137 - SAND, George (1804–1876).

SAND, George (1804–1876). Letter from the author, “G. Sand,” Nohant, June 14, 1867, to Gustave FLAUBERT; 10 pages, in-8 format, with the initials GS. A lovely letter to Flaubert. Description: She mentions plans to stay in Croisset with Flaubert, where she would like to see his “dear mother […] I’ll wait in Paris for you to tell me if she’s back, or if I’m to pay you a proper visit; you’ll let me know the time that suits you best. My intention for the moment was simply to spend an hour with you, and Lina [her daughter-in-law] was tempted to join us. I would have shown her Rouen, and then we would have come to give you a hug, returning to Paris that evening, for the dear little one’s ears and heart are always on the alert when she’s separated from Aurore, and her vacation days are marked by a constant anxiety that I understand all too well. Aurore [Sand’s granddaughter] is a treasure of kindness who captivates us all. If it works out, we’ll rush over to shake your hands. If not, I’ll go alone later, whenever the mood strikes you […] I have thirty-six projects of my own, too, but I don’t get attached to any of them. What amuses me is whatever takes hold of me and carries me away unexpectedly. Travel is like a novel: whatever happens is what dictates the course. […] I feel a little guilty about taking up whole days of your work—I, who never get bored of wandering, and whom you could leave for hours under a tree or in front of two burning logs, knowing full well that I’d find something interesting there. I know so well how to live outside of myself! It hasn’t always been this way. I, too, was once young and prone to indignation. That’s over! Ever since I’ve set foot in the real world of nature, I have found there an order, a sequence, and a placidity of cycles that are lacking in man, but which man can, to a certain extent, assimilate when he is not too directly grappling with the difficulties of his own life. When these difficulties return, he must, of course, strive to cope with them, but if he has drunk from the cup of the true and eternal, he no longer gets too worked up for or against the true ephemeral and relative. But why am I telling you this? It’s simply flowing from my pen, for, on reflection, your state of overexcitement is probably more genuine—or at the very least more fruitful and more human—than my senile tranquility. I wouldn’t want to make you like me, even if, by some magical means, I could. I wouldn’t be interested in myself if I had the honor of meeting myself. I’d tell myself that one troubadour is enough to deal with, and I’d send the other to Chaillot [to the asylum]. Then she mentions the “sea gypsies” she met during her stay in Tamaris, “in remote rocky coves, large boats well sheltered, with women, children, a very small coastal population, all dark-skinned; fishing to eat, without engaging in much trade, speaking a language of their own that the locals do not understand; living nowhere but in these large boats beached on the sand when storms batter them in their rocky coves, marrying among themselves, harmless and somber, shy, or wild, not responding when spoken to. I no longer remember what they’re called. […] Naturally, the locals detest them and say they have no religion whatsoever: if that is true, they must be superior to us. […] They lived off the proceeds of their fishing and, above all, from shipwrecks, which they knew how to salvage before even the most alert among us. They were the object of utter contempt. Why? It’s always the same story: anyone who doesn’t do as everyone else does can only be up to no good. If you go to that country, you might encounter some at the Pointe du Brusq. But they’re just passing through, and there are years when they don’t show up at all.” She briefly mentions her work on *Paris-Guide*, before tenderly kissing her “old man.” “Walk a little, I beg you. I’m not worried about the novel [L’Éducation sentimentale], but I am worried about my nervous system, which is taking over too much from my muscular system. As for me, I’m doing just fine, except for sudden bouts of illness where I end up in bed for forty-eight hours without wanting anyone to speak to me. But that’s rare, and as long as I don’t let myself be swayed into letting someone nurse me back to health, I get back on my feet perfectly cured”... Correspondence, Volume XX, No. 13145.