XLVI. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT, at Croissset Nohant, 1867
Bah! zut! troulala! Well! well! I am not sick any more, or at least I am only half sick. The air of the country restores me, or patience, or THE OTHER person, the one who wants to work again and to produce. What is my illness? Nothing. Everything is all right, but I have something that they call anemia, an effect without a tangible cause, a breakdown which has been threatening for several years, and which became noticeable at Palaiseau, after my return from Croisset. An emaciation that is too rapid to be within reason, a pulse too slow, too feeble, an indolent or capricious stomach, with a sensation of stifling and a fondness for inertia. I was not able to keep a gla.s.s of water on my poor stomach for several days, and that brought me so low that I thought I was hardly curable; but, all is getting on, and I have even been working since yesterday.
You, dear, you go walking in the night, in the snow. That is something which for an exceptional excursion, is rather foolish and might indeed make you ill also. Good Heavens! It is not the moon, it is the sun that I advise; we are not owls, OBVIOUSLY! We have just had three spring days. I wager that you have not climbed up to my dear orchard which is so pretty and which I love so much. If it was only in remembrance of me, you ought to climb up every fine day at noon. Your work would flow more abundantly afterward and you would regain the time you lost and more too.
Then you are worrying about money? I don"t know what that is, since I have not a sou in the world. I live by my day, work as does the proletarian; when I can no longer do my day"s work, I shall be packed up for the other world, and then I shall have no more need of anything. But you must live. How can you live by your pen if you always let yourself be duped and shorn? It is not I who can teach you how to protect yourself But haven"t you a friend who knows how to act for you? Alas, yes, the world is going to the devil in that respect; and I was talking of you, the other day, to a very dear friend, while I was showing him the artist, a personage become so rare, and cursing the necessity of thinking of the material side of life. I send you the last page of his letter; you will see that you have in him a friend whom you did not suspect, and whose name will surprise you.
No, I shall not go to Cannes, in spite of a strong temptation!
Imagine, I received a little box filled with flowers gathered out- doors, five or six days ago; for the package followed me to Paris and to Palaiseau. Those flowers are adorably fresh, they smell sweetly, they are as pretty as anything.--Ah! to go, go at once to the country of the sun. But I have no money, and besides I have no time. My illness has delayed me and put me off. Let us stay here. Am I not well? If I can"t go to Paris next month, won"t you come to see me here? Certainly, it is an eight hours" journey. You can not see this ancient nook. You owe me a week, or I shall believe that I love a big ingrate who does not pay me back.
Poor Sainte-Beuve! More unhappy than we, he who has never had any great disappointments and who has no longer any material worries. He bewails what is the least regrettable and the least serious in life understood as he understood it! And then very proud, having been a Jansenist, his heart has cooled in that direction. Perhaps the intelligence was developed, but that does not suffice to make us live, and does not teach us how to die. Barbes, who has expected for a long time that a stroke would carry him off, is gentle and smiling. It does not seem to him, and it does not seem to his friends, that death will separate him from us. He who quite goes away, is he who believes he ends and does not extend a hand so that anyone can follow him or rejoin him.
And good-night, dear friend of my heart. They are ringing for the performance. Maurice regales us this evening with marionettes. They are very amusing, and the theatre is so pretty! A real artist"s jewel. Why aren"t you here? It is horrid not to live next door to those one loves.
XLVII. TO GEORGE SAND Wednesday
I received yesterday your son"s book. I shall start it when I have gotten rid of less amusing readings, probably. Meanwhile, don"t thank him any the less, dear master.
First, let"s talk of you; "a.r.s.enic." I am sure of it! You must drink iron, walk, and sleep, and go to the south, no matter what it costs, there! Otherwise the WOODEN WOMAN will break down. As for money, we shall find it; and as for the time, take it. You won"t do anything that I advise, of course. Oh! well, you are wrong, and you hurt me.
No, I have not what you call worries about money; my revenues are very small, but they are sure. Only, as it is your friend"s habit to antic.i.p.ate them he finds himself short at times, and he grumbles "in the silence of his closet," but not elsewhere. Unless I have extraordinary reverses, I shall have enough to feed me and warm me until the end of my days. My heirs are or will be rich (for it is I who am the poor one of the family). Then, zut!
As for gaining money by my pen, that is an aspiration that I have never had, recognizing that I was radically incapable of it.
I have to live as a small retired countryman, which is not very amusing. But so many others who are worth more than I am not having the land, it would be unfair for me to complain. Accusing Providence is, moreover a mania so common, that one ought to refrain from it through simple good taste.
Another word about money and one that shall be quite between ourselves. I can, without being inconvenienced at all, as soon as I am in Paris, that is to say from the 20th to the 23rd of the present month, lend you a thousand francs, if you need them in order to go to Cannes. I make you this proposition bluntly, as I would to Bouilhet, or any other intimate friend. Come, don"t stand on ceremony!
Between people in society, that would not be correct, I know that, but between troubadours many things are allowable.
You are very kind with your invitation to go to Nohant. I shall go, for I want very much to see your house. I am annoyed not to know it when I think of you. But I shall have to put off that pleasure till next summer. Now I have to stay some time in Paris. Three months are not too long for all I want to do there.
I send you back the page from the letter of your friend Barbes, whose real biography I know very imperfectly. All I know of him is that he is honest and heroic. Give him a hand-shake for me, to thank him for his sympathy. Is he, BETWEEN OURSELVES, as intelligent as he is good?
I feel the importance now, of getting men of that cla.s.s to be rather frank with me. For I am going to start studying the Revolution of "48. You have promised me to hunt in your library at Nohant for (1) an article of yours on faience; (2) a novel by father X---, a Jesuit, on the Holy Virgin.
But what sternness for the father Beuve who is neither Jesuit nor virgin! He regrets, you say, "what is the least regrettable, understood as he understood it." Why so? Everything depends upon the intensity that one puts on the thing.
Men always find that the most serious thing of their existence is enjoyment.
Woman for us all is the highest point of the infinite. That is not n.o.ble, but that is the real depth of the male. They exaggerate that unmercifully, G.o.d be thanked, for literature and for individual happiness also.
Oh! I have missed you so much. The tides are superb, the wind groans, the river foams and overflows. It blows from the ocean, which benefits one.
XLVIII. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT, at Paris Nohant, 8 February, 1867
No, I am not Catholic, but I reject monstrosities. I say that the hideous old man who buys young girls does not make love and that there is in it neither death nor birth, nor infinity, nor male nor female. It is a thing against nature; for it is not desire that drives the young girl into the arms of the ugly old man, and where there is not liberty nor reciprocity there is an attack against holy nature. Therefore that which he regrets is not regrettable, unless he thinks that his little cocottes will regret his person, and I ask you if they will regret anything else than their dirty wages? That was the gangrene in this great and admirable mind, so lucid and so wise on all other subjects. One pardons everything in those one loves, when one is obliged to defend them from their enemies. But what we say between ourselves is buried, and I can tell you that vice has quite spoiled my old friend.
We must believe that we love one another a great deal, dear comrade, for we both had the same thought at the same time. You offer me a thousand francs with which to go to Cannes; you who are as hard up as I am, and, when you wrote to me that you WERE BOTHERED about money matters, I opened my letter again, to offer you half of what I have, which still amounts to about two thousand francs; it is my reserve. And then I did not dare. Why? It is quite stupid; you were better than I, you came straight to the point. Well, I thank you for that kind thought and I do not accept. But I would accept, be sure of it, if I did not have other resources. Only I tell you that if anyone ought to lend to me, it is Buloz who has bought chateaux and lands with my novels. He would not refuse me, I know. He even offers it to me. I shall take from him then, if I have to. But I am not in a condition to leave, I have had a relapse these last few days. I slept thirty-six hours together, exhausted. Now I am on my feet again, but weak. I confess to you that I have not the energy TO WISH TO LIVE. I don"t care about it; moving from where I am comfortable, to seek new fatigues, working like a dog to renew a dog"s life, it is a little stupid, I think, when it would be so sweet to pa.s.s away like that, still loving, still loved, at strife with no one, not discontent with oneself and dreaming of the wonders of other worlds- -this a.s.sumes that the imagination is still fresh. But I don"t know why I talk to you of things considered sad, I have too much the habit of looking at them pleasantly. I forget that they appear afflicting to those who seem in the fulness of life. Don"t let"s talk about them any longer and let spring do the work, spring which perhaps will breathe into me the desire to take up my work again. I shall be as docile to the interior voice that tells me to walk as to that telling me to sit down.
It is not I who promised you a novel on the Holy Virgin. At least I don"t think so. I can not find my article on faience. Do look and see if it was printed at the end of one of my volumes to complete the last sheet. It was ent.i.tled Giovanni Freppa ou les Maioliques.
Oh! what luck! While writing to you it has come back to me that there is a corner where I have not looked. I hasten there, I find it! I find something better than my article, and I send you three works which will make you as learned as I am. That of Pa.s.seri is charming.
Barbes has intelligence, certainly! but he is a sugar loaf. Brain on a lofty scale, head of an Indian, with gentle instincts, almost impossible to find; all for metaphysical thought which becomes an instinct and a pa.s.sion that dominates everything. Add to that a character that one can only compare to Garibaldi. A creature of incredible sanct.i.ty and perfection. Immense worth without immediate application in France. The setting of another age or another country is what this hero needs. And now good-night,--O G.o.d, what a CALF I am! I leave you the t.i.tle of COW, which you give yourself in your days of weariness. Never mind, tell me when you are to be in Paris.
It is probable that I shall have to go there for a few days for one thing or another. We must embrace each other and then you shall come to Nohant this summer. It is agreed, it must be!
My affectionate regards to your mother and to your lovely niece.
Please acknowledge the receipt of the three pamphlets; they would be a loss.
XLIX. TO GEORGE SAND
Dear master,
You really ought to go to see the sun somewhere; it is foolish to be always suffering; do travel; rest; resignation is the worst of the virtues.
I have need of it in order to endure all the stupidities that I hear! You can not imagine to what a degree they have reached. France which has been sometimes taken with St. Vitus dance (as under Charles VI), seems to me now to have a paralysis of the brain. They are mad with fear. Fear of the Prussians, fear of the strikes, fear of the Exposition which does not go well, fear of everything. We have to go back to 1849 to find such a degree of imbecility.
There was at the last Magny such inane conversation that I swore to myself never to put foot inside the place again. The only subjects under discussion all the time were Bismarck and the Luxembourg. I was stuffed with it! For the rest I don"t find it easy to live. Far from becoming blunted my sensibilities are sharper; a lot of insignificant things make me suffer. Pardon this weakness, you who are so strong and tolerant.
The novel does not go at all well. I am deep in reading the newspapers of "48. I have had to make several (and have not yet finished) journeys to Sevres, to Creil, etc.
Father Sainte-Beuve is preparing a discourse on free thought which he will read at the Senate a propos of the press law. He has been very shrewd, you know.
You tell your son Maurice that I love him very much, first because he is your son and secundo because he is he. I find him good, clever, cultivated, not a poseur, in short charming, and "with talent."
L. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT Nohant, 4 March, 1867
Dear good friend, the friend of my heart, the old troubadour is as well as ten thousand men--who are well, and he is gay as a finch, because the sun shines again and copy is progressing.
He will probably go to Paris soon for the play by his son Dumas, let us try to be there together.
Maurice is very proud to be declared c.o.c.k by an eagle. At this moment he is having a spree with veal and wine in honor of his firemen.
The AMERICAN [Footnote: Henry Harrisse.] in question is charming. He has, literally speaking, a pa.s.sion for you, and he writes me that after seeing you he loves you more, that does not surprise me.
Poor Bouilhet! Give him this little note enclosed here. I share his sorrow, I knew her.
Are you amused in Paris? Are you as sedentary there as at Croisset?