chapel, and before that
crucifix
which war and devastation had
spared, if she had acted up to the Christian as well as to the
ancestral traditions of her race when she had driven that child
away from her forever?
spared, if she had acted up to the Christian as well as to the
ancestral traditions of her race when she had driven that child
away from her forever?
Warner - World's Best Literature - v21 to v25 - Rab to Tur
Your feelings and your words along-
side of hers have the same incongruous effect as the clash of
harsh tones in a picture; and I cannot quite enter into nature
thus, even when it is idealized. You have made a better study
of truth since then, in 'La Mare au Diable' [The Devil's Pool].
But I am not satisfied yet. The author still peeps out now
and then; there are authors' words in it. . . . You must try
again, even though you do not succeed; masterpieces are only
successful attempts. Provided you make conscientious attempts,
you may console yourself for not making masterpieces. "
"I am consoled on that point beforehand," I replied, “and
will begin again whenever you wish: advise me. "
## p. 12804 (#222) ##########################################
12804
GEORGE SAND
"Yesterday, for instance, we were at the rustic wake at the
farm," he said. "The hemp-breaker told stories up to two o'clock
in the morning. The village priest's servant helped or corrected
him: she was a somewhat cultured peasant; he was ignorant, but
happily endowed and very eloquent in his own way. These two
persons jointly told us a rather long, true story, which appeared
to be a familiar novel. Do you remember it? ”
"Perfectly, and I could repeat it literally in their very lan-
>>>>
guage.
"Their language would need a translation: you must write
in French, and not allow yourself a single word which does not
belong to the language, unless it be so intelligible that a foot-
note would be useless for the reader. "
"I see you are setting me a task fit to make me lose my
mind,—one I have never plunged into without coming out dis-
satisfied with myself, and penetrated by a sense of my weakness. "
"Never mind! You will plunge into it again; I know the
artist nature: nothing stimulates you as much as obstacles, and
you do poorly what you do without suffering. Come, begin,—
tell me the story of the 'Champi'; but not as I heard it with
you. It was a masterpiece for our minds and ears 'to the man-
ner born. ' Tell it as if there were a Parisian at your right
speaking the modern language, and a peasant at your left before
whom you would not wish to say a word or phrase he could not
fathom. Thus you will have to speak plainly for the Parisian,
simply for the peasant. One will rebuke you for absence of
color, the other for that of elegance; but I shall be there too,-
I, who am trying to find the conditions by which art, without
ceasing to be art for every one, may enter into the mystery of
primitive simplicity, and communicate to the mind the charm per-
vading nature. "
"We are going to make a joint study, it seems. "
"Yes; for I shall interfere when you stumble. "
## p. 12805 (#223) ##########################################
GEORGE SAND
12805
THE BUDDING AUTHOR
From 'Convent Life of George Sand. ' Copyright 1893, by Roberts Brothers
I
BEGAN, of course, by writing verses; rebelling against the
Alexandrine, which however I understood perfectly. I tried
to preserve a sort of rhythm without attending to the rhyme
or the cæsura; and composed many verses that had a great suc-
cess among the girls, who were not very critical. At last I took
it into my head to write a novel; and though I was not at all
religious at that time, I made my story very pious and edifying.
It was more of a tale, however, than a novel. The hero and
heroine met in the dusk of evening, in the country, at the foot
of a shrine, where they had come to say their prayers. They
admired and exhorted each other by turns. I knew that they
ought to fall in love, but I could not manage it. Sophia urged
me on; but when I had described them both as beautiful and
perfect beings, when I had brought them together in an enchant-
ing spot at the entrance of a Gothic chapel under the shade of
lofty oaks, I never could get any further. It was not possible
for me to describe the emotions of love: I had not a word to
say, and gave it up. I succeeded in making them ardently pious;
-not that I knew any more about piety than I did about love;
but I had examples of piety all the time before my eyes, and
perhaps even then the germ was unconsciously developing within
me. At all events, my young couple, after several chapters of
travel and adventure that I have completely forgotten, separated
at last, both consecrating themselves to God, the heroine taking
the veil, and the hero becoming a priest.
Sophia and Anna thought my novel very well written, and
they liked some things about it; but they declared that the hero
(who rejoiced, by the way, in the name of Fitzgerald) was dread-
fully tiresome, and they did not seem to consider the heroine.
much more amusing. There was a mother whom they liked bet-
ter; but upon the whole my prose was less successful than my
verses, and I was not much charmed with it myself.
Then I wrote a pastoral romance in verse, still worse than
the novel; and one winter day I put it into the stove. Then I
stopped writing, and decided that it was not an amusing occu-
pation, though I had taken infinite delight in the preliminary
composition.
Translation of Maria Ellery Mackaye.
-
## p. 12806 (#224) ##########################################
12806
LÉONARD SYLVAIN JULES SANDEAU
(1811-1883)
HEN Jules Sandeau (as he is usually known) was a humble
young law student, he visited Nohant, and there he met the
young Baroness Dudevant (George Sand), whose influence
was to change the whole course of his life. Up to that time he had
pursued the regular routine of French boys.
Born in the heart of France-at Aubusson, in the Department of
Creuse in 1811, he passed his school days there; and then was sent
to the law school in Paris. It was during one of his vacation trips
that he and Baroness Dudevant discovered
their congeniality of tastes and ambitions.
She was heartily tired of her husband and
of an irksome domestic life, and convinced
of her own latent power of authorship;
while Sandeau too inclined more toward
literature than law. So they went to Paris
together in 1831, when Sandeau was twenty
and Madame Dudevant twenty-seven. There
they rented a garret on the Quai Saint
Michel, and toiled cheerfully for a meagre
livelihood.
Henri de Latouche, editor-in-chief of Le
Figaro, became interested in these gifted
young Bohemians. He subjected them to
severe but helpful criticism, and accepted
JULES SANDEAU
some of their sketches for his paper. At his suggestion they wrote
a novel in collaboration,-'Rose et Blanche,' a colorless tale not
indicative of either's power. It is said that Sandeau suggested the
plot of George Sand's powerful novel 'Indiana. ' He also furnished
her with her nom de plume: George because upon St. George's day
he advised her to try her hand alone, and Sand from his own name.
The liaison terminated in two years, when Sandeau went off to
Italy; and with the exception of one moment's chance encounter, the
two never met again. Unquestionably the strongly emotional period
spent with the gifted young woman deepened Sandeau's nature, and
stimulated all his faculties. He continued to write, and proved his
possession of individual though not powerful talent. In 1839 'Mari-
anna' appeared,- a delicate analysis of the ebb and flow of passion;
## p. 12807 (#225) ##########################################
LÉONARD SYLVAIN JULES SANDEAU
12807
and its success enabled him to become a frequent contributor to the
Revue des Deux Mondes.
The true value of Sandeau's work lay in a nobility of sentiment
which was the spontaneous expression of his own nature.
He was
always obliged to earn his own living; yet he never allowed mer-
cenary considerations to affect the quality of his work. His novels
are models of careful construction. He could not treat overwhelm-
ing passions; but his refined nature had an intuitive appreciation of
the more delicate emotions acquired by civilized society.
He was
particularly fond of depicting the inevitable repulsion experienced
by the ancient aristocracy when forced to meet and adapt itself to
new and more democratic social conditions. This was the theme of
'Mademoiselle de la Seiglière,' and also of 'La Maison de Penarvan,'
two of his strongest books. That he could also write charmingly
for children is shown in 'La Roche aux Mouettes. '
It was Sandeau's fate to be associated with greater minds, to
whom perhaps more than their share of praise was sometimes given.
He wrote several plays in collaboration with Émile Augier; notably
'Le Gendre de M. Poirier,' which ranks as one of the best modern
French comedies. He did not cater to public taste, and never became
widely popular. It was his fellow authors who most respected and
admired him.
In spite of his scanty means, he was very generous. During his
early struggles he and the great Balzac were friends. It is said that
one day Balzac, hard pressed for a small sum, asked Sandeau for it.
Sandeau went out, and by pawning his overcoat raised the money,
and took it to him. A few days later, Balzac asked the loan of San-
deau's coat. "I cannot give it to you," said Sandeau simply; and
Balzac stormed at his meanness until shamed by a discovery of the
truth. Another time, feeling sorry for an old, poor, and embittered
publisher named Werdet, he presented him with the manuscript of
one of his ablest and most popular stories, 'Le Docteur Herbleu. '
Naturally he himself never became rich; although he was made
comfortable by the proceeds of his writing, augmented by his salary
as librarian, — first at the Mazarin library, to which position he was
appointed in 1853, and later at St. Cloud. Upon the downfall of the
second Napoleon this office was abolished; and Sandeau was granted
a pension.
Sandeau was elected Academician in 1859. His literary activity
extended over about twenty-five years; and he ceased to write many
years before his death on April 24th, 1883. Although he had little
influence in determining the trend of literature, Sandeau was a
decided romanticist in the early days of the romantic movement.
His tales are pleasant rather than exciting reading; most noteworthy
for delicacy of perception and sympathetic delineation of character.
## p. 12808 (#226) ##########################################
12808
LÉONARD SYLVAIN JULES SANDEAU
HOW THE HISTORY OF PENARVAN WAS WRITTEN
From The House of Penarvan'
[The Marquise de Penarvan, an aristocrat of the old régime, has been
actuated all her life by a ruling passion of family pride. She sacrifices her
husband to it; and after his death, her greatest interest is the history of the
family of Penarvan, which the Abbé Pyrmil, the chaplain and devoted friend
of the family, is writing. She does not love her only child,- her daughter
Paule,- because she cannot perpetuate the family name.
After vainly trying to win her mother's consent to her marriage with
Henri Coverley,- a young man who, although not of noble birth, is in every
other respect worthy of her, Paule marries without it. ]
F
ROM the day of her marriage Paule was seized with what
some would call a natural, others a morbid, self-reproach,
the suffering of which was increased by everything which
otherwise would have rendered her happy. She had made a des-
perate effort to secure the bliss so long coveted, and the capacity
of enjoying it when attained was denied to her.
Young, beautiful, worshiped by her husband, in the midst of
everything this world can offer of comfort and pleasure, she
suffered unremittingly, and in secret wept bitterly; loving her
husband as much as ever, the wealth and luxury with which he
surrounded her she simply hated. Her thoughts were perpetually
reverting to the stern mother, and the old château she had for-
saken. A strange sort of yearning for its poverty and simplicity
took possession of her soul. She turned with loathing from all
the magnificence that her sensitive feelings compared with the
penury of the home where her early life had been overshadowed
and saddened.
For the first time she understood the grand side of her
mother's character, the dignity of her uncomplaining poverty.
She was haunted by the thought of the tears she had — for the
first time-seen in those eyes, the severe or forgiving glance of
which she was never again to meet; they seemed to be dropping
like molten lead on her heart.
Henri lavished upon her all that the most devoted affection
and tenderest care could devise. His patience, his delicacy of
feeling, never failed; and she responded to his love with passion-
ate affection.
"Oh, if you knew how I love you! " she would say. "I would
suffer far more even than I do suffer, rather than forego the
## p. 12809 (#227) ##########################################
LÉONARD SYLVAIN JULES SANDEAU
12809
blessing of being your wife. Yes, I bless the hour when I first
saw you; and I thank God morning, noon, and night for the
priceless gift of your love. But oh, forgive me if I cannot be
happy, if I cannot forget; if I cannot live on in the midst of
splendor and gayety, unforgiven and unblest by my mother. "
If Henri reminded her of all she had suffered under that
mother's roof, she would answer:
"I was not patient enough; I did not wait as I ought to have
done, Henri. I think I have thought so ever since — that she
was beginning to love me when I left her. "
They wrote: only the abbé answered, and his letters held out
no hope. They still went on writing, and with no other result.
They traveled in Italy, in Greece; but in the midst of all the
wonderful beauties of nature and art there was always before
Paule's eyes the same vision,- her mother growing old in soli-
tude and poverty.
She gave birth to a child; and the joys of maternal love
only sharpened the pangs of a remorse which had grown into a
malady. The more intensely she cared for her little girl, the
more acute became her regrets and her fears. Would that little
one abandon her one day as she had abandoned her mother?
Had she any claim upon her own child,- she who had disobeyed
and defied her only parent?
Once more Paule wrote to the marquise: no answer came.
The abbé was obliged to admit that her letters were never
opened, that her name was never to be uttered in her mother's
ears.
They spent a year on the banks of the lake of Como. As
time went by, Paule found Henri even more excellent, more
perfect, than she had ever supposed that any one could be. It
was terrible to her to feel that the wife of such a man should be
an unhappy woman; that with such a husband and with such a
child she should be wasting away with sorrow. They came back
to France discouraged and depressed.
People are often more selfish in their sorrows than in their
joys; and yet there is no sort of selfishness which those who
are conscientious and kind-hearted should more anxiously shrink
from. Paule awakened at last to a sense of the fault she was
committing by making the weight of her self-reproach sadden
her husband's life; and she made up her mind to reappear in
society.
## p. 12810 (#228) ##########################################
12810
LÉONARD SYLVAIN JULES SANDEAU
The magnificent house of the Coverleys was thrown open
to the world; and she did the honors of balls and parties with
simplicity and grace. She was as much admired then as the
first days she had been seen at Bordeaux, walking arm in arm
with the prince. Her dress was always simple: she disliked to
wear jewels or trinkets.
But in spite of all efforts to appear happy in Henri's pres-
ence, and her pleasure in her little girl, who was a singularly
engaging child, he could not help seeing that she was misera-
ble; and so did Madame de Soleyre, who noticed that whereas
formerly she seldom spoke of the marquise, and seemed afraid
almost of mentioning her name, now she was always anxious to
revert to the subject of her mother's past life, and questioned
her minutely as to the time when, in the height of her youth
and beauty, Renée de Penarvan had acted such a noble and heroic
part, and been the admiration of the Vendean nobility. Paule
accused herself of the indifference and want of understanding, as
she called it, which had made her fail to appreciate the grand
side of her mother's nature.
One night when they had returned from a ball, Paule threw
herself down on a sofa and burst into an agony of tears. She
had struggled all the evening with an oppressive sense of con-
trast between her mother's fate and her own; and at last the
overburdened heart gave way, and she could not control herself
any longer, even in Henri's presence. He knelt by her side, and
she laid her head on his shoulder.
"What can I do
"What is it, my darling? " he tenderly said.
to comfort you?
1 ? »
<< Henri," she whispered, "I must go and see my mother.
Even at the risk of her driving me away,- of her cursing me,-
I must go to her. "
"But, dearest, if she refuses - and she will refuse- to see
—
you ? »
"Then I shall hide myself in the park; I shall catch sight of
her in some way or other. "
"We shall set off to-morrow," Henri said.
"Oh, how good, how kind you are, my own love! " she said,
throwing her arms round his neck.
Two days afterwards, in the dusk of an October evening, they
arrived at the inn at Tiffange with their little girl, then just three
years old. It was too late to send for the abbé, and they set out
## p. 12811 (#229) ##########################################
LÉONARD SYLVAIN JULES SANDEAU
12811
on foot for the château; Paule leading the way, and Henri carry-
ing the child.
They entered the park through one of the breaks in the wall,
and walked along the alleys strewed with dead leaves.
As they
approached the house, Paule pointed to a window in which a
light was visible, and whispered to her husband:-
"That is her room. She must be sitting there. "
It was a strange thing that those young people, who had
youth and beauty and mutual love to gladden, their lives, who
possessed houses and villas and many a ship crossing the ocean
laden with rich merchandise, and whose wealth was every day
increasing, should have been standing before that dilapidated
building with the one wish, the one desire, to be admitted within
those doors, closed to them perhaps forever.
room.
In another window a light gleamed also. That was the abbé's
What was he doing? Was he praying for his little Paule?
Was he still working at his 'History of the House of Penarvan'?
When Paule was a child, she used to stand under the abbe's
window and clap her hands together three times to summon him
into the garden. She advanced and made the well-known sig-
nal. The window opened, and the abbé, looking like a tall ghost,
appeared, leaning out of it as if to dive into the outward dark-
ness.
"Abbé, my own abbé," Paule cried in a mournful voice.
The ghost disappeared; and a moment afterwards the abbé
was clasping Paule, her husband, and her child in his wide arms,
and then dragging them like secreted criminals into his room.
"You here, my child, and you, M. Henri, and this darling? "
"I am broken-hearted, abbé: I cannot live on in this state.
Do, do make my mother see me. Oh, do get her to forgive me. "
The abbé had taken the little child on his knees, and she was
looking up into his face with a pretty smile.
"Oh, M. l'Abbé, do help us! " Coverley said.
The abbé was looking attentively at the little girl. She was
so like what Renée had been as a child.
«< What does my mother feel? Does she allow you to speak of
Does she ever mention me? "
us?
The abbé was silent. He could not say yes, he could not bear
to say no.
"I see there is no hope," Paule exclaimed in a despairing man-
"It is really to her as if I were dead! "
ner.
## p. 12812 (#230) ##########################################
12812
LÉONARD SYLVAIN JULES SANDEAU
The abbé made the little child join her little hands together
and said to her:
"Do you love the good God, my child? "
"Oh yes," she answered.
"Then say to the good God, 'My God, come with me. "
"My God, come with me," the little one repeated; and then
the abbé took her in his arms and exclaimed:-
――――
"Come along, come with me; and may God help thee. "
The marquise was sitting in her old oak-wood chair by the
chimney, where two small logs were burning; an ill-trimmed lamp
by her side. Her features had grown thin and sharp; her hollow
cheeks and dim eyes spoke of silent suffering and inward strug-
gles, and of the secret work which had been going on in her
soul during the last four years. She looked like the ghost of her
former self; but there was still something striking and impressive
in her appearance. She seemed crushed indeed, but not subdued.
Around her nothing but ruins, within her nothing but bitter rec-
ollections; and a blank, desolate future in view.
Had she too felt remorse? Had she heard a voice whispering
misgivings as to the course she had pursued ? Had she closed
her ears to it? Was it true, as Paule in her grief and repentance
had suspected, that she had begun to love and admire her child
during the months which had preceded their final separation?
Did she ask herself sometimes, when kneeling in the dismantled.
chapel, and before that crucifix which war and devastation had
spared, if she had acted up to the Christian as well as to the
ancestral traditions of her race when she had driven that child
away from her forever? And the mourning garb in which she
was arrayed,-did she feel certain that it was God's will, and
not her own unrelenting heart, which had condemned her to
wear it?
No one could tell, not even the abbé. But that she was be-
coming every day more thin, more haggard, more gloomy, others
besides him could observe.
As in a besieged city where famine is doing fell work, and
from which a cry for mercy and life despairingly rises, a stern
commander refuses to capitulate, holds out, and dooms himself
and others to a lingering death,- so the pride of her soul sti
fled the yearnings, the pleadings, the cries of nature; and never
perhaps had they been more distinctly heard, never had the
weight of solitude and loneliness pressed more heavily on Renée
## p. 12813 (#231) ##########################################
LÉONARD SYLVAIN JULES SANDEAU
12813
de Penarvan's heart than upon that autumnal evening. As she
sat in that large, dimly lighted room, her elbow resting on the
side of her arm-chair, her head on her hand, a slight noise made.
her look up: the door opened, and a little child came in. Alarmed
at the sight of the pale lady in black by the fireside, the child
stopped in the middle of the room, and her smiling face became
grave.
"Who are you? " asked the marquise, who did not even know
that Paule had a child.
"I am a little girl. "
"Come here, my child. "
Taking courage, the little thing toddled up to the chimney,
and put her little hands on the arm of the oak chair.
"What is your name? " the marquise asked, softened by the
sight of the lovely little face.
"Renée," the child answered.
The marquise started with emotion and a sort of fear; she
scanned the features of the child, she saw, she guessed, she under-
stood it all.
"Go back to your mother," she said in a trembling voice.
"Go back to Madame Coverley. ”
Frightened at the stern voice and manner of the lady, the
little thing turned round and slowly went towards the door.
The marquise watched her with a beating heart. During the
instants it took the child to cross the room, the whole of her
life passed before her. She saw her gentle, affectionate husband
riding from the hall door on his way to a bloody death; she saw
her beautiful, gentle daughter driven from her home: and now
that lovely little creature so like herself—with her fair hair, her
white skin, her blue eyes-was disappearing also.
She looked round at the pictures on the walls: she felt as if
they, those ancestors, to whom she had sacrificed everything, had
doomed her to a lingering death.
And meanwhile the little girl had reached the door. Renée
was still hesitating. The child turned round and said with a
reproachful expression in her baby face:
"You not my grandmamma. You not love Renée. You send
Renée away. "
She could not hold out,-the poor marquise! She uttered a
sort of cry.
She sprang up, seized the child in her arms, kissed
her, wept over her, hugged her to her breast.
## p. 12814 (#232) ##########################################
12814
LÉONARD SYLVAIN JULES SANDEAU
Stay, stay, my little one, stay," she wildly exclaimed; "stay,
my little life, my darling, my treasure. "
«
A YEAR had elapsed; and on the banks of the Sèvres there
were no longer any ruins to be seen. The old castle of Penar-
van had recovered its former aspect. The towers, the walls, the
handsome entrance, were all restored, the armorial bearings had
reappeared, the invading weeds were banished from the court.
The stables were filled with horses and carriages, the kennel
with dogs.
In the handsomely furnished drawing-room the whole set of
ancestors looked new and bright in their cleaned state and fresh-
gilded frames. Inside and outside the house there was life and
animation. The ruined farms were rebuilt, the greatest part of
the estate repurchased; manufactories of ropes and sails rose on
the banks of the river.
The time of ragged cassocks had likewise gone by; the chapel
of the château had recovered its old splendor. The abbé offi-
ciated in great pomp, on Sundays and festivals, at a magnificent
altar; and the seat of the lords of the manor had been restored to
its wonted place. A look of happiness and prosperity reigned
in the whole neighborhood. Respect for the past was joined to
modern enterprise, and the poetry of old associations to the activ-
ity of useful labor.
Henri Coverley had not only repurchased the estates of the
ancient domain of Penarvan, he had also bought back La Briga-
zière.
M. Michaud, who possessed several houses in the neighbor-
hood of Rennes, looked with contempt on that little old-fashioned
manor-house, and was quite ready to sell it. Père Michaud had
now grown into that famous Michaud so conspicuous on the
Liberal benches in the days of the Restoration, who denounced
the nobility and protested against the feudal distinctions, till in
1830 the new government stopped his mouth by making him a
baron.
On a beautiful summer's afternoon the Marquise de Penarvan,
with her little granddaughter and the abbé, were sitting in that
same drawing-room where we have so often seen them. Renée
was still handsome; her magnificent fair hair was not yet tinged
by a single thread of gray. The abbé was rather less thin
than he used to be. Little Renée was sitting on his knees, and
## p. 12815 (#233) ##########################################
LÉONARD SYLVAIN JULES SANDEAU
12815
learning to read in his history; the first chapters of which were
being printed for private circulation.
That child was now the abbé's idol; she made the happiness
of his declining years. As to the marquise, she was fondly, pas-
sionately attached to her grandchild. The old Renée loved the
little Renée with a tenderness she had never before felt towards
any human being. She had taken, as it were, possession of the
child; and her softened but still despotic nature showed itself
in the excess to which she carried her devotion to this little
creature.
Paule and Henri were just going out on horseback; the mar-
quise stood at the window and watched them as they rode down
the avenue.
"Abbé," she said, calling him to her side, "look at them. "
And she made a gesture which implied, "How handsome they
are; how happy they seem! "
The abbé, trying to look very sly, said in a low voice:-
"I married them. "
"O you arch-deceiver, you abominable hypocrite," the mar-
quise exclaimed: "it was just like you,-you have always played
me tricks. "
They both laughed; the abbé rubbed his hands in a self-
complacent manner.
"Well, well," the marquise said, "we shall be quite a large
party this evening: you know we expect Madame de Soleyre. "
The abbé had returned to little Renée, and was again open-
ing his book.
"Really, abbé," the marquise exclaimed, "you have no mercy
on that child: you will bore her to death.
"Not at all, Madame la Marquise: Mademoiselle Renée prom-
ises to be a very good scholar; and she likes stories about battles,
which her mamma never did. "
>>>>
Little Renée pointed with her small finger to one of the
paintings in the manuscript, and said:-
"Guy de Penarvan die at Massoure. "
It may be imagined if she was applauded by the abbé, and
hugged by her grandmother; who, after kissing her over and over
again, turned to the abbé and said:-
"But, by the way, is it at last finished,- that eternal history? "
"That eternal history is finished, madame," the abbé an-
swered, in a rather touchy manner. "Yesterday I copied into it
## p. 12816 (#234) ##########################################
12816
LÉONARD SYLVAIN JULES SANDEAU
the last lines of the chapter devoted to the memory of your hus-
band, the late marquis. '
"You have not quite accomplished your task, abbé: your his-
tory is not complete. "
"Alas, Madame la Marquise, I know that too well. That
wretched prelate - "
"Oh, but without reckoning the prelate there is still some-
thing to add to it. "
"Something more, madame? what can that be? »
«< Well, and my history, M. l'Abbé! You make no mention of
me. "
"I write the history of the dead, not of the living, Madame la
Marquise; and I fully reckon on never writing yours. "
"I will dictate to you what to say about me. Sit down here
and take a pen. "
The abbé, somewhat surprised, did as he was told; and seated
himself in an expectant position.
"At the top of the page write: 'Louise Charlotte Antoinette
Renée, Marquise de Penarvan,-last of the name. »
"Last of the name,'" the abbé re-echoed.
"And now write:-'She lived like a recluse, devoted to the
worship of her ancestry; and found out- though rather late —
that if it is right to honor the dead, it is very sweet to love the
living. '»
"Is that all, madame? "
"Yes, my dear abbé," Renée answered, taking her grandchild
in her arms, and fondly kissing her soft cheek. "But if you like
you may add :
"HERE ENDS THE HISTORY OF THE HOUSE OF PENARVAN. '»
Translation of Lady Georgiana Fullerton.
―
## p. 12816 (#235) ##########################################
## p. 12816 (#236) ##########################################
SAPPHO
## p. 12816 (#237) ##########################################
1
1
t
## p. 12816 (#238) ##########################################
## p. 12817 (#239) ##########################################
12817
SAPPHO
(612 B. C. -? )
BY THOMAS DAVIDSON
APPHO (more properly Psappha), the greatest of all poetesses,
was born in 612 B. C. , at Eressos in the island of Lesbos.
Her father's name was Scamandronymus, her mother's
Cleis. Few facts of her life are recorded. As a girl she doubtless
learnt by heart her Homer and Hesiod, and sang the songs of her
countrymen Terpander and Arion. While still young she paid a visit
to Sicily, and possibly there made the acquaintance of the great
Western poets, Stesichorus and Ibycus. When she returned home
she settled at Mitylene, being perhaps disgusted with the conduct of
her brother Charaxus, who had married the courtesan Rhodopis.
one of her satirical poems on him belongs perhaps the line-
To
"Wealth without worth is no harmless housemate. »
She found some compensation in her youngest brother Larichus,
who for his beauty had been chosen as cupbearer in the public ban-
quet hall at Mitylene. In an extant fragment she says to him:-
:-
"Stand kindly there before me, and unfold
The beauty of thine eyes. "
As we may well believe, the beautiful, gifted Sappho had many
admirers. Chief among these was the great Alcæus,— statesman,
warrior, and lyric poet. There is still extant the opening of a poem
which he addressed to her:-
XXII-802
«Violet-crowned, chaste, sweet-smiling Sappho,
I fain would speak; but bashfulness forbids. "
She replied in the spirited lines, showing her simplicity of character:
"Had thy wish been pure and manly,
And no evil on thy tongue,
Shame had not possessed thine eyelids:
From thy lips the right had rung. "
## p. 12818 (#240) ##########################################
12818
SAPPHO
To a suitor younger than herself she wrote:
"Remain my friend, but seek a younger bride:
I am too old, and may not mate with thee. »
Indeed, a passionate nature like hers was not easily mated; and so
we find a strain of longing pathos in her. In one fragment she says:
"The moon hath set,
The Pleiades are gone:
'Tis midnight, and the time goes by,
And I-I sleep alone. »
Elsewhere she says (in the exact words of a Scotch ballad),—
"For I sall aye gang a maiden mair. »
The much-quoted but absurd story of Sappho's flinging herself
from the Leucadian Rock, in despair at her unrequited love for the
handsome Phaon, is due to a confusion between her and a courtesan
of the same name. So far from such folly was the poetess, that, late
in life apparently, she changed her mind about marrying, and gave
her hand to a wealthy Andrian named Cercylas, by whom she had a
daughter, named after her own mother, Cleis. We have still a frag-
ment referring to this child:-
:-
"I have a little maid, as fair
As any golden flower,
My Cleis dear,
For whom I would not take all Lydia,
Nor lovely Lesbos here. »
Elsewhere she says to the same child,-
"Let me enfold thee, darling mine. "
Of the events of Sappho's later life we know little: merely that
she lived to a ripe old age, and died leaving a name which the
Greeks for a thousand years, with one accord, placed next to that of
Homer. After her death the Lesbians paid her divine honors, erected
memorial temples to her, and even stamped her image upon their
coins, as other cities did those of their tutelary deities. How she was
regarded by her great contemporaries we may learn from a story told
of Solon. When near his end, some one having repeated to him a
poem of Sappho's, he prayed the gods to allow him to live long
enough to learn it by heart. From his day to the latest times of
antiquity, poets and critics strove in vain for words to express their
admiration of herself and her works. Plato calls her "the beautiful
## p. 12819 (#241) ##########################################
SAPPHO
12819
Sappho"; and she is often referred to as "the tenth Muse. " An epi-
gram on the great lyric poets, after enumerating the eight men, says,
"Sappho was not the ninth among men: she is catalogued as the
tenth among the Muses. " Horace writes:-
"Still breathes the love, still live the hues,
Intrusted to the Eolian maiden's strings. "
And the great critic Longinus is even more complimentary.
Such uniform, unqualified praise for a thousand years may well
make us mourn the loss of Sappho's works. For with the exception
of two short poems (one incomplete), and about a hundred and
twenty fragments of from one to five lines, they are all lost. But
what remains is very precious, containing a wealth of deft expression
not easy to match in any other poet, and more than sufficient to
enable us to comprehend the estimate given of the poetess by Strabo:
"Sappho is a kind of miracle; for within the memory of man there
has not, so far as we know, arisen any woman worthy even to be
mentioned along with Sappho in the matter of poetry. "
Sappho left nine books and rolls of poems, the subjects of which
were so various that they were arranged according to metres, a book
being devoted to each of the nine metres in which she wrote. Of
these metres the most famous was the "Sapphic stanza," which she
seems to have invented. Another invention of hers was the plectrum
or pectis, with which the lyre was struck,— the first step toward the
piano.
We shall arrange her briefer fragments not according to metre but
to subject, premising the remark that through most of them runs
a trait to which she frankly bears testimony, the love of splendor.
She says:-
―
"I am in love with luxury:
The love of the sun hath won for me
The splendid and the beautiful. »
Her love of nature, and her power of expressing its charm in
simple, striking language, remind us of Burns and Goethe. Her
pathetic lines about her loneliness at midnight have already been
quoted. But it is not merely the pathetic in nature that she feels:
she feels all its living beauty. It is not only the night, with the
moon and the Pleiads set, that touches her: every hour of the day
comes to her with a fresh surprise. Of the morning she says:-
"Early uprose the golden-slippered Dawn;"
and of the evening:-
"O Hesperus! thou bringest all
The glimmering Dawn dispersed. »
-
## p. 12820 (#242) ##########################################
12820
SAPPHO
And again:
"O Hesperus! thou bringest all:
Thou bring'st the wine; thou bring'st the goat;
Thou bring'st the child to the mother's knee. »*
Of the night she says:-
-
"The stars about the pale-faced moon
Veil back their shining forms from sight,
As oft as, full with radiant round,
She bathes the earth with silver light. "
And again of the moon and the Pleiads:
"The moon was shining full, and they
Stood as about an altar ranged. »
And just as the hours of the day, so the seasons of the year bring
her joy. Her ear is open to-
"Spring's harbinger, the passion-warbling nightingale;">
and her eye brightens when —
"The golden chick-peas spring upon the banks. »
What a picture of the Southern summer, with its noonday siesta in
the open air, we have in these lines:
:-
"The lullaby of waters cool
Through apple-boughs is softly blown,
And, shaken from the rippling leaves,
Sleep droppeth down. "
And how we should like to hear the termination of this simile:-
"As when the shepherds on the hills
Tread under foot the hyacinth,
And on the ground the purple flower [lies crushed]. »
Along with her delight in nature goes a keen joyous feeling for
all that is festive: song, wine, and dance, garlands, gold vessels, and
purple robes are dear to her. To her lyre she says:-
And to Aphrodite she calls,-
"Come then, my lyre divine!
Let speech be thine. »
-
"Come, Queen of Cyprus! pour the stream
Of nectar, mingled lusciously
With merriment, in cups of gold. »
* Lord Byron's expansion of this in 'Don Juan' will be remembered. See
page 2968 of this work.
## p. 12821 (#243) ##########################################
SAPPHO
12821
But Aphrodite is not enough. Life requires other ennobling ele-
ments, light, sweetness, and art, represented by Hermes, the Graces,
and the Muses. Of a wedding-feast she says:-
Again she calls:-
And again:-
"Then with ambrosia the bowl was mixed,
And Hermes took a cup, to toast the gods,
While all the rest raised goblets, poured the wine,
And prayed for all brave things to bless the groom. »
-
――――
And yet again:-
"Hither come, ye dainty Graces,
And ye fair-haired Muses now! "
«Come, rosy-armed, chaste Graces! come,
Daughters of Jove! »
"Hither, hither come, ye Muses!
Leave the golden sky. "
Nay, she even calls upon Justice herself to put garlands about her
fair locks, and come to the feast; adding, characteristically enough,
that the gods turn away from worshipers that wear no wreaths.
From such sayings we see that Sappho's delight in nature, deep as
it was, was chastened and refined by a delight in art. The Grecian
grace of movement and management of drapery are particularly dear
to her. She exclaims:
"What rustic hoyden ever charmed the soul,
That round her ankles could not kilt her coats! "
But far more than all outward adornment of the body, which is
but an index of the soul, is the adornment of the soul itself with
sweetness and art. To an uncultivated woman she says:-
"When thou art dead, thou shalt lie in the earth:
Not even the memory of thee shall be,
Thenceforward and forever; for no part
Hast thou, or share, in the Pierian roses:
But, formless, even in Hades's halls shalt thou
Wander and flit with the effaced dead. "
On the other hand, to a cultivated woman she says:-
"I think no other maid, nay, not even one,
That hath beheld the sunlight, e'er shall be
Like thee in wisdom, in all days to come. "
-
She knows too that she herself will not be easily forgotten.
says:-
"I think there will be memory of us yet,
In after days. "
She
## p. 12822 (#244) ##########################################
12822
SAPPHO
But, aware of the labor required by genius, she adds:-
In another:
"I do not think with these two arms to clasp
The heavens. »
What calls forth Sappho's supreme admiration and love is the cul-
tivated, genial, loving soul, at home in a beautiful body. Her joy in
such souls expresses itself in language of the most tempestuous sort.
In one fragment she says:
-
"Love again, unnerving might,
Bitter-sweet, doth shake and smite,
Like a serpent folded tight. "
"Love again hath tossed my spirit,
Like a blast down mountain-gorges,
Rushing on the oak-tree's branches. »
-:
She is sad when her love is not returned. Of one friend she says:
"I loved thee, Atthis, once, in days gone by;
A little maid thou seemedst, nor very fair.
Atthis, thou hatest now to think of me,
And fleest to Andromeda. »
Of others she speaks pathetically:-
"The heart within their breast is cold,
And drops its wings. "
Then her sorrow is too great for utterance.
"To you, dear ones, this thought of mine may not
Be told; but in myself I know it well. "
There is a whole heart-tragedy in such snatches as this:-
"The beings that I have toiled to please,
They wound me most. »
But the strongest expression of her love occurs in the two longer
poems which follow this article. Of the second, Longinus says:—
"Do you not admire the manner in which, at one and the same time, she
loses soul, body, hearing, speech, color, everything, as if they were passing
from her and melting away? how, in self-contradiction, she is at once hot and
cold, foolish and wise? how she is afraid, and almost dead, so that not one
feeling, but a whole congregation of feelings, appears in her? For all these
things are true of persons in love.
side of hers have the same incongruous effect as the clash of
harsh tones in a picture; and I cannot quite enter into nature
thus, even when it is idealized. You have made a better study
of truth since then, in 'La Mare au Diable' [The Devil's Pool].
But I am not satisfied yet. The author still peeps out now
and then; there are authors' words in it. . . . You must try
again, even though you do not succeed; masterpieces are only
successful attempts. Provided you make conscientious attempts,
you may console yourself for not making masterpieces. "
"I am consoled on that point beforehand," I replied, “and
will begin again whenever you wish: advise me. "
## p. 12804 (#222) ##########################################
12804
GEORGE SAND
"Yesterday, for instance, we were at the rustic wake at the
farm," he said. "The hemp-breaker told stories up to two o'clock
in the morning. The village priest's servant helped or corrected
him: she was a somewhat cultured peasant; he was ignorant, but
happily endowed and very eloquent in his own way. These two
persons jointly told us a rather long, true story, which appeared
to be a familiar novel. Do you remember it? ”
"Perfectly, and I could repeat it literally in their very lan-
>>>>
guage.
"Their language would need a translation: you must write
in French, and not allow yourself a single word which does not
belong to the language, unless it be so intelligible that a foot-
note would be useless for the reader. "
"I see you are setting me a task fit to make me lose my
mind,—one I have never plunged into without coming out dis-
satisfied with myself, and penetrated by a sense of my weakness. "
"Never mind! You will plunge into it again; I know the
artist nature: nothing stimulates you as much as obstacles, and
you do poorly what you do without suffering. Come, begin,—
tell me the story of the 'Champi'; but not as I heard it with
you. It was a masterpiece for our minds and ears 'to the man-
ner born. ' Tell it as if there were a Parisian at your right
speaking the modern language, and a peasant at your left before
whom you would not wish to say a word or phrase he could not
fathom. Thus you will have to speak plainly for the Parisian,
simply for the peasant. One will rebuke you for absence of
color, the other for that of elegance; but I shall be there too,-
I, who am trying to find the conditions by which art, without
ceasing to be art for every one, may enter into the mystery of
primitive simplicity, and communicate to the mind the charm per-
vading nature. "
"We are going to make a joint study, it seems. "
"Yes; for I shall interfere when you stumble. "
## p. 12805 (#223) ##########################################
GEORGE SAND
12805
THE BUDDING AUTHOR
From 'Convent Life of George Sand. ' Copyright 1893, by Roberts Brothers
I
BEGAN, of course, by writing verses; rebelling against the
Alexandrine, which however I understood perfectly. I tried
to preserve a sort of rhythm without attending to the rhyme
or the cæsura; and composed many verses that had a great suc-
cess among the girls, who were not very critical. At last I took
it into my head to write a novel; and though I was not at all
religious at that time, I made my story very pious and edifying.
It was more of a tale, however, than a novel. The hero and
heroine met in the dusk of evening, in the country, at the foot
of a shrine, where they had come to say their prayers. They
admired and exhorted each other by turns. I knew that they
ought to fall in love, but I could not manage it. Sophia urged
me on; but when I had described them both as beautiful and
perfect beings, when I had brought them together in an enchant-
ing spot at the entrance of a Gothic chapel under the shade of
lofty oaks, I never could get any further. It was not possible
for me to describe the emotions of love: I had not a word to
say, and gave it up. I succeeded in making them ardently pious;
-not that I knew any more about piety than I did about love;
but I had examples of piety all the time before my eyes, and
perhaps even then the germ was unconsciously developing within
me. At all events, my young couple, after several chapters of
travel and adventure that I have completely forgotten, separated
at last, both consecrating themselves to God, the heroine taking
the veil, and the hero becoming a priest.
Sophia and Anna thought my novel very well written, and
they liked some things about it; but they declared that the hero
(who rejoiced, by the way, in the name of Fitzgerald) was dread-
fully tiresome, and they did not seem to consider the heroine.
much more amusing. There was a mother whom they liked bet-
ter; but upon the whole my prose was less successful than my
verses, and I was not much charmed with it myself.
Then I wrote a pastoral romance in verse, still worse than
the novel; and one winter day I put it into the stove. Then I
stopped writing, and decided that it was not an amusing occu-
pation, though I had taken infinite delight in the preliminary
composition.
Translation of Maria Ellery Mackaye.
-
## p. 12806 (#224) ##########################################
12806
LÉONARD SYLVAIN JULES SANDEAU
(1811-1883)
HEN Jules Sandeau (as he is usually known) was a humble
young law student, he visited Nohant, and there he met the
young Baroness Dudevant (George Sand), whose influence
was to change the whole course of his life. Up to that time he had
pursued the regular routine of French boys.
Born in the heart of France-at Aubusson, in the Department of
Creuse in 1811, he passed his school days there; and then was sent
to the law school in Paris. It was during one of his vacation trips
that he and Baroness Dudevant discovered
their congeniality of tastes and ambitions.
She was heartily tired of her husband and
of an irksome domestic life, and convinced
of her own latent power of authorship;
while Sandeau too inclined more toward
literature than law. So they went to Paris
together in 1831, when Sandeau was twenty
and Madame Dudevant twenty-seven. There
they rented a garret on the Quai Saint
Michel, and toiled cheerfully for a meagre
livelihood.
Henri de Latouche, editor-in-chief of Le
Figaro, became interested in these gifted
young Bohemians. He subjected them to
severe but helpful criticism, and accepted
JULES SANDEAU
some of their sketches for his paper. At his suggestion they wrote
a novel in collaboration,-'Rose et Blanche,' a colorless tale not
indicative of either's power. It is said that Sandeau suggested the
plot of George Sand's powerful novel 'Indiana. ' He also furnished
her with her nom de plume: George because upon St. George's day
he advised her to try her hand alone, and Sand from his own name.
The liaison terminated in two years, when Sandeau went off to
Italy; and with the exception of one moment's chance encounter, the
two never met again. Unquestionably the strongly emotional period
spent with the gifted young woman deepened Sandeau's nature, and
stimulated all his faculties. He continued to write, and proved his
possession of individual though not powerful talent. In 1839 'Mari-
anna' appeared,- a delicate analysis of the ebb and flow of passion;
## p. 12807 (#225) ##########################################
LÉONARD SYLVAIN JULES SANDEAU
12807
and its success enabled him to become a frequent contributor to the
Revue des Deux Mondes.
The true value of Sandeau's work lay in a nobility of sentiment
which was the spontaneous expression of his own nature.
He was
always obliged to earn his own living; yet he never allowed mer-
cenary considerations to affect the quality of his work. His novels
are models of careful construction. He could not treat overwhelm-
ing passions; but his refined nature had an intuitive appreciation of
the more delicate emotions acquired by civilized society.
He was
particularly fond of depicting the inevitable repulsion experienced
by the ancient aristocracy when forced to meet and adapt itself to
new and more democratic social conditions. This was the theme of
'Mademoiselle de la Seiglière,' and also of 'La Maison de Penarvan,'
two of his strongest books. That he could also write charmingly
for children is shown in 'La Roche aux Mouettes. '
It was Sandeau's fate to be associated with greater minds, to
whom perhaps more than their share of praise was sometimes given.
He wrote several plays in collaboration with Émile Augier; notably
'Le Gendre de M. Poirier,' which ranks as one of the best modern
French comedies. He did not cater to public taste, and never became
widely popular. It was his fellow authors who most respected and
admired him.
In spite of his scanty means, he was very generous. During his
early struggles he and the great Balzac were friends. It is said that
one day Balzac, hard pressed for a small sum, asked Sandeau for it.
Sandeau went out, and by pawning his overcoat raised the money,
and took it to him. A few days later, Balzac asked the loan of San-
deau's coat. "I cannot give it to you," said Sandeau simply; and
Balzac stormed at his meanness until shamed by a discovery of the
truth. Another time, feeling sorry for an old, poor, and embittered
publisher named Werdet, he presented him with the manuscript of
one of his ablest and most popular stories, 'Le Docteur Herbleu. '
Naturally he himself never became rich; although he was made
comfortable by the proceeds of his writing, augmented by his salary
as librarian, — first at the Mazarin library, to which position he was
appointed in 1853, and later at St. Cloud. Upon the downfall of the
second Napoleon this office was abolished; and Sandeau was granted
a pension.
Sandeau was elected Academician in 1859. His literary activity
extended over about twenty-five years; and he ceased to write many
years before his death on April 24th, 1883. Although he had little
influence in determining the trend of literature, Sandeau was a
decided romanticist in the early days of the romantic movement.
His tales are pleasant rather than exciting reading; most noteworthy
for delicacy of perception and sympathetic delineation of character.
## p. 12808 (#226) ##########################################
12808
LÉONARD SYLVAIN JULES SANDEAU
HOW THE HISTORY OF PENARVAN WAS WRITTEN
From The House of Penarvan'
[The Marquise de Penarvan, an aristocrat of the old régime, has been
actuated all her life by a ruling passion of family pride. She sacrifices her
husband to it; and after his death, her greatest interest is the history of the
family of Penarvan, which the Abbé Pyrmil, the chaplain and devoted friend
of the family, is writing. She does not love her only child,- her daughter
Paule,- because she cannot perpetuate the family name.
After vainly trying to win her mother's consent to her marriage with
Henri Coverley,- a young man who, although not of noble birth, is in every
other respect worthy of her, Paule marries without it. ]
F
ROM the day of her marriage Paule was seized with what
some would call a natural, others a morbid, self-reproach,
the suffering of which was increased by everything which
otherwise would have rendered her happy. She had made a des-
perate effort to secure the bliss so long coveted, and the capacity
of enjoying it when attained was denied to her.
Young, beautiful, worshiped by her husband, in the midst of
everything this world can offer of comfort and pleasure, she
suffered unremittingly, and in secret wept bitterly; loving her
husband as much as ever, the wealth and luxury with which he
surrounded her she simply hated. Her thoughts were perpetually
reverting to the stern mother, and the old château she had for-
saken. A strange sort of yearning for its poverty and simplicity
took possession of her soul. She turned with loathing from all
the magnificence that her sensitive feelings compared with the
penury of the home where her early life had been overshadowed
and saddened.
For the first time she understood the grand side of her
mother's character, the dignity of her uncomplaining poverty.
She was haunted by the thought of the tears she had — for the
first time-seen in those eyes, the severe or forgiving glance of
which she was never again to meet; they seemed to be dropping
like molten lead on her heart.
Henri lavished upon her all that the most devoted affection
and tenderest care could devise. His patience, his delicacy of
feeling, never failed; and she responded to his love with passion-
ate affection.
"Oh, if you knew how I love you! " she would say. "I would
suffer far more even than I do suffer, rather than forego the
## p. 12809 (#227) ##########################################
LÉONARD SYLVAIN JULES SANDEAU
12809
blessing of being your wife. Yes, I bless the hour when I first
saw you; and I thank God morning, noon, and night for the
priceless gift of your love. But oh, forgive me if I cannot be
happy, if I cannot forget; if I cannot live on in the midst of
splendor and gayety, unforgiven and unblest by my mother. "
If Henri reminded her of all she had suffered under that
mother's roof, she would answer:
"I was not patient enough; I did not wait as I ought to have
done, Henri. I think I have thought so ever since — that she
was beginning to love me when I left her. "
They wrote: only the abbé answered, and his letters held out
no hope. They still went on writing, and with no other result.
They traveled in Italy, in Greece; but in the midst of all the
wonderful beauties of nature and art there was always before
Paule's eyes the same vision,- her mother growing old in soli-
tude and poverty.
She gave birth to a child; and the joys of maternal love
only sharpened the pangs of a remorse which had grown into a
malady. The more intensely she cared for her little girl, the
more acute became her regrets and her fears. Would that little
one abandon her one day as she had abandoned her mother?
Had she any claim upon her own child,- she who had disobeyed
and defied her only parent?
Once more Paule wrote to the marquise: no answer came.
The abbé was obliged to admit that her letters were never
opened, that her name was never to be uttered in her mother's
ears.
They spent a year on the banks of the lake of Como. As
time went by, Paule found Henri even more excellent, more
perfect, than she had ever supposed that any one could be. It
was terrible to her to feel that the wife of such a man should be
an unhappy woman; that with such a husband and with such a
child she should be wasting away with sorrow. They came back
to France discouraged and depressed.
People are often more selfish in their sorrows than in their
joys; and yet there is no sort of selfishness which those who
are conscientious and kind-hearted should more anxiously shrink
from. Paule awakened at last to a sense of the fault she was
committing by making the weight of her self-reproach sadden
her husband's life; and she made up her mind to reappear in
society.
## p. 12810 (#228) ##########################################
12810
LÉONARD SYLVAIN JULES SANDEAU
The magnificent house of the Coverleys was thrown open
to the world; and she did the honors of balls and parties with
simplicity and grace. She was as much admired then as the
first days she had been seen at Bordeaux, walking arm in arm
with the prince. Her dress was always simple: she disliked to
wear jewels or trinkets.
But in spite of all efforts to appear happy in Henri's pres-
ence, and her pleasure in her little girl, who was a singularly
engaging child, he could not help seeing that she was misera-
ble; and so did Madame de Soleyre, who noticed that whereas
formerly she seldom spoke of the marquise, and seemed afraid
almost of mentioning her name, now she was always anxious to
revert to the subject of her mother's past life, and questioned
her minutely as to the time when, in the height of her youth
and beauty, Renée de Penarvan had acted such a noble and heroic
part, and been the admiration of the Vendean nobility. Paule
accused herself of the indifference and want of understanding, as
she called it, which had made her fail to appreciate the grand
side of her mother's nature.
One night when they had returned from a ball, Paule threw
herself down on a sofa and burst into an agony of tears. She
had struggled all the evening with an oppressive sense of con-
trast between her mother's fate and her own; and at last the
overburdened heart gave way, and she could not control herself
any longer, even in Henri's presence. He knelt by her side, and
she laid her head on his shoulder.
"What can I do
"What is it, my darling? " he tenderly said.
to comfort you?
1 ? »
<< Henri," she whispered, "I must go and see my mother.
Even at the risk of her driving me away,- of her cursing me,-
I must go to her. "
"But, dearest, if she refuses - and she will refuse- to see
—
you ? »
"Then I shall hide myself in the park; I shall catch sight of
her in some way or other. "
"We shall set off to-morrow," Henri said.
"Oh, how good, how kind you are, my own love! " she said,
throwing her arms round his neck.
Two days afterwards, in the dusk of an October evening, they
arrived at the inn at Tiffange with their little girl, then just three
years old. It was too late to send for the abbé, and they set out
## p. 12811 (#229) ##########################################
LÉONARD SYLVAIN JULES SANDEAU
12811
on foot for the château; Paule leading the way, and Henri carry-
ing the child.
They entered the park through one of the breaks in the wall,
and walked along the alleys strewed with dead leaves.
As they
approached the house, Paule pointed to a window in which a
light was visible, and whispered to her husband:-
"That is her room. She must be sitting there. "
It was a strange thing that those young people, who had
youth and beauty and mutual love to gladden, their lives, who
possessed houses and villas and many a ship crossing the ocean
laden with rich merchandise, and whose wealth was every day
increasing, should have been standing before that dilapidated
building with the one wish, the one desire, to be admitted within
those doors, closed to them perhaps forever.
room.
In another window a light gleamed also. That was the abbé's
What was he doing? Was he praying for his little Paule?
Was he still working at his 'History of the House of Penarvan'?
When Paule was a child, she used to stand under the abbe's
window and clap her hands together three times to summon him
into the garden. She advanced and made the well-known sig-
nal. The window opened, and the abbé, looking like a tall ghost,
appeared, leaning out of it as if to dive into the outward dark-
ness.
"Abbé, my own abbé," Paule cried in a mournful voice.
The ghost disappeared; and a moment afterwards the abbé
was clasping Paule, her husband, and her child in his wide arms,
and then dragging them like secreted criminals into his room.
"You here, my child, and you, M. Henri, and this darling? "
"I am broken-hearted, abbé: I cannot live on in this state.
Do, do make my mother see me. Oh, do get her to forgive me. "
The abbé had taken the little child on his knees, and she was
looking up into his face with a pretty smile.
"Oh, M. l'Abbé, do help us! " Coverley said.
The abbé was looking attentively at the little girl. She was
so like what Renée had been as a child.
«< What does my mother feel? Does she allow you to speak of
Does she ever mention me? "
us?
The abbé was silent. He could not say yes, he could not bear
to say no.
"I see there is no hope," Paule exclaimed in a despairing man-
"It is really to her as if I were dead! "
ner.
## p. 12812 (#230) ##########################################
12812
LÉONARD SYLVAIN JULES SANDEAU
The abbé made the little child join her little hands together
and said to her:
"Do you love the good God, my child? "
"Oh yes," she answered.
"Then say to the good God, 'My God, come with me. "
"My God, come with me," the little one repeated; and then
the abbé took her in his arms and exclaimed:-
――――
"Come along, come with me; and may God help thee. "
The marquise was sitting in her old oak-wood chair by the
chimney, where two small logs were burning; an ill-trimmed lamp
by her side. Her features had grown thin and sharp; her hollow
cheeks and dim eyes spoke of silent suffering and inward strug-
gles, and of the secret work which had been going on in her
soul during the last four years. She looked like the ghost of her
former self; but there was still something striking and impressive
in her appearance. She seemed crushed indeed, but not subdued.
Around her nothing but ruins, within her nothing but bitter rec-
ollections; and a blank, desolate future in view.
Had she too felt remorse? Had she heard a voice whispering
misgivings as to the course she had pursued ? Had she closed
her ears to it? Was it true, as Paule in her grief and repentance
had suspected, that she had begun to love and admire her child
during the months which had preceded their final separation?
Did she ask herself sometimes, when kneeling in the dismantled.
chapel, and before that crucifix which war and devastation had
spared, if she had acted up to the Christian as well as to the
ancestral traditions of her race when she had driven that child
away from her forever? And the mourning garb in which she
was arrayed,-did she feel certain that it was God's will, and
not her own unrelenting heart, which had condemned her to
wear it?
No one could tell, not even the abbé. But that she was be-
coming every day more thin, more haggard, more gloomy, others
besides him could observe.
As in a besieged city where famine is doing fell work, and
from which a cry for mercy and life despairingly rises, a stern
commander refuses to capitulate, holds out, and dooms himself
and others to a lingering death,- so the pride of her soul sti
fled the yearnings, the pleadings, the cries of nature; and never
perhaps had they been more distinctly heard, never had the
weight of solitude and loneliness pressed more heavily on Renée
## p. 12813 (#231) ##########################################
LÉONARD SYLVAIN JULES SANDEAU
12813
de Penarvan's heart than upon that autumnal evening. As she
sat in that large, dimly lighted room, her elbow resting on the
side of her arm-chair, her head on her hand, a slight noise made.
her look up: the door opened, and a little child came in. Alarmed
at the sight of the pale lady in black by the fireside, the child
stopped in the middle of the room, and her smiling face became
grave.
"Who are you? " asked the marquise, who did not even know
that Paule had a child.
"I am a little girl. "
"Come here, my child. "
Taking courage, the little thing toddled up to the chimney,
and put her little hands on the arm of the oak chair.
"What is your name? " the marquise asked, softened by the
sight of the lovely little face.
"Renée," the child answered.
The marquise started with emotion and a sort of fear; she
scanned the features of the child, she saw, she guessed, she under-
stood it all.
"Go back to your mother," she said in a trembling voice.
"Go back to Madame Coverley. ”
Frightened at the stern voice and manner of the lady, the
little thing turned round and slowly went towards the door.
The marquise watched her with a beating heart. During the
instants it took the child to cross the room, the whole of her
life passed before her. She saw her gentle, affectionate husband
riding from the hall door on his way to a bloody death; she saw
her beautiful, gentle daughter driven from her home: and now
that lovely little creature so like herself—with her fair hair, her
white skin, her blue eyes-was disappearing also.
She looked round at the pictures on the walls: she felt as if
they, those ancestors, to whom she had sacrificed everything, had
doomed her to a lingering death.
And meanwhile the little girl had reached the door. Renée
was still hesitating. The child turned round and said with a
reproachful expression in her baby face:
"You not my grandmamma. You not love Renée. You send
Renée away. "
She could not hold out,-the poor marquise! She uttered a
sort of cry.
She sprang up, seized the child in her arms, kissed
her, wept over her, hugged her to her breast.
## p. 12814 (#232) ##########################################
12814
LÉONARD SYLVAIN JULES SANDEAU
Stay, stay, my little one, stay," she wildly exclaimed; "stay,
my little life, my darling, my treasure. "
«
A YEAR had elapsed; and on the banks of the Sèvres there
were no longer any ruins to be seen. The old castle of Penar-
van had recovered its former aspect. The towers, the walls, the
handsome entrance, were all restored, the armorial bearings had
reappeared, the invading weeds were banished from the court.
The stables were filled with horses and carriages, the kennel
with dogs.
In the handsomely furnished drawing-room the whole set of
ancestors looked new and bright in their cleaned state and fresh-
gilded frames. Inside and outside the house there was life and
animation. The ruined farms were rebuilt, the greatest part of
the estate repurchased; manufactories of ropes and sails rose on
the banks of the river.
The time of ragged cassocks had likewise gone by; the chapel
of the château had recovered its old splendor. The abbé offi-
ciated in great pomp, on Sundays and festivals, at a magnificent
altar; and the seat of the lords of the manor had been restored to
its wonted place. A look of happiness and prosperity reigned
in the whole neighborhood. Respect for the past was joined to
modern enterprise, and the poetry of old associations to the activ-
ity of useful labor.
Henri Coverley had not only repurchased the estates of the
ancient domain of Penarvan, he had also bought back La Briga-
zière.
M. Michaud, who possessed several houses in the neighbor-
hood of Rennes, looked with contempt on that little old-fashioned
manor-house, and was quite ready to sell it. Père Michaud had
now grown into that famous Michaud so conspicuous on the
Liberal benches in the days of the Restoration, who denounced
the nobility and protested against the feudal distinctions, till in
1830 the new government stopped his mouth by making him a
baron.
On a beautiful summer's afternoon the Marquise de Penarvan,
with her little granddaughter and the abbé, were sitting in that
same drawing-room where we have so often seen them. Renée
was still handsome; her magnificent fair hair was not yet tinged
by a single thread of gray. The abbé was rather less thin
than he used to be. Little Renée was sitting on his knees, and
## p. 12815 (#233) ##########################################
LÉONARD SYLVAIN JULES SANDEAU
12815
learning to read in his history; the first chapters of which were
being printed for private circulation.
That child was now the abbé's idol; she made the happiness
of his declining years. As to the marquise, she was fondly, pas-
sionately attached to her grandchild. The old Renée loved the
little Renée with a tenderness she had never before felt towards
any human being. She had taken, as it were, possession of the
child; and her softened but still despotic nature showed itself
in the excess to which she carried her devotion to this little
creature.
Paule and Henri were just going out on horseback; the mar-
quise stood at the window and watched them as they rode down
the avenue.
"Abbé," she said, calling him to her side, "look at them. "
And she made a gesture which implied, "How handsome they
are; how happy they seem! "
The abbé, trying to look very sly, said in a low voice:-
"I married them. "
"O you arch-deceiver, you abominable hypocrite," the mar-
quise exclaimed: "it was just like you,-you have always played
me tricks. "
They both laughed; the abbé rubbed his hands in a self-
complacent manner.
"Well, well," the marquise said, "we shall be quite a large
party this evening: you know we expect Madame de Soleyre. "
The abbé had returned to little Renée, and was again open-
ing his book.
"Really, abbé," the marquise exclaimed, "you have no mercy
on that child: you will bore her to death.
"Not at all, Madame la Marquise: Mademoiselle Renée prom-
ises to be a very good scholar; and she likes stories about battles,
which her mamma never did. "
>>>>
Little Renée pointed with her small finger to one of the
paintings in the manuscript, and said:-
"Guy de Penarvan die at Massoure. "
It may be imagined if she was applauded by the abbé, and
hugged by her grandmother; who, after kissing her over and over
again, turned to the abbé and said:-
"But, by the way, is it at last finished,- that eternal history? "
"That eternal history is finished, madame," the abbé an-
swered, in a rather touchy manner. "Yesterday I copied into it
## p. 12816 (#234) ##########################################
12816
LÉONARD SYLVAIN JULES SANDEAU
the last lines of the chapter devoted to the memory of your hus-
band, the late marquis. '
"You have not quite accomplished your task, abbé: your his-
tory is not complete. "
"Alas, Madame la Marquise, I know that too well. That
wretched prelate - "
"Oh, but without reckoning the prelate there is still some-
thing to add to it. "
"Something more, madame? what can that be? »
«< Well, and my history, M. l'Abbé! You make no mention of
me. "
"I write the history of the dead, not of the living, Madame la
Marquise; and I fully reckon on never writing yours. "
"I will dictate to you what to say about me. Sit down here
and take a pen. "
The abbé, somewhat surprised, did as he was told; and seated
himself in an expectant position.
"At the top of the page write: 'Louise Charlotte Antoinette
Renée, Marquise de Penarvan,-last of the name. »
"Last of the name,'" the abbé re-echoed.
"And now write:-'She lived like a recluse, devoted to the
worship of her ancestry; and found out- though rather late —
that if it is right to honor the dead, it is very sweet to love the
living. '»
"Is that all, madame? "
"Yes, my dear abbé," Renée answered, taking her grandchild
in her arms, and fondly kissing her soft cheek. "But if you like
you may add :
"HERE ENDS THE HISTORY OF THE HOUSE OF PENARVAN. '»
Translation of Lady Georgiana Fullerton.
―
## p. 12816 (#235) ##########################################
## p. 12816 (#236) ##########################################
SAPPHO
## p. 12816 (#237) ##########################################
1
1
t
## p. 12816 (#238) ##########################################
## p. 12817 (#239) ##########################################
12817
SAPPHO
(612 B. C. -? )
BY THOMAS DAVIDSON
APPHO (more properly Psappha), the greatest of all poetesses,
was born in 612 B. C. , at Eressos in the island of Lesbos.
Her father's name was Scamandronymus, her mother's
Cleis. Few facts of her life are recorded. As a girl she doubtless
learnt by heart her Homer and Hesiod, and sang the songs of her
countrymen Terpander and Arion. While still young she paid a visit
to Sicily, and possibly there made the acquaintance of the great
Western poets, Stesichorus and Ibycus. When she returned home
she settled at Mitylene, being perhaps disgusted with the conduct of
her brother Charaxus, who had married the courtesan Rhodopis.
one of her satirical poems on him belongs perhaps the line-
To
"Wealth without worth is no harmless housemate. »
She found some compensation in her youngest brother Larichus,
who for his beauty had been chosen as cupbearer in the public ban-
quet hall at Mitylene. In an extant fragment she says to him:-
:-
"Stand kindly there before me, and unfold
The beauty of thine eyes. "
As we may well believe, the beautiful, gifted Sappho had many
admirers. Chief among these was the great Alcæus,— statesman,
warrior, and lyric poet. There is still extant the opening of a poem
which he addressed to her:-
XXII-802
«Violet-crowned, chaste, sweet-smiling Sappho,
I fain would speak; but bashfulness forbids. "
She replied in the spirited lines, showing her simplicity of character:
"Had thy wish been pure and manly,
And no evil on thy tongue,
Shame had not possessed thine eyelids:
From thy lips the right had rung. "
## p. 12818 (#240) ##########################################
12818
SAPPHO
To a suitor younger than herself she wrote:
"Remain my friend, but seek a younger bride:
I am too old, and may not mate with thee. »
Indeed, a passionate nature like hers was not easily mated; and so
we find a strain of longing pathos in her. In one fragment she says:
"The moon hath set,
The Pleiades are gone:
'Tis midnight, and the time goes by,
And I-I sleep alone. »
Elsewhere she says (in the exact words of a Scotch ballad),—
"For I sall aye gang a maiden mair. »
The much-quoted but absurd story of Sappho's flinging herself
from the Leucadian Rock, in despair at her unrequited love for the
handsome Phaon, is due to a confusion between her and a courtesan
of the same name. So far from such folly was the poetess, that, late
in life apparently, she changed her mind about marrying, and gave
her hand to a wealthy Andrian named Cercylas, by whom she had a
daughter, named after her own mother, Cleis. We have still a frag-
ment referring to this child:-
:-
"I have a little maid, as fair
As any golden flower,
My Cleis dear,
For whom I would not take all Lydia,
Nor lovely Lesbos here. »
Elsewhere she says to the same child,-
"Let me enfold thee, darling mine. "
Of the events of Sappho's later life we know little: merely that
she lived to a ripe old age, and died leaving a name which the
Greeks for a thousand years, with one accord, placed next to that of
Homer. After her death the Lesbians paid her divine honors, erected
memorial temples to her, and even stamped her image upon their
coins, as other cities did those of their tutelary deities. How she was
regarded by her great contemporaries we may learn from a story told
of Solon. When near his end, some one having repeated to him a
poem of Sappho's, he prayed the gods to allow him to live long
enough to learn it by heart. From his day to the latest times of
antiquity, poets and critics strove in vain for words to express their
admiration of herself and her works. Plato calls her "the beautiful
## p. 12819 (#241) ##########################################
SAPPHO
12819
Sappho"; and she is often referred to as "the tenth Muse. " An epi-
gram on the great lyric poets, after enumerating the eight men, says,
"Sappho was not the ninth among men: she is catalogued as the
tenth among the Muses. " Horace writes:-
"Still breathes the love, still live the hues,
Intrusted to the Eolian maiden's strings. "
And the great critic Longinus is even more complimentary.
Such uniform, unqualified praise for a thousand years may well
make us mourn the loss of Sappho's works. For with the exception
of two short poems (one incomplete), and about a hundred and
twenty fragments of from one to five lines, they are all lost. But
what remains is very precious, containing a wealth of deft expression
not easy to match in any other poet, and more than sufficient to
enable us to comprehend the estimate given of the poetess by Strabo:
"Sappho is a kind of miracle; for within the memory of man there
has not, so far as we know, arisen any woman worthy even to be
mentioned along with Sappho in the matter of poetry. "
Sappho left nine books and rolls of poems, the subjects of which
were so various that they were arranged according to metres, a book
being devoted to each of the nine metres in which she wrote. Of
these metres the most famous was the "Sapphic stanza," which she
seems to have invented. Another invention of hers was the plectrum
or pectis, with which the lyre was struck,— the first step toward the
piano.
We shall arrange her briefer fragments not according to metre but
to subject, premising the remark that through most of them runs
a trait to which she frankly bears testimony, the love of splendor.
She says:-
―
"I am in love with luxury:
The love of the sun hath won for me
The splendid and the beautiful. »
Her love of nature, and her power of expressing its charm in
simple, striking language, remind us of Burns and Goethe. Her
pathetic lines about her loneliness at midnight have already been
quoted. But it is not merely the pathetic in nature that she feels:
she feels all its living beauty. It is not only the night, with the
moon and the Pleiads set, that touches her: every hour of the day
comes to her with a fresh surprise. Of the morning she says:-
"Early uprose the golden-slippered Dawn;"
and of the evening:-
"O Hesperus! thou bringest all
The glimmering Dawn dispersed. »
-
## p. 12820 (#242) ##########################################
12820
SAPPHO
And again:
"O Hesperus! thou bringest all:
Thou bring'st the wine; thou bring'st the goat;
Thou bring'st the child to the mother's knee. »*
Of the night she says:-
-
"The stars about the pale-faced moon
Veil back their shining forms from sight,
As oft as, full with radiant round,
She bathes the earth with silver light. "
And again of the moon and the Pleiads:
"The moon was shining full, and they
Stood as about an altar ranged. »
And just as the hours of the day, so the seasons of the year bring
her joy. Her ear is open to-
"Spring's harbinger, the passion-warbling nightingale;">
and her eye brightens when —
"The golden chick-peas spring upon the banks. »
What a picture of the Southern summer, with its noonday siesta in
the open air, we have in these lines:
:-
"The lullaby of waters cool
Through apple-boughs is softly blown,
And, shaken from the rippling leaves,
Sleep droppeth down. "
And how we should like to hear the termination of this simile:-
"As when the shepherds on the hills
Tread under foot the hyacinth,
And on the ground the purple flower [lies crushed]. »
Along with her delight in nature goes a keen joyous feeling for
all that is festive: song, wine, and dance, garlands, gold vessels, and
purple robes are dear to her. To her lyre she says:-
And to Aphrodite she calls,-
"Come then, my lyre divine!
Let speech be thine. »
-
"Come, Queen of Cyprus! pour the stream
Of nectar, mingled lusciously
With merriment, in cups of gold. »
* Lord Byron's expansion of this in 'Don Juan' will be remembered. See
page 2968 of this work.
## p. 12821 (#243) ##########################################
SAPPHO
12821
But Aphrodite is not enough. Life requires other ennobling ele-
ments, light, sweetness, and art, represented by Hermes, the Graces,
and the Muses. Of a wedding-feast she says:-
Again she calls:-
And again:-
"Then with ambrosia the bowl was mixed,
And Hermes took a cup, to toast the gods,
While all the rest raised goblets, poured the wine,
And prayed for all brave things to bless the groom. »
-
――――
And yet again:-
"Hither come, ye dainty Graces,
And ye fair-haired Muses now! "
«Come, rosy-armed, chaste Graces! come,
Daughters of Jove! »
"Hither, hither come, ye Muses!
Leave the golden sky. "
Nay, she even calls upon Justice herself to put garlands about her
fair locks, and come to the feast; adding, characteristically enough,
that the gods turn away from worshipers that wear no wreaths.
From such sayings we see that Sappho's delight in nature, deep as
it was, was chastened and refined by a delight in art. The Grecian
grace of movement and management of drapery are particularly dear
to her. She exclaims:
"What rustic hoyden ever charmed the soul,
That round her ankles could not kilt her coats! "
But far more than all outward adornment of the body, which is
but an index of the soul, is the adornment of the soul itself with
sweetness and art. To an uncultivated woman she says:-
"When thou art dead, thou shalt lie in the earth:
Not even the memory of thee shall be,
Thenceforward and forever; for no part
Hast thou, or share, in the Pierian roses:
But, formless, even in Hades's halls shalt thou
Wander and flit with the effaced dead. "
On the other hand, to a cultivated woman she says:-
"I think no other maid, nay, not even one,
That hath beheld the sunlight, e'er shall be
Like thee in wisdom, in all days to come. "
-
She knows too that she herself will not be easily forgotten.
says:-
"I think there will be memory of us yet,
In after days. "
She
## p. 12822 (#244) ##########################################
12822
SAPPHO
But, aware of the labor required by genius, she adds:-
In another:
"I do not think with these two arms to clasp
The heavens. »
What calls forth Sappho's supreme admiration and love is the cul-
tivated, genial, loving soul, at home in a beautiful body. Her joy in
such souls expresses itself in language of the most tempestuous sort.
In one fragment she says:
-
"Love again, unnerving might,
Bitter-sweet, doth shake and smite,
Like a serpent folded tight. "
"Love again hath tossed my spirit,
Like a blast down mountain-gorges,
Rushing on the oak-tree's branches. »
-:
She is sad when her love is not returned. Of one friend she says:
"I loved thee, Atthis, once, in days gone by;
A little maid thou seemedst, nor very fair.
Atthis, thou hatest now to think of me,
And fleest to Andromeda. »
Of others she speaks pathetically:-
"The heart within their breast is cold,
And drops its wings. "
Then her sorrow is too great for utterance.
"To you, dear ones, this thought of mine may not
Be told; but in myself I know it well. "
There is a whole heart-tragedy in such snatches as this:-
"The beings that I have toiled to please,
They wound me most. »
But the strongest expression of her love occurs in the two longer
poems which follow this article. Of the second, Longinus says:—
"Do you not admire the manner in which, at one and the same time, she
loses soul, body, hearing, speech, color, everything, as if they were passing
from her and melting away? how, in self-contradiction, she is at once hot and
cold, foolish and wise? how she is afraid, and almost dead, so that not one
feeling, but a whole congregation of feelings, appears in her? For all these
things are true of persons in love.
