Collected Works of Frances Trollope

by Frances Milton Trollope

  It is impossible that she should write as she has done without possessing some of the finest qualities of human nature; but she is and has been tossed about in that whirlpool of unsettled principles, deformed taste and exaggerated feeling, in which the distempered spirits of the day delight to bathe and disport themselves, and she has been stained and bruised therein. Yet she has nothing in common with their depraved feelings and distorted strength; and there is so much of the divine spirit of real genius within her, that it seems as if she could not sink in the vortex that has engulfed her companions. She floats and rises still; and would she make one bold effort to free herself from this slough, she might yet become one of the brightest ornaments of the age.

  Not her own country only, but all the world have claims on her; for genius is of no nation, but speaks in a language that can be heard and understood by all. And is it possible that such a mind as hers can be insensible to the glory of enchanting the best and purest spirits in the world?... Can she prefer the paltry plaudits of the obscure herd who scorn at decency, to the universal hymn of love and praise which she must hear rising from the whole earth to do honour to the holy muse of Walter Scott?

  The powers of this lady are of so high an order as in fact to withdraw her totally, though seemingly against her will, from all literary companionship or competition with the multitude of little authors whose moral theories appear of the same colour as her own; and in the tribute of admiration which justice compels me to pay her, my memory dwells only on such passages as none but herself could write, and which happily all the world may read.

  It is sad, indeed, to be forced to read almost by stealth volumes which contain such passages, and to turn in silence from the lecture with one’s heart glowing with admiration of thoughts that one might so proudly quote and boast of as coming from the pen of a woman! But, alas! her volumes are closed to the young and innocent, and one may not dare to name her among those to whom the memory clings with gratitude as the giver of high mental enjoyment.

  One strong proof that the native and genuine bent of her genius would carry her far above and quite out of sight of the whole décousu school is, that, with all her magical grace of expression, she is always less herself, less original, a thousand times less animated and inspired, when she sets herself to paint scenes of unchaste love, and of unnatural and hard indifference to decorum, than when she throws the reins upon the neck of her own Pegasus, and starts away into the bright region of unsoiled thoughts and purely intellectual meditation.

  I should be sorry to quote the titles of any books which ought never to have been written, and which had better not be read, even though there should be buried in them precious gems of thought and expression which produce the effect of a ray of sunshine that has entered by a crevice into a dark chamber; but there are some morsels by George Sand which stand apart from the rest, and which may be cited without mischief. “La Revue des Deux Mondes” has more than once done good service to the public by putting forth in its trustworthy pages some of her shorter works. Amongst these is a little story called “André,” which if not quite faultless, may yet be fairly quoted to prove of what its author might be capable. The character of Geneviève, the heroine of this simple, natural little tale, is evidence enough that George Sand knows what is good. Yet even here what a strange perversity of purpose and of judgment peeps out! She makes this Geneviève, whose character is conceived in a spirit of purity and delicacy that is really angelic, — she makes this sweet and exquisitely innocent creature fall into indiscretion with her lover before she marries him, though the doing so neither affects the story nor changes the catastrophe in the slightest degree. It is an impropriety à pure perte, and is in fact such a deplorable incongruity in the character of Geneviève — so perfectly gratuitous and unnecessary, and so utterly out of keeping with the rest of the picture, that it really looks as if Madame D —— might not publish a volume that was not timbré with the stamp of her clique. It would not, I suppose, pass current among them without it.

  This story of “André” is still before me; and though it is quite impossible that I should be able to give you any idea of it by extracts, I will transcribe a few lines to show you the tone of thought in which its author loves to indulge.

  Speaking of the universal power or influence of poetry, which certainly, like M. Jourdain’s prose, often exists in the mind sans qu’on en sache rien, she says, —

  “Les idées poétiques peuvent s’ajuster à la taille de tous les hommes. L’un porte sa poésie sur son front, un autre dans son coeur; celui-ci la cherche dans une promenade lente et silencieuse au sein des plaines, celui-là la poursuit au galop de son cheval à travers les ravins; un troisième l’arrose sur sa fenêtre, dans un pot de tulipes. Au lieu de demander où elle est, ne devrait-on pas demander où n’est-elle pas? Si ce n’était qu’une langue, elle pourrait se perdre; mais c’est une essence qui se compose de deux choses, la beauté répandue dans la nature extérieure, et le sentiment départi à toute l’intelligence ordinaire.”

  Again she shows the real tone of her mind when, speaking of a future state, she says, —

  “Qui sait si, dans un nouveau code de morale, un nouveau catéchisme religieux, le dégoût et la tristesse ne seront pas flétris comme des vices, tandis que l’amour, l’espoir, et l’admiration seront récompensés comme des vertus?”

  This is a beautiful idea of the duties belonging to a happier state of existence; nay, I think that if we were only as good as we easily might be here, even this life would become rather an act of thanksgiving than what it too often is — a record of sighs.

  I know not where I should look in order to find thoughts more true, or fanciful ideas more beautifully expressed, than I have met with in this same story, where the occupations and reveries of its heroine are described. Geneviève is by profession a maker of artificial flowers, and the minute study necessary to enable her to imitate skilfully her lovely models has led her to an intimate acquaintance with them, the pleasures of which are described, and her love and admiration of them dwelt upon, in a strain that I am quite persuaded none other but George Sand could utter. It is evident, indeed, throughout all her writings, that the works of nature are the idols she worships. In the “Lettres d’un Voyageur,” — which I trust are only begun, for it is here that the author is perfect, unrivalled, and irreproachable, — she gives a thousand proofs of a heart and imagination which can only be truly at home when far from “the rank city.” In writing to a friend in Paris, whom she addresses as a person devoted to the cares and the honours of public life, she says,— “Quand tu vois passer un pauvre oiseau, tu envies son essor, et tu regrettes les cieux.” Then she exclaims, “Que ne puis-je t’emmener avec moi sur l’aile des vents inconstans, te faire respirer le grand air des solitudes et t’apprendre le secret des poètes et des Bohémiens!” She has learned that secret, and the use she makes of it places her, in my estimation, wondrously above most of the descriptive poets that France has ever boasted. Yet her descriptions, exquisite as they sometimes are, enchant me less perhaps than the occasional shooting, if I may so express it, of a bold new thought into the regions of philosophy and metaphysics; but it is done so lightly, so playfully, that it should seem she was only jesting when she appears to aim thus wildly at objects so much beyond a woman’s ken. “Tous les trônes de la terre ne valent pas pour moi une petite fleur au bord d’un lac des Alpes,” she says; and then starts off with this strange query: “Une grande question serait celle de savoir si la Providence a plus d’amour et de respect pour notre charpente osseuse, que pour les pétales embaumés de ses jasmins.”

  She professes herself (of course) to be a republican; but only says of it, “De toutes les causes dont je ne me soucie pas, c’est la plus belle;” and then adds, quite in her own vein, “Du moins, les mots de patrie et de liberté sont harmonieux — tandis que ceux de légitimité et d’obéissance sont grossiers, mal-sonnans, et faits pour des oreilles de gendarmes.”... “Aduler une bûche couronnée,”
is, she declares, “renoncer à sa dignité d’homme, et se faire académicien.”

  However, she quizzes her political friend for being “le martyr des nobles ambitions;” adding, “Gouvernez-moi bien tous ces vilains idiots ... je vais chanter au soleil sur une branche, pendant ce tems-là.”

  In another place, she says that she is “bonne à rien qu’à causer avec l’écho, à regarder lever la lune, et à composer des chants mélancoliques ou moqueurs pour les étudians poètes et les écoliers amoureux.”

  As a specimen of what this writer’s powers of description are, I will give you a few lines from a little story called “Mattéa,” — a story, by the way, that is beautiful, one hardly knows why, — just to show you how she can treat a theme worn threadbare before she was born. Is there, in truth, any picture much less new than that of a gondola, with a guitar in it, gliding along the canals of Venice? But see what she makes of it.

  “La guitare est un instrument qui n’a son existence véritable qu’à Venise, la ville silencieuse et sonore. Quand une gondole rase ce fleuve d’encre phosphorescente, où chaque coup de rame enfonce un éclair, tandis qu’une grêle de petites notes légères, nettes, et folâtres, bondit et rebondit sur les cordes que parcourt une main invisible, on voudrait arrêter et saisir cette mélodie faible mais distincte qui agace l’oreille des passans, et qui fuit le long des grandes ombres des palais, comme pour appeler les belles aux fenêtres, et passer en leur disant — Ce n’est pas pour vous la sérénade; et vous ne saurez ni d’où elle vient, ni où elle va.”

  Could Rousseau himself have chosen apter words? Do they not seem an echo to the sound she describes?

  The private history of an author ought never to mix itself with a judgment of his works. Of that of George Sand I know but little; but divining it from the only source that the public has any right to examine, — namely, her writings, — I should be disposed to believe that her story is the old one of affection either ill requited, or in some way or other unfortunate; and there is justice in quoting the passages which seem to indicate this, because they are written in a spirit that, let the circumstances be what they will, must do her honour.

  In the “Lettres d’un Voyageur” already mentioned, the supposed writer of them is clearly identified with George Sand by this passage:— “Meure le petit George quand Dieu voudra, le monde n’en ira pas plus mal pour avoir ignoré sa façon de penser. Que veux-tu que je te dise? Il faut que je te parle encore de moi, et rien n’est plus insipide qu’une individualité qui n’a pas encore trouvé le mot de sa destinée. Je n’ai aucun intérêt à formuler une opinion quelconque. Quelques personnes qui lisent mes livres ont le tort de croire que ma conduite est une profession de foi, et le choix des sujets de mes historiettes une sorte de plaidoyer contre certaines lois: bien loin de là, je reconnais que ma vie est pleine de fautes, et je croirais commettre une lâcheté si je me battais les flancs pour trouver un système d’idées qui en autorisât l’exemple.”

  After this, it is impossible to read, without being touched by it, this sublime phrase used in speaking of one who would retire into the deep solitudes of nature from struggling with the world: —

  “Les astres éternels auront toujours raison, et l’homme, quelque grand qu’il soit parmi les hommes, sera toujours saisi d’épouvante quand il voudra interroger ce qui est au-dessus de lui. O silence effrayant, réponse éloquente et terrible de l’éternité!”

  In another place, speaking with less lightness of tone than is generally mixed throughout these charming letters with the gravest speculations, George Sand says: —

  “J’ai mal vécu, j’ai mal usé des biens qui me sont échus, j’ai négligé les oeuvres de charité; j’ai vécu dans la mollesse, dans l’ennui, dans les larmes vaines, dans les folles amours, dans les vains plaisirs. Je me suis prosterné devant des idoles de chair et de sang, et j’ai laissé leur souffle enivrant effacer les sentences austères que la sagesse des livres avait écrites sur mon front dans ma jeunesse.... J’avais été honnête autrefois, sais-tu bien cela, Everard? C’est de notoriété bourgeoise dans notre pays; mais il y avait peu de mérite, — j’étais jeune, et les funestes amours n’étaient pas éclos dans mon sein. Ils ont étouffé bien des qualités; mais je sais qu’il en est auxquelles je n’ai pas fait la plus légère tache au milieu des plus grands revers de ma vie, et qu’aucune des autres n’est perdu pour moi sans retour.”

  I could go on very long quoting with pleasure from these pages; but I cannot, I think, conclude better than with this passage. Who is there but must wish that all the great and good qualities of this gifted woman (for she must have both) should break forth from whatever cloud sorrow or misfortune of any kind may have thrown over her, and that the rest of her days may pass in the tranquil developement of her extraordinary talents, and in such a display of them to the public as shall leave its admiration unmixed?

  LETTER LXIV.

  “Angelo Tyran de Padoue.” — Burlesque at the Théâtre du Vaudeville. — Mademoiselle Mars. — Madame Dorval. — Epigram.

  We have seen and enjoyed many very pretty, very gay little pieces at most of the theatres since we have been here; but we never till our last visit to the Théâtre Français enjoyed that uncontrollable movement of merriment which, setting all lady-like nonchalance at defiance, obliged us to yield ourselves up to hearty, genuine laughter; in which, however, we had the consolation of seeing many of those around us join.

  And what was the piece, can you guess, which produced this effect upon us?... It was “Angelo!” It was the “Tyran de Padoue” — pas doux du tout, as the wits of the parterre aver. But, in truth, I ought not to assent to this verdict, for never tyrant was so doux to me and mine as this, and never was a very long play so heartily laughed at to the end.

  But must I write to you in sober earnest about this comic tragedy? I suppose I must; for, except the Procès Monstre, nothing has been more talked of in Paris than this new birth of M. Hugo. The cause for this excitement was not that a new play from this sufficiently well-known hand was about to be put upon the scene, but a circumstance which has made me angry and all Paris curious. This tragedy, as you shall see presently, has two heroines who run neck and neck through every act, leaving it quite in doubt which ought to come in prima donna. Mademoiselle Mars was to play the part of one — but who could venture to stand thus close beside her in the other part? — nobody at the Français, as it should seem: and so, wonderful to tell, and almost impossible to believe, a lady, a certain Madame Dorval, well known as a heroine of the Porte St. Martin, I believe, was enlisted into the corps of the Français to run a tilt with — Mars.

  This extraordinary arrangement was talked of, and asserted, and contradicted, and believed, and disbelieved, till the noise of it filled all Paris. You will hardly wonder, then, that the appearance of this drama has created much sensation, or that the desire to see it should extend beyond the circle of M. Hugo’s young admirers.

  I have been told, that as soon as this arrangement was publicly made known, the application for boxes became very numerous. The author was permitted to examine the list of all those who had applied, and no boxes were positively promised till he had done so. Before the night for the first representation was finally fixed, a large party of friends and admirers assembled at the poet’s house, and, amongst them, expunged from this list the names of all such persons as were either known or suspected to be hostile to him or his school. Whatever deficiencies this exclusive system produced in the box-book were supplied by his particular partisans. The result on this first night was a brilliant success.

  “L’auteur de Cromwell,” says the Revue des Deux Mondes, “a proclamé d’une voix dictatoriale la fusion de la comédie et de la tragédie dans le drame.” It is for this reason, perhaps, that M. Hugo has made his last tragedy so irresistibly comic. The dagger and the bowl bring on the catastrophe, — therefore, sans contredire, it is a tragedy: but his playful spirit has arranged the incidents and constructed the dialogue, — therefore, sans fau
te, it is a comedy.

  In one of his exquisite prefaces, M. Hugo says, that he would not have any audience quit the theatre without carrying with them “quelque moralité austère et profonde;” and I will now make it my task to point out to you how well he has redeemed this promise in the present instance. In order to shake off all the old-fashioned trammels which might encumber his genius, M. Hugo has composed his “Angelo” in prose, — prose such as old women love — (wicked old women I mean,) — lengthy, mystical, gossiping, and mischievous. I will give you some extracts; and to save the trouble of describing the different characters, I will endeavour so to select these extracts that they shall do it for me. Angelo Tyran de Padoue thus speaks of himself: —

  “Oui ... je suis le podesta que Venise met sur Padoue.... Et savez-vous ce que c’est que Venise?... C’est le conseil des dix. Oh! le conseil des dix!... Souvent la nuit je me dresse sur mon séant, j’écoute, et j’entends des pas dans mon mur.... Oui, c’est ainsi, Tyran de Padoue, esclave de Venise. Je suis bien surveillé, allez. Oh! le conseil des dix!”

  This gentleman has a young, beautiful, and particularly estimable wife, by name Catarina Bragadini, (which part is enacted on the boards of the Théâtre Français by Madame Dorval, from the Théâtre de la Porte St. Martin,) but unfortunately he hates her violently. He could not, however, as he philosophically observes himself, avoid doing so, and he shall again speak for himself to explain this.