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George SAND

Lettre autographe à Gustave Flaubert : "Étroniforme est le mot sublime qui classe cette espèce de végétaux merdoïdes"

Nohant 21 décembre 1867, 13,4x20,7cm, deux feuillets sous chemise et étui.

Autograph letter from George Sand to Gustave Flaubert dated December 21, 1867, 8 pages on two lined leaves. Published in Sand's Correspondance, XX, pp. 642-645.
From one of the finest literary correspondences of the century, this letter written on Christmas Eve 1867 is a sublime testament to the frank friendship between George Sand, the “old troubadour”, and Gustave Flaubert, christened “cul de plomb” [leaden ass] after declining his invitation to Nohant to complete L'Éducation sentimentale.

Despite their seventeen year-age gap, opposing temperaments and divergent outlooks on life, the reader is gripped by the tenderness and astonishing verve of George Sand's long confession to Flaubert. At the height of her literary fame and enjoying her theater in Nohant, Sand talks at length about politics, their separation, their conception of the writer's work, and life itself.

In this “stream-of-consciousness” letter, Sand naturally and freely sets down on paper eight pages of conversations with Flaubert who made only too rare and brief appearances in Nohant: “But how I chat with you! Do you find all this amusing? I'd like a letter to replace one of our suppers, which I too miss, and which would be so good here with you, if you weren't a cul de plomb [leaden ass] who won't let yourself be dragged along, to life for life's sake”, whereas Flaubert's motto, then busy writing L'Éducation sentimentale, was rather art for art's sake. In the end of 1867, Sand grieved the death of an “almost brother”, François Rollinat, which Sand appeased with letters to Flaubert and lively evenings at Nohant: “This is how I've been living for the last 15 days since I stopped working [...] Ah'! [...] Ah! when you're on vacation, work, logic and reason seem like strange swings.” Sand was quick to criticize him for working tirelessly in his robe, “the enemy of freedom”, while she was running up and down mountains and valleys, from Cannes to Normandy, even to Flaubert's own home, which she had visited in September. On this occasion, Sand had happily reread Salammbô, where she picked up a few lines for her latest novel, Mademoiselle Merquem.

Their literary and virile friendship, similar to Rollinat's, defied the old guard of literati who declared the existence of a “sincere affair” between man and woman utterly impossible. Sand, who has been described in turn as a lesbian, a nymphomaniac, and made famous for her resounding and varied love affairs, began a long and intense correspondence with Flaubert, for whom she was a mother and an old friend. She called herself in their letters “old troubadour” or “old horse” and no longer even considered herself a woman, but a quasi-man, recalling her youthful cross-dressing and formidable contempt for gender norms. To Flaubert had compared the female writers as Amazons denying their femininity: “To better shoot with the bow, they crushed their nipples”, Sand replied in this letter: “I don't share your idea that you have to do away with the breast to shoot with the bow. I have a completely opposite belief for my own use, which I think is good for many others, probably for the majority”. A warrior, yes, but a peaceful warrior, Sand willingly adopted the customs of a world of misogynistic intellectuals, while remaining true to herself: “I believe that the artist should live in one's nature as much as possible. To the man who loves struggle, war; to the man who loves women, love; to the old man who, like me, loves nature, travel and flowers, rocks, great landscapes, children too, family, everything that moves, everything that fights moral anemia,” she then adds. A fine evocation of her “green period”, this passage marks the time of Sand's country novels, when, mellowed by the years, she gave herself over entirely to contemplation to write François le Champi, La Mare au diable and La Petite Fadette. But her love of nature didn't stop her from conquering language over men, even though at 63 she was still “scandalizing the inscandalizable”, according to the Goncourt brothers.

Faithful to her socialist ideals, she openly criticizes Adolphe Thiers in the letter: “Étroniforme [shithead] is the sublime word that classifies this species of merdoïde [shitty] vegetation [...] Yes, you'll do well to dissect this balloon-like soul and this cobweb-like talent!” As the leader of the liberal opposition to Napoleon III, Thiers had just delivered a speech in defense of the Papal States, turning his back on Garibaldi, future father of unified Italy. Everyone in Sand's home of Nohant had had a good laugh at Flaubert's logorrhea, sent three days earlier: “Let us roar against Monsieur Thiers! Can one see a more triumphant imbecile, a more abject scoundrel, a more etroniform [shit-like] bourgeois!” he wrote. Sand echoed his sentiments: “Maurice [Sand] finds your letter so beautiful [...] He won't forget étroniforme, which charms him, étronoïde, étronifère”. Against this backdrop of intense political debates, Sand also warned Flaubert, who risked jeopardizing his novel by including his criticism of Thiers in L'Éducation sentimentale: “Unfortunately when your book arrives, [Thiers] may be over and not very dangerous, for such men leave nothing behind. But perhaps he will also be in power. You can expect anything. Then the lesson will be a good one.”

Their shared socialist and anti-clericalist opinions did not prevent them from holding widely divergent views on the essence of the novel and the work of the writer: “the artist is an instrument which everything must play before it plays others. But all this is perhaps not applicable to a mind of your kind, which has acquired a great deal and only has to digest". Flaubert's detachment, his open cynicism for his characters, like a Madame Bovary harshly judged by the narrator, differed sharply from Sand's emotional and personal relationship to writing. Flaubert's almost schizophrenic attitude readily confused her and made her fear for her sanity: “I would insist on only one point, and that is that physical being is necessary to moral being, and that I fear for you one day or another a deterioration of health that would force you to suspend your work and let it cool down.” Flaubert never betrays or reveals himself through his novels, unlike Sand, who throws herself body and soul into her writing: “I believe that art needs a palette always overflowing with soft or violent tones, depending on the subject of the painting”.

While Flaubert, hard-working and full of literary anxieties, was secluded in Croisset, Sand enjoyed her freedom at Nohant, a place of family bliss but also of egalitarian living, where she “[had] fun to the point of exhaustion”. She willingly swapped tête-à-tête sessions with the inkwell for her little theater in Nohant: “These plays last until 2 a.m. and we're crazy when we get out. We eat until 5 am. There are performances twice a week, and the rest of the time, we do stuff, and the play (which) goes on with the same characters, going through the most unheard-of adventures. The audience consists of 8 or 10 young people, my three grand-nephews and the sons of my old friends. They're passionate to the point of screaming”. Persevering, she once again urged her “leaden ass” Flaubert to come out of his voluntary confinement: “I'm sure you'd have a wonderful time too, for there's a splendid verve and carelessness in these improvisations, and the characters sculpted by Maurice seem to be alive, with a burlesque life, at once real and impossible; it's like a dream.” Two years later, Flaubert would make a sensational entrance at Nohant, and Sand would leave “aching” after days of partying. During his memorable stay at Sand's he read his Saint-Antoine aloud in its entirety and danced the cachucha dressed as a woman!

Exceptional pages of George Sand in spiritual communion with her illustrious colleague; Flaubert was one of the few to whom she spoke so freely, crudely, but tenderly, sealing in words her deep friendship with the “great artist [...] among the few who are men” (letter to Armand Barbès, 12 October 1867).

Our letter is housed in a half-black morocco folder, with marbled paper boards, facing pastedown in black lambskin felt, Plexiglas protecting the letter, black morocco-lined slipcase, marbled paper boards, signed P. Goy & C. Vilaine.

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