by George Sand
That, it seems to me, is enough to guarantee this book against the reproach of immorality. But if you absolutely insist that a novel should end like a Marmontel* story, perhaps you will reproach me with the final pages. You will think it wrong that I have not cast into poverty and neglect the being who, for two volumes, transgressed mankind’s laws. To this, the author will reply that, before being moral, he wanted to be true. He will repeat that, feeling too inexperienced to compose a philosophical treatise on how to cope with life, he has limited himself to writing Indiana, a story of the human heart with its weaknesses, its violent feelings, its rights, its wrongs, its good, and its bad.
If you insist on an explanation of everything in the book, Indiana is a type. She is woman, the weak creature who is given the task of portraying passions, repressed, or if you prefer, suppressed by the law. She is desire at grips with necessity; she is love dashing her blind head against all the obstacles of civilization. But the serpent wears out his teeth and breaks them when he tries to gnaw a file. The powers of the soul become exhausted when they try to struggle against the realities of life. That is the conclusion you may draw from this story, and that was its meaning when it was told to the writer who passes it on to you.
In spite of these protestations, the narrator expects reproaches. Some upright souls, some good men’s consciences, will perhaps be alarmed at seeing virtue so uncouth, reason so sad, and public opinion so unfair. For what a writer should fear most in the world is the alienation from his works of the trust of men of goodwill, the arousal of baneful sympathies in embittered souls, the poisoning of the already acutely painful wounds that the social yoke inflicts on the impatient and rebellious.
The success which is based on a despicable appeal to the passions of a period is the easiest to attain, the least honourable to strive for. The writer of Indiana denies ever having thought of it. If he believed that was his achievement, he would destroy his book, even if he had for it the naive paternal affection which swaddles the current rachitic productions of aborted literature.
But he hopes to justify himself by saying that he believed he served his principles better by real examples than by poetic inventions. He thinks that, with its quality of sad truthfulness, his tale will be able to make an impression on young, ardent minds. They will find it difficult to mistrust a historian who forces his way roughly through the midst of the facts, elbowing to right and left with no more consideration for one camp than for the other. To make a cause odious or ridiculous is to persecute it but not to fight against it. Perhaps the whole of the story-teller’s art consists of interesting in their own stories the guilty whom he wants to reclaim, the wretched whom he wants to cure.
It would give too much importance to a work, destined no doubt to receive little attention, to want to save it from every accusation. So the author gives himself up entirely into the hands of the critics. Only one complaint seems to him too serious to be accepted, that is the one of having intended to write a dangerous book. He would prefer to remain obscure for ever, rather than to build his reputation on a ruined conscience. So he will add yet another word to refute the blame he most dreads.
Raymon, you will say, is society; his egoism is morality, is reason. Raymon, the author will reply, is the false reason, the false morality by which society is governed. He is the honourable man as the world understands it, because the world does not examine closely enough to see everything. The good man is there beside Raymon, and you cannot say he is the enemy of order, for he sacrifices his happiness, he abnegates his own interests before all questions of social order.
Then you will say that you have not been shown virtue in a striking enough way. Alas! The reply will be that the triumph of virtue is only to be seen nowadays at the boulevard theatres. The author will tell you that he has not undertaken to show you society as virtuous but as necessary, and that honour has become as difficult as heroism in these days of moral decadence. Do you think that this truth gives great souls an aversion for honour? I think quite the opposite.
PREFACE TO THE 1842 EDITION
IF I have allowed the pages you have just read to be reprinted, it is not because they sum up in a clear, complete way the beliefs I have reached today about society’s rights over individuals. It is only because I look on opinions freely expressed in the past as something sacred which we ought neither to decry nor tone down, nor try to interpret as we please. But today, after travelling further in life and seeing the horizon widen around me, I believe I ought to tell the reader what I think of my work.
When I wrote Indiana, I was young; I was obeying very strong, sincere feelings which overflowed into a series of novels, almost all based on the same theme: the ill-organized relationship between the sexes due to the constitution of society. These novels were all more or less blamed by the critics for making unwise attacks on the institution of marriage. In spite of the limited scope and naïve hesitancy of its views, Indiana did not escape the indignation of several so-called serious minds whom, at that time, I was very much inclined to take at their word and listen to obediently. But although my reason was scarcely developed enough to write on such a serious subject, I was not so much of a child as to be unable to judge, in my turn, the thoughts of those who judged mine. However simple-minded an accused man might be, however capable a magistrate, the accused has quite enough understanding to know if the magistrate’s sentence is just or wrong-headed, wise or absurd.
Certain journalists, who set themselves up nowadays as representatives and keepers of public morality (I do not know by virtue of what mission, since I do not know in the name of what faith), made strict pronouncements against my poor tale and, by presenting it as an argument against social order, gave it an importance and a kind of celebrity which it would not have achieved otherwise. In so doing they gave a very serious and weighty role to a young author barely initiated into elementary social ideas, whose literary and philosophical baggage was only a little imagination, courage, and love of truth. Sensitive to these reproaches and almost grateful for the lessons these critics were happy to give him, he examined the accusations brought before public opinion against the morality of his ideas, and thanks to this examination, which he conducted without any pride, he gradually acquired convictions, which at the beginning of his career were still only feelings and which today are principles.
I have had ten years of researches, scruples, and indecision, often painful but always sincere; I have shunned the role of schoolmaster, which some attributed to me to make me ridiculous; I have loathed the imputation of pride and anger, with which others have pursued me to make me odious; I have proceeded, according to my artistic ability, by analysing life to search for its synthesis; and so I have related facts which have sometimes been recognized as plausible, and depicted characters whom, it has often been agreed, I knew how to study with care. I restricted myself to that work, trying to establish my conviction rather than to shake that of others, telling myself that if I were mistaken, society would be well able to let powerful voices be heard to overturn my arguments and, by wise replies, to repair the harm that might have been caused by my imprudent questions. In fact, numerous voices were raised to put the public on guard against the dangerous writer, but, as for the wise replies, the public and the author are still waiting.
Long after writing the preface to Indiana, under the influence of a remnant of respect for organized society, I was still seeking a solution to this insoluble problem: how to reconcile the happiness and dignity of individuals oppressed by that same society without modifying society itself. Feeling for the victims and mingling his tears with theirs, making himself their interpreter to his readers, but, as a prudent defender, not trying too hard to excuse his clients’ faults, and appealing far more to the clemency of the judges than to their austerity, the novelist is the true advocate of the abstract beings who represent our passions and our sufferings before the tribunal of force and the jury of public opinion. Under its frivolous appearance the task is a serious one a
nd it is quite difficult to keep it to its true path, for one is interfered with at every step by those who think the form is too serious and by those who think the content too frivolous.
I do not flatter myself that I have performed this task skilfully, but I am sure that I tried to do it seriously in the midst of inner hesitations in which my conscience, at times frightened by ignorance of its rights, at times stimulated by a heart enamoured of justice and truth, marched nevertheless towards its goal without deviating from it too much and without taking too many backward steps.
To let the public into the secret of this inner struggle by a series of prefaces and discussions would have been a childish method of proceeding, in which the vanity of talking of oneself would have occupied too much space for my liking. I have had to abstain from that, as well as from mentioning too quickly the points which remained unclear in my mind. Conservatives thought me too bold, innovators too timid. I admit that I had respect and sympathy for both the past and the future, and, in the conflict, I found peace of mind only on the day I fully realized that the one ought not to be the violation and annihilation of the other but its continuation and development.
After this novitiate of ten years, I was at last initiated into broader ideas, which had their source not in myself but in the philosophical progress which had taken place around me (particularly in a few great minds whom I questioned religiously and in the sight of the sufferings of my fellow men). Finally, I realized that if I did well to have doubts and hesitate to make a judgement at the time when, ignorant and inexperienced, I wrote Indiana, my present duty is to congratulate myself on the bold ideas by which, nevertheless, I let myself be carried away then and since. I have been greatly reproached for these bold ideas, but they would have been even bolder if I had known how legitimate, honest, and sacred they were.
So today, when I have just reread the first novel of my youth with as much severity and detachment as if it were the work of another, when I am about to expose it to a publicity which the popular edition has not yet had, I have resolved in advance not to retract (one should never retract what has been done and said in good faith), but to condemn myself if I discover that my former opinions were mistaken or dangerous. However, I was so much in agreement with myself as regards the feeling which inspired Indiana and which would inspire it again if I had to tell that story today for the first time, that I did not want to change it at all, apart from a few incorrect sentences and unsuitable words. There are still probably a lot left and I submit the literary merit of my writings entirely to the judgement of the critics; in that matter, I recognize in them all the competence I lack. That there is in the daily press today an incontestable mass of talent, I do not deny, and I am pleased to acknowledge it. But that this class of polished writers contains many philosophers and moralists, I positively deny, with all due respect to those who have condemned me and who will condemn me again at the first opportunity, from the heights of their morality and philosophy.
So, I repeat, I wrote Indiana and I had to write it. I yielded to a powerful instinct of complaint and reproach which God had placed within me, God who makes nothing without a use, not even the most insignificant beings, and intervenes in the most trivial causes as well as in the great ones. But really! Is the cause I was defending so trivial, then? It is the cause of half the human race, it is that of the whole human race; for the distress of women entails that of men, as the distress of the slave entails that of the master, and I have tried to demonstrate this in Indiana. It has been said that I was pleading the cause of one individual, as if, assuming that I had been animated by a personal feeling, I had been the only unfortunate creature in peaceful, joyous humankind. Enough cries of pain and sympathy have responded to mine for me to know now what to think about the supreme happiness of others.
I do not think I have ever written anything under the influence of a selfish passion; I have never even thought of preventing myself from doing such a thing. Those who have read me without prejudice understand that I wrote Indiana influenced by a feeling, unreasoned, it is true, but deep and legitimate, of the injustice and barbarity of the laws which still govern the existence of women in marriage, in the family, and in society. My task was not to write a treatise on jurisprudence but to fight against public opinion, for it is that which delays or promotes social improvements. The war will be long and hard, but I am not the first, nor the only, nor the last, champion of so fine a cause, and I shall defend it as long as a breath of life remains in me.
So the feeling which motivated me to start with, I have rationalized and developed as people opposed it and censured me for it. Unjust or ill-disposed critics have taught me more about it than I would have discovered in the calm of impunity. So in this connection I give thanks to the incompetent judges who have enlightened me. The motives for their judgements have cast a bright light on to my thoughts and injected a deep sense of security into my conscience. A sincere mind benefits from everything and what would discourage vanity doubles the ardour of devotion.
These reproaches which, from the depths of a heart serious and calm today, I have just addressed to the majority of journalists of my time—let no one look on them as any kind of protest against the right of control that public morality invests in the French press. That the critics often fulfil badly, and understand even worse, their mission in present-day society is obvious to everyone. But that the mission in itself is divine and sacred, no one can deny, unless he is an atheist as regards progress, unless he is an enemy of truth, a blasphemer of the future, and an unworthy child of France. Liberty of thought, liberty to write and speak, sacred conquest of the human spirit! What are the petty sufferings and the fleeting cares occasioned by your errors and abuses compared to the infinite blessings you bring to the world?
PART 1
I
ON a chilly wet autumn evening, in a little manor house in Brie,* three people, lost in thought, were solemnly watching the embers burn in the fireplace and the hands make their way slowly round the clock. Two of these silent individuals seemed submissively resigned to the vague boredom that oppressed them. But the third showed signs of open rebellion; he moved about restlessly in his chair, half stifled a few melancholy yawns, and struck the crackling logs with the tongs, obviously trying to fight against the common enemy.
This person, who was much older than the other two, was the master of the house, Colonel Delmare, a retired army officer, who had once been handsome but now was heavy and bald with a grey moustache and a fierce look; he was an excellent master who made everyone tremble, wife, servants, horses, and dogs.
At last he left his chair, having obviously lost his patience at not knowing how to break the silence, and began to tramp up and down the room. But he did not for a moment relax the stiff movements of an old soldier, keeping his back straight, turning in one movement with the permanent smugness typical of the parade officer on duty.
But those brilliant days when Lieutenant Delmare breathed victory in the air of military camps, those days had gone. The retired senior officer, now forgotten by his ungrateful country, found himself condemned to endure all the consequences of marriage. He was the husband of a pretty young woman, the owner of a comfortable country house and its outbuildings, and in addition a successful industrialist. So the Colonel was in a bad mood, especially that particular evening, for the weather was damp and he was rheumatic.
He strode solemnly up and down his old drawing-room, which was furnished in Louis XV style. At times he would stop in front of a door surmounted by a fresco of naked cupids hanging chains of flowers round the necks of well-behaved does and tame boars; at times he would pause in front of a panel overdecorated with carvings of thin, tormented figures; one would have wearied one’s eyes in vain, trying to follow their tortuous antics and endless intertwinings. But these vague, fleeting distractions did not prevent the Colonel, each time he turned in his walk, from casting a clear-sighted, penetrating glance at the two companions of his silent vigil, his attentive ey
es going from one to the other, eyes, which for three years had kept watch over a fragile, precious treasure, his wife.
For his wife was nineteen years old, and if you had seen her deep in the chimney-corner beneath the huge, white marble mantelpiece incrusted with burnished copper, if you had seen her, so slender, pale, and sad, her elbow on her knee, so young a girl in this old house, beside her old husband, like a newly-opened flower in an antiquated vase, you would have pitied Colonel Delmare’s wife, and perhaps the Colonel even more.
The third occupant of this lonely house was sitting in the same chimney-corner at the other end of the glowing log. He was a man in the full strength and flower of youth, and his glowing cheeks, gleaming, abundant fair hair, and ample side-whiskers, clashed with the greying hair, faded complexion, and harsh aspect of the master of the house. But the least artistic of men would nevertheless have preferred Delmare’s harsh, austere look to the young man’s regular, insipid features. The puffy face, engraved in relief on the iron plate at the back of the fireplace, with eyes permanently fixed on the glowing embers, was perhaps less insipid than the pink and white character of this story who was studying the same scene. Nevertheless, his strong, loose-limbed physique, the precision of his brown eyebrows, the smooth whiteness of his brow, his calm, clear eyes, the beauty of his hands, and even the sober elegance of his hunting dress would have let him pass for a very handsome escort in the eyes of any woman who was attached to the so-called philosophic taste of another century. But perhaps M. Delmare’s shy, young wife had never yet looked closely at a man; perhaps there was a complete lack of fellow-feeling between the frail, sickly woman and a man who slept soundly and ate well. But there was no doubt that the conjugal Argus* wearied his eagle eye without catching one glance, one whisper, one heart-throb between these two very different people. Absolutely sure then that he had not even a cause for jealousy to occupy his mind, he relapsed into a melancholy even deeper than before and plunged his hands sharply into the depths of his pockets.