George Sand, Some Aspects of Her Life and Writings

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


THE END