No More Learning

But should
fortune envy your valor, be sure you fall not without taking due
vengeance on the foe: suffer not yourselves to be captured and
slaughtered like cattle; but fight rather like men, and leave our
opponents a bloody and mournful victory. "
A NUMIDIAN DEFEAT
From the History of the War against Jugurtha'
N THAT part of Numidia which on the partition of the king-
dom fell to the share of Adherbal, was a river called Muthul,
flowing from the south; parallel to which, at the distance of
about twenty miles, was a mountain of equal length, desert and
uncultivated. Between this mountain and the river, almost at an


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12750
equal distance from each, rose a hill of prodigious height, covered
with olives, myrtles, and other trees, such as grow in a dry and
sandy soil; the intermediate plain was uninhabitable for want of
water, those parts only excepted which bordered on the river, in
which were many groves, and abundance of cattle.
Jugurtha took possession of this hill, which flanked the Ro-
mans in their march to the river, extending his front as far as
possible; and giving the command of the elephants and part of
the infantry to Bomilcar, with orders how to act, he posted him-
self with all the horse and the choicest of the foot nearer the
Then he rode round the several squadrons and bat-
talions, conjuring them "to summon up their former bravery, and
mindful of their late victory, to defend themselves and their coun-
try from Roman avarice. They were to engage with those whom
they had already vanquished, and forced to pass under the yoke;
and who had only changed their general, but not their character.
As for himself, he had done all that was incumbent on a gen-
eral: had secured to them the advantages of the ground, which
they were well acquainted with, and to which the enemy were
strangers; and had taken care not to expose them to an unequal
contest with an enemy superior in number or skill: they should
therefore, when the signal was given, fall vigorously on the
Romans; that day would either crown their former toils and vic-
tories, or be a prelude to the most grievous calamities. " Besides
addressing himself singly to such as he had rewarded with honors.
or money for their gallant behavior, he reminded them of his lib-
erality, and proposed them to others as patterns for their imitation.
In a word, he appealed to all, in a manner suited to the dispo-
sition and character of each; and by promises, threatenings, and
entreaties, labored to excite their courage.
In the mean time Metellus, descending from the mountain
with his army, without any knowledge of the enemy's motions,
discovered them on the hill. At first he was doubtful what to
think of so strange an appearance; for the Numidian horse and
foot were posted among the bushes, by reason of the lowness of
which they were neither altogether covered nor yet entirely dis-
cernible. The rugged nature of the place, united to the artifice
with which the whole was conducted, gave ample room for sus-
picion: but soon finding that it was an ambush, the general halted
his army, and altering the disposition of it, made the flank next
the enemy thrice as strong as before, distributed the slingers and


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12751
archers among the infantry, placed all the cavalry in the wings;
and animating them by a short speech suitable to the occasion,
he advanced in this order towards the plain.
Observing the Numidians to keep their ground, without offer-
ing to quit their station, and fearing that from the heat of the
season and the scarcity of water his army would be distressed
by thirst, Metellus ordered his lieutenant Rutilius, with the light-
armed cohorts and a detachment of horse, to proceed towards the
river, and secure a place to encamp on; judging that the enemy
would, by frequent skirmishes and attacks on his flank, endeavor
to retard his march, and to harass his men by means of thirst
and fatigue, as they could entertain no hope of success in battle.
He then advanced slowly, as his circumstances and situation
allowed him, in the same order as he had descended from the
mountain; posting Marius in the centre, and marching himself
in the left wing, at the head of the cavalry, which was now
become the front.
Jugurtha, when he saw that the Roman rear extended beyond
his first rank, detached two thousand foot to take possession of
that part of the mountain from which Metellus had descended,
that it might not serve the Romans for a place of security if
they were routed; and then, giving the signal, suddenly fell on
them.
Some of the Numidians made great slaughter in our rear,
while others charged us on the right and left; they advanced
furiously, fought vigorously, and everywhere broke our ranks.
Even those of our men who opposed them with the greatest
firmness and resolution were baffled by their disorderly man-
ner of fighting: finding themselves wounded from a distance, and
unable to return the blow or come to a close engagement; for
the Numidian cavalry, according to the instructions they had
received from Jugurtha, when any of the Roman troops advanced
against them, immediately fled, not in close order or in a body,
but dispersed as widely as possible. Though they could not by
these means discourage us from the pursuit, yet being superior
in number, they charged us either in flank or rear: and when it
appeared more convenient to fly to the hill than the plain the
Numidian horses, being accustomed to it, made their way more
easily through the thickets; while the Roman trooper, unaccus-
tomed to such rough and difficult places, was unable to follow
them.


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SALLUST
The whole field presented a distressing spectacle, full of doubt
and perplexity and wild disorder: some flying, others pursuing;
all separated from their fellows; no standard followed; no ranks
preserved; every one standing on his own defense, and repulsing
his adversary wherever he was attacked; arms and darts, horses
and men, enemies and fellow-citizens, blended together in wild
confusion. In this scene of distraction, all order was at an end:
chance ruled supreme, and guided the tumult; so that though the
day was already far spent, the issue of the contest was still un-
certain.
At length, both sides being oppressed with fatigue and the
heat of the day, Metellus, perceiving the Numidian vigor abate,
rallied his men by degrees, restored their ranks, and posted four
legionary cohorts against the enemy's foot; a great part of which
had, through weariness, retired to the rising grounds for repose.
At the same time he entreated and exhorted his men not to lose
their courage, nor suffer a flying enemy to be victorious; adding
that they had no intrenchment or stronghold to which they could
retire, but that all their hopes were in their arms and valor.
Nor was Jugurtha in the mean time inactive, but appeared
on horseback, animated his men, renewed the battle, and at the
head of a select body made every possible effort: supported his
men where they were pressed; charged the Romans vigorously
where they seemed to waver; and where they stood firm, annoyed
them with darts from a distance.
Thus did the two generals contend for glory: both officers
of consummate ability, but differently situated, and as unequally
supported. Metellus had brave men, but a bad situation; Jugur-
tha had every other advantage but that of soldiers. At last
the Romans-considering that no place of refuge was left them,
that the enemy avoided every attempt to bring them to a regu-
lar engagement, and that night was fast approaching-advanced
up the hill, according to orders, and made themselves masters
of it.
The Numidians, having lost this post, were routed and put to
flight, but few of them slain: their own swiftness, and the nature
of the country-with which our men were unacquainted- sav-
ing most of them.
In the mean time Bomilcar,- to whom Jugurtha, as already
stated, had given the command of the elephants and part of the
infantry, when he saw that Rutilius had passed him, drew


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12753
-
down his men slowly into the plain; where without interruption
he ranged them in order of battle, as the exigency required, while
the lieutenant was marching in great haste to the river: nor did
he neglect to watch the motions and to learn the designs of the
Romans. On receiving intelligence that Rutilius was encamped
and appeared to consider himself in a state of security, Bomilcar
- perceiving that the noise of the battle in which Jugurtha
was engaged still increased, and fearing lest the lieutenant should
return to reinforce the consul -resolved to obstruct his passage;
and extending the front of his line,-which before, distrustful
of the steadiness of his troops, he had formed close and com-
pact, in this order advanced to the camp of Rutilius.
The Romans on a sudden perceived a vast cloud of dust,
which at first they conjectured to be raised by the wind sweep-
ing over an arid and sandy surface; for the country was covered
on all sides with copsewood, which obstructed their view of the
Numidians: but observing the cloud to move with regularity, and
approach nearer and nearer as the Numidians marched forward,
they perceived the cause of the phenomenon; and flying to their
arms, drew up before the camp according to orders. When the
enemy came up, a tremendous shout was raised on both sides,
and they rushed with fury to the onset.
The Numidians maintained the contest as long as their ele-
phants could be of any service to them: but when they saw
them entangled among the branches of the trees and surrounded
by the Romans, they betook themselves to flight; and throwing
away their arms, escaped, most of them unhurt,-partly by the
advantage of the hill, and partly by favor of the night. Four
elephants were taken; the rest, forty in number, were all slain.
The Romans, however much exhausted by their march, by
fortifying their camp, and by the late unexpected encounter,
were flushed with success; and as Metellus tarried beyond their
expectation, they advanced resolutely in order of battle to meet
him: for such was the subtlety of the Numidians as to leave no
room for inactivity or remissness. When the heads of the two
friendly columns approached each other in the darkness of the
night, the noise on both sides occasioned mutual apprehensions
of an approaching enemy; and this mistake had well-nigh pro-
duced the most fatal consequences, had not some horsemen dis-
patched by both parties discovered the true cause of it. Mutual
congratulations quickly succeeded to apprehension: the soldiers
XXII-798


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SALLUST
joyfully called to one another by name, recounting their late ex-
ploits, and every one extolling his own gallant behavior; for such
is the nature of human affairs, that when victory is obtained,
cowards may boast, while defeat casts reproach even on the
brave.
Metellus continued four days in the same camp: administered
relief to the wounded; conferred the usual military rewards on
such as had distinguished themselves in the late engagements;
commended the whole army, which he assembled with that view;
returned them his public thanks; and exhorted them "to act
with equal courage in what further remained, which was but lit-
tle. They had already fought sufficiently for victory: their future
labors would be only to enrich themselves by the spoils of con-
quest. "
SPEECH OF MARIUS
From the History of the War against Jugurtha'
I
KNOW, Romans, that most of those who apply to you for pre-
ferment in the State assume a different conduct from what
they observe after they have obtained it. When they are can-
didates, they are active, condescending, and modest; when magis-
trates, haughty and indolent: but to me the contrary conduct
appears reasonable; for in proportion as the good of the State is
of more importance than the consulship or prætorship, the greater
care and attention is requisite to govern the commonwealth than
to court its dignities.
I am very sensible what an arduous task is imposed on me
by your generous choice of me: to make preparations for the
war, and yet to be sparing of the treasury; to oblige those to
serve whom you would not willingly offend; to attend to every-
thing both at home and abroad; and to perform all this amid
a confederacy of envious men, eternally obstructing your meas-
ures and caballing against you,-it is, O Romans! a more difficult
undertaking than can be readily imagined. Moreover, if others
fail in the discharge of their duty, the ancient lustre of their
family, the heroic actions of their ancestors, the credit of their
kindred and friends, and their numerous dependents, afford them
protection. But for me, my resources lie solely in myself; my
firmness and integrity alone must protect me: every other sup-
port would be of little avail.


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12755
I am well aware too, Romans, that the eyes of all are on
me: that all honest, all candid men, pleased with my successful
endeavors to serve the State, wish well to me; but that the
nobility watch for an opportunity to ruin me. Hence I must
labor the more strenuously that you be not ensnared by them,
and that they be disappointed. From my childhood to the pres-
ent time, my manner of life has been such that toils and dangers
are now habitual to me. The course I pursued, Romans, merely
from a disinterested principle, before you conferred any favors
on me, I shall not discontinue now that you have bestowed so
noble a recompense. Those who put on the deceitful guise and
semblance of virtue to obtain power, must when possessed of it
find it difficult to act with moderation; but to me, whose whole
life has been an uninterrupted series of laudable pursuits, virtue,
through the force of habit, is become natural.
You have ordained that I should have the management of
the war against Jugurtha: an ordinance highly displeasing to the
nobility. Now I pray you, consider within yourselves whether
you had not better alter your choice, and employ on this, or any
other similar occasion, one of the tribe of the nobility: a man of
ancient family, surrounded with the images of his ancestors, and
who has never been in the service. See how, on such an import-
ant occasion, he will hurry and be confounded; and, ignorant of
his whole duty, apply to some plebeian to instruct him in it.
And thus it commonly happens that he whom you have appointed
your general is obliged to find another from whom to receive his
orders.
I know, Romans, some who, after entering on the consular
office, began to study the history of our ancestors, and the mili-
tary precepts of the Greeks. Preposterous method! For though,
in the order of time, the election to offices precedes the exercise
of men,- yet in the order of things, qualifications and experi-
ence should precede election.
New man as I am, Romans, compare me with these haughty
nobles. What they have only read or heard of, I have seen
performed or performed myself; what they have gathered from
books, I have learned in the service. Now do you yourselves judge
whether practice or speculation is of greater value. They despise
me for the meanness of my descent; I despise them for their in-
dolence: I am upbraided with my success; they with their crimes.
I am of opinion that nature is always the same, and common


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SALLUST
to all; and that those who have most virtue have most nobility.
Suppose it were possible to put the question to the fathers of
Albinus or Bestia, whether they would rather have chosen me
for their descendant, or them? What answer do you think they
would make, but that they should have desired to have had the
most deserving men for their sons? But if they have reason
to despise me, they have the same cause to despise their ances-
tors, whose nobility, like mine, took its rise from their military
virtue. They envy my advancement: let them likewise envy my
toils, my integrity, my dangers; for by these I gained it.
These men, in truth, blinded with pride, live in such man-
ner as if they slighted the honors you have to bestow, and yet
sue for them as if they had deserved them. Deluded men! to
aspire at once after two things so opposite in their nature, the
enjoyment of the pleasures of effeminacy, and the fruits of a
laborious virtue! When they harangue too before you, or in
the Senate, they employ most of their eloquence in celebrating
their ancestors, and vainly imagine that the exploits of these
great men reflect a lustre on themselves: whereas it is quite
the reverse; for the more illustrious were the lives of the dead,
the more scandalous is the spiritless and unmanly behavior of
these their descendants. The truth of the matter is plainly this:
the glory acquired by ancestors is like a light diffused over the
actions of their posterity, which suffers neither their good nor bad
qualities to be concealed.
This light, Romans, is what I lack; but what is much more
noble, I can recount my own achievements. Mark the inconsist-
ency of my adversaries! What credit they arrogantly claim to
themselves for the exploits of others, they deny me for my own;
and what reason do they give for it? why, truly this: that I have
no images of my ancestors to show, and my nobility is no older
than myself. But surely it is more honorable for one to acquire
nobility himself than to debase that which he derives from his
predecessors.
I am sensible, Romans, that if they were to reply to what I
now advance, they would do so with great eloquence and force.
Yet as they have given a loose rein to their calumniating
tongues on every occasion - not only against me, but likewise
against you-ever since you have conferred this dignity on me,
I was resolved to speak, lest some should impute my silence to
a consciousness of guilt. Though I am abundantly satisfied that


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12757
no words can injure me, since if what is said be true, it
must be to my honor; if false, my life and conduct will confute.
it, yet because your determination is blamed, in bestowing on
me the highest dignity of the State, and trusting me with the
conduct of affairs of such importance, I beseech you to consider
whether you had not better alter your choice. I cannot indeed
boast of the images, triumphs, or consulships of my ancestors, to
raise your confidence in me; but if it be necessary, I can show
you spears, banners, collars of merit, and other military distinc-
tions, besides a body scarred with honorable wounds. These are
my statues! These are the proofs of my nobility! not derived
from ancestors, as theirs are, but such as I have myself won by
many toils and dangers.
――――――――――
My language is too unpolished; but that gives me small con-
cern,- virtue shows itself with sufficient clearness. They stand
in need of the artful colorings of eloquence to hide the infamy
of their actions. Nor have I been instructed in the Grecian
literature! Why, truly, I had little inclination to that kind of
instruction, which did not improve the authors of it in the least
degree of virtue. But I have learned other things far more
useful to the State: to wound the enemy; to watch; to dread
nothing but infamy; to undergo cold and heat alike; to lie on the
bare ground; to bear hunger and fatigue. These lessons shall ani-
mate my troops; nor shall I ever be rigorous to them and indul-
gent to myself, or borrow my glory from their toils. This is the
mode of commanding most useful to the State; this is what suits
the equality of citizens. To treat the army with severity while
you indulge yourself in ease and pleasure is to act the tyrant, not
the general.
--
By conduct like this, our forefathers gained immortal honor
both to themselves and the republic: while our nobility, though
so unlike their ancestors in character, despise us who imitate
them; and demand of you all public honors, not on account of
their personal merit, but as due to their high rank. Arrogant
men; how mistaken! Their ancestors left them everything in
their power to bequeath: their wealth, their images, their high
renown; but their virtue they did not leave them, nor indeed
could they; for it can neither be given nor received as a gift.
They hold me to be unpolished and ill-bred, because I cannot
entertain elegantly, have no buffoon, and pay no higher wages to
my cook than to my steward,- every part of which accusation,


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SALLUST
Romans, I readily admit: for I have learned from my father and
other venerable persons that delicacy belongs to women, labor to
men; that a virtuous man ought to have a larger share of glory
than of riches; and that arms are more ornamental than splendid
furniture.
But let them still pursue what is so dear and delightful to
them: let them indulge in wine and pleasure; let them spend
their old age, as they did their youth, in banqueting and the
lowest sensual gratifications; let them leave the fatigues and dan-
gers of the field to us, to whom they are more welcome than the
most elegant entertainments! Even this they will not do; for
after debasing themselves by the practice of the foulest and most
infamous vices, these most detestable of all men endeavor to
deprive the brave of the rewards that are due to them. Thus-
by the greatest injustice-luxury and idleness, the worst of vices,
are noway prejudicial to those who are guilty of them; while they
threaten the innocent commonwealth with unmerited ruin.
Now, since I have answered these men as far as my own
character was concerned, though not so fully as their infamous
behavior deserved, I shall add a few words concerning the state
of public affairs. And first, Romans, be of good courage as to
Numidia: since you have now removed all that hitherto secured
Jugurtha; namely, the covetousness, incapacity, and haughtiness
of our commanders. There is an army stationed in Africa, well
acquainted with the country, but indeed less fortunate than brave;
for a great portion of it has been destroyed by the rapacious-
ness and rashness of its commanders. Do you, therefore, who are
of age to bear arms, join your efforts to mine, and assume the
defense of the commonwealth; nor let the fate of others, or the
haughtiness of the late commanders, discourage any of you: when
you march, when you engage, I will always be with you to direct
your campaign, and to share every danger. In a word, I shall
desire you to act no otherwise in any instance than as you see
me act. Moreover, all things are now ripe for us,— victory, spoil,
and glory; and even though they were uncertain or distant, it
would still be the duty of every good citizen to assist the State.
No man ever became immortal by inactivity; nor did ever any
father wish his children might never die, but rather that they
might live like useful and worthy men. I should add more to
what I have already said, if words could inspire cowards with
bravery: to the valiant I think I have said enough.


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ICKICK
GEORGE SAND.
Fro
gor
Jo


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3
?


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## p. 12759 (#177) ##########################################

12759
GEORGE SAND
(BARONNE DUDEVANT: Born Amantine Lucile Aurore Dupin)
(1804-1876)
BY TH. BENTZON (MADAME THÉRÈSE BLANC)
F GENIUS means creative faculty constantly renewed, and pow-
erful and fertile inspiration, then George Sand certainly
had more genius than any other female writer. Others
are distinguished by a more chastened talent, or have soared to the
heaven of art on a steadier wing, but none have surpassed her in
magnificent spontaneity. One of her latest critics-speaking of
her ample and copious style, which satisfied even Flaubert, yet is
frequently disparaged by modern chiselers of "artistic writing"-
uses the expressive Latin phrase lactea ubertas; giving the idea of
an abundant stream of generous milk ever gushing forth and over-
flowing. M. Jules Lemaître adds that this quality resembles natural
kindness of heart, and is its near relative. And he is right. George
Sand was above all else kind-hearted, and was most womanly in this;
she was truly feminine also in her extraordinary power of assim-
ilation, which however did not interfere with her originality, as
everything she absorbed, whether ideas or knowledge, seemed to
blossom in a new and personal form when she applied it.
Nothing is more interesting than to go to the source of her life
to find the determining causes of her work; and to her friendships,
chosen in the most varied spheres, to follow the evolutions of her
thought. One can then see that she was an admirable instrument,
formed by nature in one of her exceptional moods, to vibrate with
extraordinary intensity under every influence approaching her. The
aspirations, failures, doctrines, the good and evil, of half a century,
palpitate in her noble fictions, even though we can here and there
discern the errors of a mind led astray by enthusiasm. Every prob-
lem interesting to contemporary humanity attracted her broad sympa-
thies. Long before those avowed apostles of pity, the Russian writers,
she felt that "for those who are born compassionate, there will always
be something to love, and consequently to pity, serve, and suffer for,
on earth. " She was the first who said forcibly that the most living
and religious source of the progress of the human mind was in the
idea of solidarity.
-
And this is why she will always be great, in spite of the trans-
formation of taste, which in the name of pretended realism declares


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12760
GEORGE SAND
this idealist somewhat out of fashion. It is not her fault if her
instinct always led her to write poetic rather than analytic works.
According to her theories of art,—and very instructive theories they
are,- a novel should be a mixture of both, with true situations and
characters grouped around a type intended to personify the senti-
ment of the book. The author must not be afraid to give this sen-
timent all the force with which he aspires to it himself, but must
on no account degrade it in the play of events. He may moreover
lend it powers above the average, and charms and sufferings beyond
the probabilities admitted by the greater number of minds. Above
all, the author must beware of thinking that he does not need a faith
of his own for writing, and that it is enough to reflect facts like
a mirror. "No, this is not true: readers are attracted only to the
writer with an individuality, whether this pleases or shocks them. ”
This phrase is in a letter which George Sand wrote me, while she
emphasized the following words: "The soul must not be void of
faith, for talent cannot develop in a vacuum; it may flutter there
for a moment, but only to expire. "
Truly this has nothing in common with the cruel impersonality so
boasted of nowadays: this is not the novel as understood by M. Zola,
who has never agreed with her that true reality is made up of both
beauty and ugliness, and that the will to do good finds its place and
use after all; nor is it the laborious effort, often driven to the point
of anguish, of her friend Flaubert, who used to torture himself to
find an epithet, and to whom she said, when scolding him: "Feed
on the ideas and sentiments stored in your brain and your heart;
form, which you think so important, will be the result of
your digestion, without any help. You consider it an aim, it is
only an effect. " The minutely detailed psychology of a certain school
was equally foreign to her, although she has made some superb and
profound studies of character: fraternal jealousy in 'Jean de la
Roche,' and Prince Karl's jealousy of the past in Lucrezia Floriani,'
-merely to mention one of the passions into which she delved
deeply. But her aim was to interest, above all else, and who shall
dare to say that she was wrong? In her eyes supreme impartial-
ity was something anti-human; incompatible with the novel, whose
prime object is to be human. She wrote for the sheer delight of
giving the best of her heart and brains to many others. As for
the improbabilities she is accused of trying to make people accept
on principle, we must admit that very often nothing is more improb-
able than reality itself, especially when that reality is the life of
George Sand; whence, as may be readily understood, she drew her
inspiration with an artist's privilege. Every contrast can be found
in it; the wildest extravagance of fancy as well as a bourgeoise sim-
plicity.
-
•


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GEORGE SAND
12761
Aurore Dupin was born the year of Napoleon's coron
ronation, at the
apogee of the glories of France; which she always loved passionately,
while at the same time she had an extremely correct opinion of the
faults of the Latin races, particularly that lack of practical common-
sense she was so aware of in herself, and which condemns one either
to be led or made use of by others. Nevertheless there was a mix-
ture of foreign blood in her veins; and strangely enough, she had
inherited her republican soul through royal descent,-twice branded,
however, with the stigma of illegitimacy. She was a descendant of
Augustus II. , Elector of Saxony and King of Poland; for her grand-
mother was a natural daughter of the Maréchal de Saxe, and had
married M. Dupin de Francueil. It was impossible for those who,
like me, knew her in her old age, not to compare her, on seeing her
so calm, dignified, and tenderly devoted to her children, to that
noble woman who had been the lady of the manor of Nohant before
her, had brought her up, and bequeathed her some of her tastes,
among them a love for music.
Madame Dupin had known Gluck and Piccini; she interpreted the
old masters-Porpora, Hasse, Pergolese - etc. , with deep feeling, in
spite of her semi-paralyzed fingers and voice cracked by old age, but
once so magnificent. Through her, her granddaughter received those
musical impressions that abound in the delightful story of Consuelo,'
where George Sand displays so complete an acquaintance with the
manners and spirit of the eighteenth century. Madame Dupin de
Francueil had, besides her talents and most remarkable mental quali-
ties, all those natural virtues that can be strengthened by philosophy
in the absence of religious belief.
The direction given by such a mother had already begun to bear
its fruits in Maurice, the father of the future George Sand,—a brave
soldier during the Revolution, who became a handsome officer of the
First Empire, and died young, but had the intuitive gift of writing,
as his brilliant and gushing letters prove; yet his excellent heart
had inherited certain ancestral weaknesses. He became attached to
a girl of low birth and no education, who had already been led into
sorry adventures. And so the blood of kings and heroes mingled with
that of the lower-class Parisians in the veins of the little girl, who
at a later day was to transform the active qualities of her ancestors
into qualities of imagination. Her maternal grandfather had been a
bird-seller, who plied his trade on the quays of the Seine; and it
is interesting to note the love that George Sand had all her life
for feathered folk. She has spoken of them almost as eloquently as
of music and children,- those divine themes which her pen never
exhausted. And the fascination was reciprocal. In her garden at
Nohant she used to walk surrounded by a flock of sparrows and


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12762
GEORGE SAND
goldfinches, who trustfully pecked from the hands held out to them,
just as she describes it in Teverino. '
George Sand owed something more than her love of birds to her
mother, whom she loved passionately, but whose inferior station,
barely tolerated by the family, made the daughter suffer keenly;-
I mean a deep tenderness for the poor and lowly, an advanced pre-
dilection for outlaws of all sorts, a revolt against social prejudices
and conventionalities, and a certain bohemianism that-in her youth
especially was constantly struggling against that good-breeding
which nevertheless served her so well for giving her personages the
tone proper to good society. Her most perfect specimen of this is
the old Marchioness in 'Le Marquis de Villemer'; yet in spite of her
plebeian sympathies, the same refinement appears everywhere. And
here we have the evidence of her grandmother's and the convent's
influence.
―
Aurore Dupin's years at the English nuns' convent contributed not
a little to the formation of a peculiar manner, in which so many con-
trary elements were combined. Her free-thinking grandmother had
put her in this pious retreat out of respect to the customs of society.
She wished the dreamy and untrained child, who had grown up in all
the freedom of country life, and was adopting peasant habits, to learn
good manners. Let us hasten to add that for our future joy, George
Sand always remained somewhat a peasant; we owe her admirable
pastoral novels to this rustic substratum. She certainly conceived
their germ in the ruminating life she led when quite a child at
Nohant, in the company of little shepherds who charmed her with
the legends she used so well later on.
The convent made a mystic of this wild creature, but not at once,
for she bore her well-deserved name of Madcap a long time; still, the
influence of a group of women of the highest moral superiority acted
upon her by degrees. She has rendered them the most grateful hom-
age in her 'Memoirs,' recognizing that the years spent in that great
female family were the happiest and most peaceful of her life.
1
Religious idealism seems to have been innate with George Sand.
Brought up by a Voltairean grandmother with contempt for what she
called superstitions, she had made up a religion for herself out of a
compound of mythology, fairy stories, and theories of political equal-
ity gathered in. her childish readings- seemingly least fitted to sug-
gest it. Her first poetic effort-and this word must be used from the
beginning in speaking of her prose was written to extol Corambé;
a beneficent genius, to whom she raised altars in the park at Nohant
when about eleven years old, at the time when she was under the
double spell of the Iliad and Jerusalem Delivered. ' Jesus and his
Gospel succeeded the somewhat pagan phantom she had adored
―――――


## p. 12763 (#181) ##########################################

GEORGE SAND
12763
during her pensive childhood: the most ardent piety seized her, and
she came near consecrating herself to a religious life; this would have
been a great loss to French literature. Fortunately the wisdom of
the nuns curbed her excessive zeal; yet all through life she had that
sacred pain, which has been so aptly termed "the anguish of divine
things. " If it had not been for this, she never could have expressed,
as she did many years later in 'Spiridion,' all the agony endured by
the soul of a young priest on losing his faith. The influence of her
intimacy with Abbé de Lamennais can be traced here; but there is
more than that, there is a personal experience.
Aurore astounded her grandmother by coming home a Catholic.
She soon ceased to find certitude in dogma, however. A most irregu-
lar course of reading led her helter-skelter through all philosophies
and all literatures. Spinoza seized her; her admiration made her set
Leibnitz above all metaphysicians; she came in turn under the as-
cendency of Châteaubriand, Shakespeare, Goethe, and Byron; but her
real master was Rousseau. By her first novels especially she belongs
to his school; no freer from the great fault of declamation than he,
as enamored of nature as he had been, and able to speak the burn-
ing language of love as he had known how to speak it.
If it is true that modern pedagogy, by following methods and
giving an important place to science, has the inevitable result of kill-
ing women's imagination and making them uniform, then George
Sand was a most privileged creature; for she was brought up with-
out a plan,-educating herself hap-hazard, learning a little Latin
when quite a child with Deschartres, her deceased father's preceptor,
and no doubt picking up many other things as well, while with that
learned and eccentric man. She was influenced by the convent
next, where her ardor for learning was somewhat benumbed; and
finally turned loose in a library, where like a bee she made honey
of everything.
A perfect rage for reading and physical exercise, long hours of
study alternating with long rides, were her peculiarities, when some
of her imprudent friends thought it was time to marry this young
girl, so entirely free from coquetry or even the desire to please.
Her large, black, dreamy eyes seemed ever following some inward
vision, and gave her, as she says herself, a stupid look; in fact she
never was bright at any period of her life. Her conversation was
not brilliant, although she has often made her written dialogues
extremely so; talking tired her, and the George Sand of future liter-
ary dinners usually played there a mute part. Melancholy by reflec-
tion, she needed gayety; and this silent creature often surprised
those about her by sudden outbursts of animal spirits. Moreover, she
never thought herself handsome. (Balzac, who has described her as


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12764
GEORGE SAND
Camille Maupin in his novel 'Beatrix,' has contradicted her on this
point. )
She was given in marriage to M. Dudevant, the son of a retired
colonel. He had been an officer himself, but was now nothing but
a hunting country-gentleman, and at times a hard drinker. It will
surprise no one that this hasty and ill-assorted union was unhappy.
It is more astonishing that it should have lasted nearly ten years.
To give it so long life, it needed the all-powerful assistance of ma-
ternity, George Sand's really great passion, and her only lasting and
indestructible one. She nursed her children herself; took care of
them night and day, even at the beginning of her restless career;
always found the time to look after them most tenderly; and at
last, in the later period of her life, when she had calmed down, she
became the indefatigable educator of her granddaughters.
She was
most skillful with her needle, and did not despise any household
detail. I saw her thus when she was sixty years old; but when she
was twenty she enjoyed dancing the bourrée with the peasants on
holidays as well.
Finally all this was not enough for her, and she went to Paris
for a short time every year; but as her husband, the master of their
common fortune, gave her a ridicuously small allowance, she util-
ized her talents in order to live,― made crayon portraits, painted min-
iature ornaments, or collaborated with several journalists from her
native province of Berri, for the Figaro. These articles never were
remarkable, as George Sand had neither the requisite spirit and
dash, nor had she any talent for brevity; although later she suc-
ceeded several times in short stories, as those rare pearls 'Lavinia,'
'Metella,' etc. , prove. By a remarkable coincidence, 'Lavinia,' pub-
lished before 1838, resembles Owen Meredith's 'Lucile,' published in
1860, almost stroke for stroke.
One year when she was in the country, having read much of
Walter Scott, she wrote her first novel. ་ Having read it over," she
says ingenuously, "I concluded that it was good for nothing; but
that I could write some not quite so bad. " She had found her voca-
tion.
At first Jules Sandeau wrote with her, and later left her half his
surname. As for "George," it is as common a name in Berri as
"Patrick" in Ireland. The courts did not decree the legal separa-
tion of M. and Madame Dudevant until 1836. It was in favor of the
latter, intrusting her with the education of her two children; this
proves that all the blame cannot have been hers. By this time she
had published her masterpieces, if one can apply this term to George
Sand's novels,- for perhaps there is not a perfect one among them,
except the pastoral novels. Working without any plan, stopping as if


## p. 12765 (#183) ##########################################

GEORGE SAND
12765
exhausted when she had said all that was pent up in her, she usually
broke down at the dénouement.
These captivating early works are pre-eminently works of passion.
It would be a mistake to consider them the voluntary unveiling of
the author's life; but one is certain to find it everywhere, and appar-
ently in spite of herself. Indiana' was surely not the cry of her
personal revolt against marriage, for the selfish lover in it is not any
nobler than the tyrannical husband; but just here George Sand has
demonstrated with the deepest feeling, in which many a memory
echoes, how far she considers a woman superior to man when love is
at stake. She seems to be less severe in her opinions with Jacques,
a heroic husband, who resolves to commit suicide, so as to save his
wife from the shame of becoming guilty towards him. There is no
less audacity and horror of conventional forms in Valentine,' where
aristocratic prejudices are trampled under foot by the descendant of
an illustrious race, in favor of the son of a peasant. The dangerous
doctrine that love can dictate duties superior to law is brought for-
ward in these burning pages, and must have served as an excuse
to many sensitive souls that went astray; and we may say that they
must have been among the best and noblest of such souls, for George
Sand never knew how to use the demoralizing language that appeals
to base natures.
'Lélia' must be considered a magnificent prose poem, as all the
characteristics of the most elevated poetry are found in it: ampli-
tude, rhythm, brilliancy, and powerful imagery. Taken as a whole,
it is more out of date than all George Sand's other novels, just on
account of this excessive poetic enthusiasm. Yet it is the one con-
taining the greatest beauties. The characters seem like incarnated
myths or allegories. Lélia represents agonized aspirations towards
the sublime, although we recognize that duality in her which is more
or less noticeable in every one, but was present in so extraordinary a
degree in George Sand. Sténio, while he recalls Alfred de Musset,
typifies the struggles of an inspired poet, whose weak and vacillating
will betrays him to seducing sensualism. The priest Magnus stands
for the demoralized and fanatic clergy as George Sand saw it; for
she was always the enemy of the clergy, if not of religion. As for
the philosophical idea,-uniting as it does, in its absurd and entan-
gled action, such strange characters as Trenmor the virtuous con-
vict, Pulchérie the wise courtesan, etc. , who all argue and declaim,—
we have the key to it; for when George Sand wrote Lélia,' she was
painting the agonized state of her own soul facing a terrible enigma.
She had reached her thirtieth year without having had her eyes
opened to the realities of life; and then suddenly found herself in at
great social centre where all the sadness, want, vice, and injustice of


## p. 12766 (#184) ##########################################

12766
GEORGE SAND
Up to that time she had wept over her
an atom among the millions of creatures
Her despair is reflected in the charac-
the world confronted her.
own woes; now she felt like
crushed by inexorable fate.
ter of Lélia, in whom the evil of doubt and the thirst for truth are
warring; her heart, incapable of finding happiness anywhere, is con-
sumed with boundless desires; and she dies without having gratified
them.
The subject of 'Mauprat' is simpler and more wholesome. It is the
effect of passion, working for good this time, upon a wild, violent,
and apparently untamable creature, in whom the pure young girl he
adores creates a conscience, and as it were, a soul.
The supreme
power of ennobling love was a subject dear to George Sand. She
takes it up again in Simon'; where a semi-peasant, by his merit
and talents, becomes the equal of the high-born lady. And both these
beautiful books end by a happy marriage, no more nor less than
a fairy tale. 'Le Secrétaire Intime,' if it were not the most delight-
ful of fancies without the intention of proving anything, would lead
us to believe that clandestine marriages have the greatest chance of
being the happiest.
In 'Leone Leoni' George Sand reverses the subject of 'Manon
Lescaut,' and shows us how a weak and gentle woman is bewitched
and subjugated to the very last by a man most unworthy of her. In
'La Dernière Aldine,' she makes us, by sheer art, accept the some-
what delicate subject of the love of a great Venetian lady for her
gondolier; this love, however, for some unknown reason remaining
perfectly chaste.
We must not forget that this bold and mad harvest, in which
common-sense has no place, was grown in 1830,- the era of all Uto-
pias and anticipated possibilities; when a new world seemed about to
be born on the ruins of the old. This was the time when Théophile
Gautier went to the theatre with long hair and a pink satin waist-
coat, when Balzac wore a monk's white robe instead of a dressing-
gown, and when George Sand used to cut off her beautiful black
locks and wear masculine attire, making herself look a boy of twelve
in it on account of her diminutive stature. However much may
have been said about this, she never wore those unbecoming clothes
except in an intermittent way, finding them more convenient and
less expensive than others.
Up to 1840 George Sand wrote under the impulse of feeling, fol-
lowing no system; later on, a system was grafted on the feeling
without destroying it. Lamennais's humanitarian Christianity, Michel
de Bourges's revolutionary tirades, Pierre Leroux's dreamy social-
ism, all took hold on her either successively or at once. With
more zeal than discernment she made herself the echo of the most
-


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GEORGE SAND
12767
advanced principles of political equality and of communism. These
ideas led her to publish 'Le Compagnon du Tour de France,' in
which an aristocratic maiden openly declares her resolution to marry
into the lower classes, so as to belong to them herself; 'Le Meunier
d'Angibault,' wherein an obstinate artisan proudly refuses the hand
of the young countess he adores, because she represents the wealth
he would not have at any price (fortunately she becomes poor, and
rejoices at it as if it were the greatest happiness); and 'La Com-
tesse de Rudolstadt,' that misty sequel to the sunny and harmonious
story of Consuelo,' with all its theosophical and humanitarian alle-
gories, that at times make us yawn. If however we leave out the
political harangues, carbonarism, and other chimeras, what magnifi-
cent fragments there are in these partisan books! —although their
romantic imagination is smothered by the medley of accumulated
dissertations and arguments. Still the author is always arguing and
fighting for progress and reforms; and some of these have been
achieved since, in a less radical way, no doubt, than she would
have wished, yet they would have gratified her. George Sand was
in open rebellion against every kind of slavery. She greatly admired
'Uncle Tom's Cabin,' saying of Harriet Beecher Stowe: "I do not
know whether she is a genius, but she has more than genius,—she
surely is a saint. " She spurned the limits of sex, and above all
things despised hypocrisy. As regards what is called the "woman
question" to-day, Margaret Fuller certainly went as far as she did,
while she had many more illusions on woman's native nobility; but
setting talents aside, there is a difference between them, delicately
expressed by Margaret Fuller herself:-"Those who would reform the
world must show that they do not speak in the heat of wild impulse;
their lives must not be sustained by passionate error. They must
be religious students of the Divine purpose with regard to men, if
they would not confound the fancies of a day with the requisitions of
eternal good. "
In order to rest after her socialist campaigns, George Sand would
wing her flight to dreamland; and it was wise of her to do so, for
we would now willingly give up all the dullness of 'Horace' and
the turgid speeches in 'Le Péché de M. Antoine,' for that one day's
drive on charming roads when a group of tourists, brought together
by good luck, have that accidental meeting with Teverino, the vaga-
bond genius, beautiful as a young god, and disporting himself free
and naked under his wreath of reeds, in the bluest of lakes. He
needs only to don gentleman's clothes to be one, and an accom-
plished one at that; he plays the part for a time, scorns it, and
disappears. What a delightful excursion beyond the vulgarities of
every-day life!


## p. 12768 (#186) ##########################################

12768
GEORGE SAND
The idyl too always seized George Sand as soon as she left the
streets of Paris, and returned to the peace and refreshing breezes of
her beloved Nohant. After the fiery and rather bombastic eloquence
and paradoxes found in her other works launched against society,
the artless speech of her peasants is most restful reading.
There is no purer, simpler, nor more beautiful French than that
which adapts itself so perfectly to the humble subjects of 'La Mare
au Diable' and 'François le Champi. ' Some critics have said that
George Sand's peasants were not real. They seem to me, on the
contrary, to be very closely studied from the honest and laborious
population of central France; and however much they may be ideal-
ized, they are far more like those I have known than the brutes
painted by the masters of the so-called naturalistic school, the latter
evidently preferring to look at their coarseness through a magnifying
glass. George Sand did the reverse; she set off the best traits
of these primitive natures, with whom she had the greatest affinity.
The revolution of 1848 tore her from her eclogues; her friends
dragged her into the very thick of the fight, and used her as a
sonorous instrument. She drew up 'Lettres au Peuple' and the
'Bulletins de la République'; but her illusions about the new form
of government could not hold out against the bloody days of June:
she says that "disgust drove her to solitude, where she faced her
free and revolted conscience"; and she now went back to her best,
her noblest inspirer,- Nature. Whether she carries about a broken
heart in Italy after a celebrated quarrel, or gayly climbs the Alps
with Liszt and the Countess d'Agoult,-whether she spends the win-
ter at Majorca nursing Chopin, or wanders dreamily along the sunken
lanes of the Black Valley and the banks of the Indre, she never
fails to reflect the humble or striking beauties surrounding her, or to
make a soul vibrate in them. She has the marvelous and peculiar
art of infusing a human emotion into external and inanimate objects
- which then seems to emanate from them. Has she not written an
immortal page on perfume and memory, in connection with a sage
leaf she had bruised between her fingers?
Nohant was a salutary retreat for her in every respect. She spent
the greater part of her life there in close communion with the earth,
frequently cultivating it with her own hands, and drawing her favor-
ite subjects of study from plants and stones. Nothing interested
her more than natural history. She gave herself up to it with ardor;
convinced that constant study was imperative, and that if a writer
does not lay up a treasure of knowledge, the tool he uses, though
ever so fine, will be wielded in vain. Botany and geology filled her
days, and she read much besides: science, history, everything inter-
esting her. In the evening, other things were read aloud in the


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GEORGE SAND
12769
family circle; very often plays were acted. According to her fixed
habit, she wrote at night after every one had retired, never failing to
cover twelve large quarto pages before going to bed, her inspiration
being so tractable.
As she grew older she went to Paris less frequently, except when
there was a question of performing one of the plays she willingly
dramatized from her novels. She was passionately fond of the stage
and all connected with it; and liked to put actors and showmen
of all sorts in her books, as she did in 'L'Homme de Neige,' 'Le
Château des Désertes,' 'Pierre qui Roule,' etc. But when it came
to writing a play, she did not always show the qualities the stage
demands, such as logical sequence in a briskly carried action, spark-
ling dialogue, and a sense for comic situations. Several of her com-
edies or dramas, however, were very successful; viz. , 'Le Mariage de
Victorine,' 'Claudie,' and 'Le Marquis de Villemer. ' She made a
great many plays for her own little theatre at Nohant, never neglect-
ing her marionettes, who inspired 'Le Diable aux Champs,' and for
whom her fairy fingers were always making new costumes.
In the novels written towards the close of her life there is not a
trace of that sensual ideality once considered such a grave fault in
the author of 'Lélia'; pure and spotless ideality shines in them: and
it seemed to cost her no effort to write those charming, fantastic
tales for her granddaughters,- tales any child can enjoy, but needing
refined scholars to do them full justice. She kept abreast of all new
efforts in literature with interest and sympathy, yet always repeating
that "art for art's sake" was a vain phrase; that art for whatever is
worthy, and for the general welfare, should be the aim of all study;
that when there a beautiful sentiment in one's soul, it becomes
a duty to find such expression for it as will make it enter into many
other souls. For this reason she, the great democrat, could not belong
to the haughty schools that despise the general public—the masses-
to the degree of frequently using language intelligible only to a hand-
ful of the initiated. Neither would she admit, feeling all humanity
vibrate within herself, that this humanity was to be represented by
scoundrels, villains, and fools alone; nor that truth was to be found
merely in the painting of evil. These may have been old-fashioned
ideas; but by remaining true to them, this inexhaustible Scheher-
azade found the means of keeping an audience composed of all
classes attentive to her ever fresh and youthful stories, and raised
her readers above the obscenity so complacently provided for them
elsewhere. Being sincerely modest, she did not believe in posterity,
imagining that it would take her at her own valuation. Once they
were finished, she completely forgot her novels. "Consuelo '-
what is that? " she asked Flaubert. "I do not remember a single
XXII-799


## p. 12770 (#188) ##########################################

GEORGE SAND
12770
word of it. Are you indeed reading it, and does it really amuse
you? If so, I must read it again and be pleased with myself, because
you are. »
Death found her as busy as ever. Two days before the end, al-
though she at times suffered acutely, she wrote cheerfully: "I feel"
stronger and freer within myself than ever. " She passed away in
her seventy-third year, before her powers had waned.
Those who wish to enter further into this life, in which personal
vicissitudes are so closely connected with the evolution of genius,
will find all of George Sand in 'L'Histoire de ma Vie,' where she
has drawn so correct a portrait of herself,- although she tells us
hardly more than the story of her childhood and early youth, to the
eternal regret of scandal-mongers; in the 'Lettres d'un Voyageur,'
those poetic disclosures that she occasionally made to the public in
an impersonal yet most transparent form; and finally in her 'Cor-
respondence,' which reveals her great warm heart perfectly. One
cannot fail to be touched on seeing her, while busy writing a hun-
dred volumes, lavish kindness unceasingly on every claimant, answer-
ing every question, counseling young authors and giving them letters
of introduction, helping hesitating talent to discover its vocation,
pleading for exiles or political prisoners; and most bountifully put-
ting her time, her words, her influence, even when it cost her the
most, at the disposal of others. This Correspondence' shows how
her adversaries themselves respected her; and how anxious the Em-
peror Napoleon III. , whom she petitioned more than once, was to
please her.
After reading these letters covering a period of over fifty years,
and where she always appears to be the slave of her family, tender
to her friends, helpful to a swarm of strangers who thought them-
selves authorized to intrude upon her on account of her unbounded
generosity, no one will be surprised that she should have blessed
the hour of rest when it came. She had already given old age a
smiling welcome, saying that it was "so good of God to calm us by
taking away those stings of personality that are so sharp in youth.
How can people complain of losing some things with age," she added,
"when, on the contrary, they gain so many others? when our ideas
grow broader and more correct, when our heart softens and grows
larger, and our victorious conscience may at last look back and say,
'I have done my task! " Her special task had been to bear high
aloft the banner of ideality and liberty, to love and glorify the hum-
ble, and to rise above herself by work. She had earned more than
a million francs by her pen in the days when literature had nothing
in common with merchandise, and she had given all this fortune to
others.
-


## p. 12771 (#189) ##########################################

GEORGE SAND
12771
When one day in June 1876 she dropped that valiant pen, she
surely had also earned the right to a gentle, uninterrupted sleep in
the pretty little cemetery at Nohant. She did not believe that death
was the end, but held to a perpetual ascent towards infinite goodness
and infinite truth. And she would laughingly say that she hoped she
might go to some planet where reading and writing were unknown,
so she might rest "for good. " Indeed, she had a right to rest after
having exercised the most beautiful sovereignty over the minds of
two generations,— a sovereignty not yet at an end, although just now
it seems somewhat eclipsed.
The future will winnow her abundant but uneven work, and sep-
arate the tares from the wheat; and of the latter there will remain
a well-filled measure fully sufficing for her glory.
The Bentzen
i
THE CONVENT OF THE ENGLISH AUGUSTINES
From The Story of my Life >
TH
HIS Convent was one of the three or four British communities
established in Paris during Cromwell's ascendency.
It is the only one now in existence, its house having endured
the various revolutions without suffering greatly. Its traditions
say that Henriette of France, the daughter of our Henry IV.
and wife of the unfortunate Charles I. of England, had often.
come to pray in our chapel with her son James II.
All our
nuns were English, Scotch, or Irish. Two-thirds of the boarding
pupils and lodgers, as well as some of the priests who came to
officiate, belonged to these nations. During certain hours of the
day the whole school was forbidden to speak a word of French,
which was the best means for learning English rapidly. Nat-
urally our nuns hardly ever spoke anything else to us. They re-
tained the habits of their country; drank tea three times a day,
allowing those among us who were good to take it with them.
The cloister and the church were paved with long tombstones,
beneath which were the venerated bones of those Catholics of
Old England who had died in exile, and been buried by favor in
this inviolable sanctuary. There were English epitaphs and pious


## p. 12772 (#190) ##########################################

GEORGE SAND
12772
inscriptions everywhere on tombs and walls. Large old portraits
of English princes and prelates hung in the Superior's room and
in her private parlor. The beautiful and amorous Mary Stuart,
reputed a saint by our chaste nuns, shone there like a star. In
short, everything in that house was English, both of the past and
of the present; and when within its gates, one seemed to have
crossed the Channel. All this was a "nine days' wonder" to me,
the Berri peasant.
My grandmother on presenting me could not forego the little
vanity of saying that I was very well informed for my age, and
that it would be a waste of time to put me in a class with young
children. The school was divided into two sections: a junior and
a senior class. By my age I belonged to the juniors, where there
were about thirty boarding pupils between six and fourteen years
old. By my reading, and the ideas it had developed, I belonged
to a third class that would have had to be created for me and
two or three others; but I had not been trained to work method-
ically, and did not know a word of English. I understood a great
deal about history, and even philosophy; but I was very ignor-
ant, or at least very uncertain, about the order of epochs and
events. I might have been able to talk about everything with
the professors, and perhaps have seen a little clearer and a little
further than those who directed us; but the merest college fag
would have greatly puzzled me on facts, and I could not have
passed a regular examination on any subject whatever. I felt
this perfectly; and was much relieved to hear the Superior say
that as I had not yet been confirmed, I should have to enter the
junior class.
We were cloistered in the full sense of the word. We went
out twice a month only, and never spent a night out except
at New-Year's. There were vacations, but I had none; as my
grandmother said she preferred not to interrupt my studies, so
as to have me at the convent a shorter time. She left Paris a
few weeks after our separation, and did not come back for a
year; then went away for another year. She had demanded that
my mother was not to ask to take me out. My cousins the
Villeneuves offered me their home for all holidays, and wrote to
my grandmother for her permission. I wrote too, and begged
her not to grant it; and had the courage to tell her, that not
going out with mother, I ought not and did not wish to go out
with any one.
I trembled lest she should not listen to me; and


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GEORGE SAND
12773
though I felt the need and the wish to enjoy these outings, I
made up my mind to pretend illness if my cousins came to fetch
me armed with a permit. This time my grandmother approved
my action; and instead of finding fault, praised my feeling in
a way I found rather exaggerated. I had done nothing but my
duty; yet it made me spend two whole years behind bars.
We had mass in our chapel, received visits in the parlor, took
our private lessons there; the professor being on one side of the
grating while we were on the other. All the convent windows
towards the street had not only gratings, but immovable linen
screens besides. It was really a prison, but a prison with a large
garden and plenty of company. I must confess that I never felt
the rigors of captivity for an instant; and that the minute pre-
cautions taken to keep us locked up and prevent us from getting
a glimpse of the outer world, often made me laugh. This care
was the only stimulant we had to long for freedom; for there was
not one of us who would ever have dreamt of crossing her moth-
er's threshold unattended: yet almost every girl at the convent
watched for the opening of the cloister door, or peeped furtively
through the slits in the linen screens. To outwit supervision, go
down into the court three or four steps, see a cab pass by, was
the dream and the ambition of forty or fifty wild and mischiev-
ous girls, who the very next day would go about Paris without in
the least enjoying it; because once outside the convent inclosure,
stepping on the pavement and looking at people were no longer
forbidden fruit.
[After describing the immense and complicated medley of buildings within
this inclosure, their inconvenient and illogical arrangement, "so scattered that
one lost a quarter of a day going to and fro," and the curious way the one
hundred and twenty or thirty persons living there were lodged, some
crowded into the closest quarters, while others were spread over more space
than ten families would have needed for living at ease,- George Sand de-
scribes the nuns' cells, their cleanliness, and how their patient devotion orna-
mented them with the trifles dear to the pious heart. She then resumes as
follows:-]
My first feeling on entering the junior school-room was a
painful one. Thirty girls were crowded into a room neither
large nor high enough for the number. Its walls were covered
with ugly yolk-of-egg-colored paper, the ceiling was stained and
cracked, the benches, tables, and stools were all dirty, the stove
was ugly and smoky, and the smell of coal was mixed with that.


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GEORGE SAND
coming from the near poultry-yard; the plaster crucifix was com-
mon, the flooring broken, and we were to spend two thirds of
the day here, three quarters of it in winter,- and it was winter
just then.
I do not know of anything more unpleasant than the cus-
tom followed in educational arrangements of making school-rooms
the saddest and most forlorn of places: under the pretense that
children would spoil the furniture and ruin the ornaments, peo-
ple take away everything that would stimulate their imagination.
They pretend that pictures and decorations, even the patterns on
the wall-paper, would make them inattentive. Why are churches
and chapels decorated with paintings and statues, if not to ele-
vate the soul and revive its languor by the sight of venerated
objects? Children, we are told, have dirty and clumsy habits.
They spill ink over everything, and love to destroy. Surely they
dó not bring these tastes and habits from their homes, where
they are taught to respect whatever is beautiful or useful; and
as soon as they are old enough to think, they never dream of
doing the mischief that becomes so attractive at school only be-
cause there it is a sort of revenge on the neglect and parsimony
practiced upon them. The better they are housed, the more
careful they would be. They would think twice before soiling a
carpet or breaking a frame. Those ugly bare walls in which you
shut them up soon become an object of horror; and they would
knock them down if they could. You want them to work like
machines, and make their minds run on by the hour, free from
all personal consciousness and untouched by all that makes up
life and the renewal of intellectual life. That is both false and
impossible. The studying child has all the needs of a creating
artist. He must breathe pure air; his body must be at ease; he
must have things to look at, and be able to change his thoughts
at will by enjoying form and color. Nature is a continual spec-
tacle for him. By shutting him up in a bare, sad, unwholesome
room, you suffocate his heart and brain as well as his body. I
should like everything around a city child to be cheerful, from
its cradle. The country child has the sky, trees, plants, and sun.
The other is too often stunted both physically and morally by
the squalor of a poor home, the bad taste of a rich one, or the
absence of all taste in the middle-class home.