown. Nature here, being more vigorous in her influ-
ence, may perhaps silence the intellect a little too much. She
sends thought to sleep, agitates hearts, and rules the senses.
Unless one be a man of genius, it is useless to think of writing
poems during these voluptuous nights: one must either love or
sleep.
There is one delightful spot for sleeping: it is the flight
of marble steps leading from the viceroy's garden to the Canal.
When the gilded gate is closed on the garden side, you can be
rowed in a gondola to these flagstones still warm with the setting
sun's rays, and not be disturbed by any intruding pedestrian
unless he has the means of reaching you by the faith St. Peter
lacked. I have spent many an hour there all alone, thinking of
nothing, while Catullo and his gondola slept out on the water,
within call of my whistle. When the midnight breeze blows over
the lime-trees, and shakes their blossoms on the water; when the
perfume of geraniums and clove-trees rises in puffs as if the earth
were exhaling balmy sighs under the moon's gaze; when the
cupolas of Santa Maria raise their alabaster hemispheres and their
turban-crowned minarets to the sky; when water, sky, and mar-
ble- the three elements of Venice. are all white, and a great
brazen voice floats over my head from the tower of St. Mark,-
I begin to live by my pores alone, and woe to him who might
come and appeal to my soul! I vegetate, rest, forget. Who, in
my place, would not do the same? How could you expect me
to worry about finding out whether Mr. So-and-So has written.
an article on my books, or whether Mr. What's-his-Name has
declared my principles dangerous and my cigar immoral? All I
can say is, that these gentlemen are very good to trouble about
me, and that if I had no debts I should not leave the viceroy's
steps to give them food for scandal at my desk. "Ma la fama,"
says proud Alfieri. "Ma la fame," gayly replies Gozzi. *
"But-fame! »
"But - hunger! "
―


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GEORGE SAND
I defy any one to prevent me from sleeping agreeably when
I see Venice, so impoverished, so oppressed, and so wretched,
defy Time and men to prevent her from being beautiful and
serene. There she is, all around me, looking at her reflection in
her lagoons, with the air of a sultana; and are not those fisher-
men who sleep on the pavement of the opposite shore both
winter and summer, with no other pillow than a granite step,
and no other mattress than their slashed jackets, a great example
of philosophy as well? When they have not the wherewithal for
a pound of rice, they sing a chorus to forget their hunger; and
in the same way they defy both their masters and their misery,
accustomed as they are to brave heat, cold, and squalls. It will
take many a year of slavery to completely brutalize this careless
and frivolous disposition, that has lived on amusements and fes-
tivities so many years.
Life in Venice is still so easy! Nature
there is so rich and so readily turned to account! The sea and
the lagoons teem with fish and game, and there is enough shell-
fish caught in the open streets to feed all the population. Gar-
dens make excellent returns: there is not a corner of that rich
clay which does not generously produce more fruits and vegeta-
bles than a field on terra firma. Every day, boats loaded with
fruits, flowers, and such sweet-smelling herbs that their perfumed
trace can be scented in the early morning mist, come in from
the thousand islets dotting the lagoon. The port being free,
foreign commodities are not dear; the most exquisite wines from
the Archipelago cost less at Venice than the commonest wine at
Paris. Oranges arrive from Palermo in such profusion that on
the day the Sicilian vessel comes into port, ten of the finest can
be bought for four or five cents of our money. Hence animal
life is the least cause of expense at Venice, and the transporta-
tion of provisions is so easily effected that it fosters the indo-
lence of the natives. Market produce comes to your house-door
by water, and hucksters pass through the streets and over the
bridges. The exchange of money for daily food is managed
by means of a rope and basket. In this way a family can be
abundantly supplied without going out, or even sending a serv-
ant. What a difference between this convenient mode of exist-
ence and the laborious toil that a family merely half-poor is
obliged to perform every single day in Paris, and then only
to dine worse than the poorest Venetian workman! What a dif-
ference too, between the preoccupied and serious faces of the


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12791
people who jostle each other and hurry, get muddy and elbow
their way through the Parisian crowd, and the easy-going pace
of these Venetians, who sing as they crawl along, and lie down.
every now and then on the smooth, warm pavement of the quays!
The traders who bring their whole stock to Venice daily in a
single basket are the jolliest wags in the world, and retail jokes
with their wares. The fishmonger, at the close of his day's
wanderings, tired and hoarse after shouting all the morning,
comes and sits down in a square or on a parapet; and to sell
his remnants he throws out the most ingenious invitations to all
who pass by, or to the smokers on the neighboring balconies.
"Just look! " he says: "this is the finest fish I had in the whole
lot! I kept it till now, because I know that rich people dine
later than others nowadays. See these fine sardines, four for
two centimes. One glance of the pretty housemaid at this fine
fish, and another into the bargain at the poor fisherman! " The
water-carrier makes puns while offering his merchandise. "Aqua
fresca e tenera. " The gondolier at his station solicits passengers
with marvelous offers. "Are we going to Trieste this evening,
my lord? Here is a fine gondola, not afraid of a gale on the
high seas, and a gondolier who can row to Constantinople with-
out stopping! "
Unexpected pleasures are the only pleasures in this world.
Yesterday I wanted to see the moon rise on the Adriatic; I
never could induce Catullo the elder to take me to the shore of
the Lido. He pretended what they all pretend when they do
not want to obey, that wind and tide were against him. I most
cordially wished the doctor to the deuce for having sent me this
asthmatic fellow, who gives up the ghost at every stroke of his
oar, and chatters more than a thrush when he is in his cups. I
was in the worst kind of humor when, in front of the Salute,
we met a boat slowly gliding down towards the Grand Canal,
shedding the sounds of a delicious serenade, like a perfume, in its
wake. "Turn your prow," I said to old Catullo: "I hope you'll
have at least the strength to follow that boat. "
Another boat loitering about there followed my example, then
a second one, and yet another; and at last, all those out breath-
ing the evening freshness on the Canalazzo, and even some
empty boats, began to row towards us, their gondoliers shouting
«Music! Music! " in as famished a way as the Israelites clamor-
ing for manna in the desert. In ten minutes a flotilla had
formed about the dilettanti; every oar was silent, and the boats


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GEORGE SAND
12792
were carried on by the current. The harmony swept softly on
with the breeze, and the oboe sighed so tenderly that every one
held his breath for fear of interrupting its love-plaints. The
violin began to weep so sadly and with so sympathetic a quiver-
ing that I dropped my pipe and pulled my cap down to my eyes.
Then the harp let us hear two or three scales of harmonious
sounds which seemed to come down from heaven, and promise
the caresses and consolations of angels to suffering souls on
earth. Next the horn came out of the heart of the woods, as it
were; and each one of us thought he saw his first love come
from the heights of the forests of Frioul, and draw near to the
joyous sound of the flourish. The oboe addressed her with more
passionate words than those of a dove following its beloved
through the air. The violin breathed throbs of convulsive joy;
the harp made its deep strings vibrate generously, as if they
were the palpitations of a flaming heart; and the tones of the
four instruments clasped each other like blessed souls embracing
before departing for heaven together. I caught and held their
accents, and my imagination heard them long after they had
ceased. Their passage had left a magic warmth in the atmo-
sphere, as if Love had shaken it with his wings.
A few moments of silence, which no one dared to break, fol-
lowed. The melodious bark began to move more rapidly, as if it
wished to escape from us; but we dashed in its wake. We were
like a flock of petrels fighting to be the first to seize a gold-fish.
We pressed around it, the great steel saws of our prows shining
in the moonlight like the fiery teeth of Ariosto's dragons. The
fugitive freed itself in Orpheus's manner: a few chords on the
harp made all fall into silence and order again. At the sound of
the light arpeggios, three gondolas took their place at either side
of the one carrying the symphony, and followed the adagio with
a religiously slow movement. The others dropped behind, form-
ing a retinue; and this was not the worst place for hearing.
These rows of silent gondolas, gliding so gently down the wide
and magnificent Venetian canal, were a sight made to realize the
loveliest of dreams. At the sound of the sweetest strains of
'Oberon' and 'William Tell,' every ripple, every light rebound
of the oars, seemed to respond fondly to the sentiment of each
musical phrase. The gondoliers, standing in their bold attitude.
at the stern, were outlined against the blue air like thin black
spectres, behind the groups of friends and lovers they were
rowing. The moon was rising slowly, and began to show her


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inquisitive face above the roofs; she too seemed to be listening,
and to like the music. One of the palace-lined banks of the
Canal, still steeped in darkness, stenciled its huge Moorish lace-
work, blacker than the gates of hell, against the sky. The other
bank received the reflection of the full moon, now as broad and
white as a silver shield, on its serene and silent façades. This
immense line of fairy-like buildings, illumined by no other light
than that of the heavenly bodies, was truly sublime in its look of
solitude, repose, and immobility. The slender statues, rising by
hundreds against the sky, seemed flights of mysterious spirits.
charged to protect the mute city's rest, plunged thus in a slum-
ber like that of the Sleeping Beauty, and condemned like her to
sleep a hundred years and more
We rowed along thus for nearly an hour. The gondoliers had
become rather wild. Old Catullo himself bounded at the allegro,
and followed the rapid course of the little fleet. Then his oar
would take an amoroso movement at the andante, and he would
accompany it with a sort of grunt of beatitude. The orchestra
halted under the portico of the White Lion. I leaned over to see
"my lord" step out of his gondola. He was a splenetic child of
seventeen or eighteen, burdened with a long Turkish pipe, that
he could not have smoked completely without becoming con-
sumptive to the last degree. He looked very much bored; but
he had paid for a serenade that I had enjoyed far more than he,
and for which I was very much obliged to him. G. SAND.
SIMON
[The Count de Fougères had emigrated before the Revolution. During
his exile he had been a merchant in Istria, had married an Italian, and
when he returned brought a daughter, Fiamma, with him.