-, : . '

 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNI1 
 
 CONVENT LIFE OF GEORGE SAND 
 

 
 TO 
 
 GEORGE SAND, 
 a Kecoffnition. 
 
 Tnie genius, but true woman ! dost deny 
 
 Thy woman's nature with a manly scorn, 
 
 And break away the gauds and armlets worn 
 
 By weaker women in captivity ? 
 
 Ah, vain denial ! that revolted cry 
 
 Is sobbed in by a woman's voice forlorn : 
 
 Thy woman's hair, my sister, all unshorn, 
 
 Floats back dishevelled strength in agony, 
 
 Disproving thy man's name ; and while before 
 
 The world thou burnest in a poet-fire, 
 
 We see thy woman-heart beat evermore 
 
 Through the large flame. Beat purer, heart, and higher, 
 
 Till God unsex thee on the heavenly shore, 
 
 Where unincarnate spirits purely aspire. 
 
 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.
 
 FROM A PAINTING BY COUTURE
 
 CONVENT LIFE 
 
 OF 
 
 GEORGE SAND 
 
 (FROM "L'HISTOIRE DE MA VIE") 
 
 JEranslatfD bg 
 MARIA ELLERY MAcKAYE 
 
 BOSTON 
 ROBERTS BROTHERS
 
 Copyright, 1893, 
 BY ROBERTS BROTHERS. 
 
 SEntocrsitg 
 JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE, U.S.A.
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 ' I "HIS little book has been taken from an 
 episode in the published Memoirs of 
 Madame Dudevant, whose maiden name was 
 Aurore Dupin, that "large-brained woman 
 and large-hearted man, self-called George 
 Sand." The heroine of these pages, the 
 convent schoolgirl, had royal blood in her 
 veins, descended, as she was, from Frederic 
 Augustus, Elector of Saxony, and King of 
 Poland, her great grandfather, Maurice 
 de Saxe, the famous captain of the war of 
 the Austrian succession, being the illegiti- 
 mate son of Frederic Augustus and of the 
 once celebrated coquette, Aurore de Konigs- 
 mark, that unprincipled beauty of whom 
 Charles XII. of Sweden owned himself 
 afraid. But she says in her Memoirs : 
 
 2076752
 
 vi Preface. 
 
 " If my father was the great-grandson of 
 Augustus II., King of Poland, and if in 
 this indisputable though illicit fashion I 
 am nearly related to Charles X. and 
 Louis XVIII., it is no less certain that 
 plebeian blood flows in my veins just as 
 directly ; and on this side, moreover, there 
 is no bar sinister." In fact her mother, 
 buffeted about in Revolutionary times, was 
 a poor girl, daughter of a Parisian bird- 
 fancier; and from this ancestor George 
 Sand always claimed to have inherited her 
 love - of natural history. 
 
 The other grandfather was the step-son 
 of the well-known Madame Dupin, the hos- 
 pitable and enlightened chatelaine of Che- 
 nonceaux in its palmiest days. This 
 gentleman, M. Dupin de Francueil, had 
 won for his wife, after a resolute court- 
 ship of two or three years, Aurore de 
 Saxe, the widow of Count van Horn, who 
 had been killed in a duel. This lady, 
 educated at Saint-Cyr, and afterward pen- 
 sioned by the daughter of Marie Antoi-
 
 Preface. vii 
 
 nette, is the grandmother of " Convent 
 Life." During the Reign of Terror, after 
 the death of her husband, .she fell under 
 suspicion, was forcibly separated from her 
 only child, Maurice, then fifteen years old, 
 and imprisoned in the very convent of the 
 Fosses St. Victor, where she afterward sent 
 her little granddaughter to school. The boy 
 was allowed to visit his mother for a few 
 minutes at a time, at long intervals. The 
 buildings were used as a common house of 
 detention for women ; and here, strangely 
 enough, Maurice and Madame Dupin may 
 have encountered the young girl destined 
 later to play such an important part in the 
 lives of both mother and son ; for Aurore's 
 mother, Victoire Delaborde, daughter of 
 the old Parisian bird-fancier, had also been 
 arrested on the accusation of singing 
 royalist songs, of which the manuscript 
 was found in her possession, and was im- 
 prisoned for weeks in the same place and 
 at the same time with Madame Dupin. 
 The marriage of her son, while he was
 
 viii Preface. 
 
 still a young officer in Napoleon's army, was 
 a great disappointment and source of morti- 
 fication to Madame Dupin, who never be- 
 came reconciled to the mesalliance; and 
 after her father's early death Aurore's child- 
 hood was imbittered by the virulent dis- 
 putes between her mother and grandmother 
 concerning her guardianship and educa- 
 tion. She was a bone of contention, over 
 which they were constantly fighting. That 
 these two women should ever agree about 
 anything was so remarkable that no doubt 
 the little girl was reconciled to the idea of 
 the convent school when she found that 
 Madame Dupin's plan of sending her away 
 from home was not opposed by her mother, 
 who accepted it, perhaps, as a compromise ; 
 so that after all it is not strange if the life 
 described in these pages seemed like a 
 haven of rest to the loyal daughter and 
 affectionate grandchild. 
 
 It is interesting to study the evolution 
 of the idyllic novelist and passionate re- 
 former; to note the characteristic traits of
 
 Preface. ix 
 
 M. Caro's " mystic pupil of the English con- 
 vent, the humble adorer of Sister Alicia, 
 the dreamy, adventurous country-girl," Au- 
 rore Dupin, fresh from the moors and 
 woods of Berri, and then to recognize 
 the same peculiarities in George Sand, the 
 aggressive, uncompromising celebrity of 
 1831; the apostle of social and domestic 
 liberty, arraigning the legalized tyranny of 
 the husband while illogically clinging to 
 marriage ; keenly alive to her own suffer- 
 ing, but ready and eager to relieve that of 
 others ; open perhaps, even at that late day, 
 to the charge of sometimes prosecuting the 
 old " search for the victim," firm believer 
 as she was in the solidarity of her sex in 
 the present, past, and future. 
 
 After the effervescence of her eccentric 
 Bohemian career, she led for many years a 
 quiet, systematic life at her old home, No- 
 hant, indefatigably absorbed in her writing, 
 her household, and in private theatricals, 
 and exercising an unfailing hospitality to 
 literary friends. An unhappy marriage,
 
 x Preface. 
 
 followed by a legal separation, had left 
 her with two children, Maurice and 
 Solange, whose education the tribunals 
 had confided to her care. Late in life, 
 like Victor Hugo, she took especial delight 
 in her grandchildren, for whom she wrote 
 " Les Contes d'une Grand'mere." 
 
 George Sand's earlier works were pas- 
 sionate protests against arbitrary social bar- 
 riers and separations, against caste, and 
 the prevailing ideas concerning love and 
 marriage. The idealized sensuality of these 
 novels, however, is redeemed by her subse- 
 quent stories, such idyls as " La Mare 
 au Diable," " Fran9ois le Champi," and 
 " La Petite Fadette." It has been well re- 
 marked that in the " Marquis de Villemer," 
 afterward successfully dramatized, she suc- 
 ceeds admirably in portraying "high life." 
 In fact, the most revolutionary ideas are 
 everywhere clothed by her in expressions 
 of unstudied and habitual elegance. An 
 ardent patriot, her ready pen was always 
 at the service of great ideas, in 1848, and
 
 Preface. xi 
 
 later in 1871 ; but political compromises 
 were foreign to her nature. 
 
 George Sand says of herself : " No doubt 
 I have serious faults ; but, like most per- 
 sons, I am not conscious of them. If we 
 do wrong, it is almost always, no doubt, 
 because we are not aware of it. If we knew 
 better, we should act differently." 
 
 Thus the woman of more than seventy 
 years absolved herself in nearly the same 
 words she had used in speaking to her 
 Jesuit confessor so many years before in 
 the English convent of the Rue Fosses de 
 St. Victor. 
 
 M. E. M. 
 CAMBRIDGE, Oct. i, 1892.
 
 CONVENT LIFE 
 
 OF 
 
 GEORGE SAND. 
 
 i. 
 
 " I ^HE English August! nian Convent Rue 
 * des Fosses St. Victor is one of the 
 three or four British communities estab- 
 lished in Paris in the time of Cromwell ; 
 the only one left unharmed by the French 
 Revolution. According to tradition, Hen- 
 rietta of France, daughter of Henry IV. 
 and wife of the unfortunate Charles I. of 
 England, often came with her son, James 
 II., to pray in the convent chapel, where 
 she touched for the king's evil the crowds 
 of poor people who flocked about her. All 
 the nuns were English, Scotch, or Irish, as 
 well as two thirds at least of the boarders 
 and lodgers and some of the officiating 
 priests. At certain hours no French was
 
 2 Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 allowed to be spoken, not even during rec- 
 reation, and the nuns hardly ever con- 
 versed with us except in their native tongue. 
 They also kept up the national tradition 
 of taking tea three times a day, and the 
 favored pupils were sometimes invited to 
 participate. 
 
 The cloisters as well as the church were 
 paved with long flagstones, covering the 
 graves of revered English Catholics or nota- 
 ble persons who had died in exile, and who 
 had been interred by especial favor in this 
 inviolable sanctuary. All around, on mural 
 tablets as well as on the tombstones, were 
 English epitaphs and verses from Scripture. 
 In the Superior's apartments, her bedroom 
 and private parlor, were hung life-size por- 
 traits of English prelates and princes ; and 
 a conspicuous place was accorded to the 
 fair and frail Mary Queen of Scots, regarded 
 as a saint by these pious nuns. 
 
 Everything, in fact, was English in the 
 house, past as well as present; and when 
 you had once crossed the threshold, it 
 seemed as if you were on the other side of 
 the Channel. For a little country girl like 
 me the bewilderment of the first impres- 
 sion was overwhelming.
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 3 
 
 We were received on our arrival by the 
 Superior, Madame Canning, a middle-aged 
 woman, handsome and majestic, whose intel- 
 lectual sprightliness was in strong contrast 
 with her physical stolidity. Complacent 
 and well-bred, she spoke French with ease, 
 though with a strong English accent, and 
 her expression indicated more resolution and 
 keen sense of humor than any tendency to 
 devout contemplation. 
 
 On introducing me, iny grandmother 
 showed a little pardonable vanity, saying 
 that I was very far advanced for my age, 
 and that it would be a pity to put me in 
 one of the lower classes. It seemed, how- 
 ever, that there were only two divisions, 
 and the younger one, containing about 
 thirty children, was evidently my proper 
 place. On account of extensive though 
 desultory reading and the consequent de- 
 velopment of my mind, they might have 
 created a third class for me, perhaps, with 
 two or three others; but I was entirely 
 unaccustomed to methodical study, and 
 moreover did not know one word of En- 
 
 o 
 
 lish. I had read with intelligent interest 
 
 O 
 
 a certain amount of philosophy and a great 
 deal of history ; but I was very ignorant,
 
 4 Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 or at all events very uncertain, about the 
 order of events, and while I could have 
 discussed all sorts of topics with more acute- 
 ness and discrimination perhaps than some 
 of the teachers, the merest tyro could have 
 puzzled me in regard to facts and their 
 sequence, and I could not have passed a 
 tolerable examination on any subject what- 
 ever. I was perfectly conscious of this 
 incapacity, and it was a great relief to 
 hear the Superior say that since I had 
 never been confirmed I must go with the 
 girls of my own age. 
 
 It was the hour of recess. Madame Can- 
 ning sent for one of the pupils, gave me into 
 her keeping with many injunctions, and 
 sent us both to the garden, where I began at 
 once to run about, looking at everything 
 and everybody, and prying into every nook 
 and corner of the playground like a bird 
 making up her mind where she shall build 
 her nest. I was not in the least intimidated, 
 though the other girls looked at me a great 
 deal. I saw at once that their manners 
 were superior to my own, and I watched 
 with interest the older pupils who were not 
 playing, but walked up and down, arm in 
 arm, talking with one another. My guide
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 5 
 
 told me the names of several of these girls, 
 who belonged, it seemed, to very aristo- 
 cratic families ; but that did not impress me 
 at all. I was curious rather to know where 
 all the paths led to, and the names of the 
 chapels and arbors that adorned the gar- 
 den, and was delighted to learn that I could 
 have a corner plot myself for a garden, cul- 
 tivating it as I liked. This amusement did 
 not seem very popular ; for there was plenty 
 of land from which to choose. But a game 
 of " tag" had been organized ; I was put in a 
 " camp," and though I knew nothing of the 
 rules of the game, I did know how to run. 
 When my grandmother came out in the 
 garden with the Superior and the house- 
 keeper, she seemed very much pleased to 
 find that I was already so much at home ; 
 but she was about to go, and led me away 
 into the cloisters to say good-by. It was 
 hard for her, and the excellent woman burst 
 into tears when she kissed me. I was really 
 grieved, but thought it right to be brave, 
 and did not shed a tear. Then my grand- 
 mother pushed me away and looked at me 
 steadily, exclaiming, " You unfeeling child ! 
 you care nothing at all about leaving me, 
 that is very plain ; " and she turned away,
 
 6 Convent Life of George Sand. 
 hiding: her face with her hands. I remained 
 
 o 
 
 standing as if petrified. I thought that I 
 was behaving well, and that since she had 
 brought me there to stay, she ought to be 
 pleased with my courage and resignation. 
 Turning round, I saw near me the house- 
 keeper, Mother Alippe, a kind-hearted little 
 round ball of a woman. 
 
 " What is the matter, my dear ; what 
 has happened ? " she asked in her English 
 accent. " Did you say something that dis- 
 pleased your grandmother ? " 
 
 " I did not say a word," I answered; " I 
 thought I ought not to." 
 
 - " Tell me," she went on, taking my hand, 
 " are you sorry to come here ? " 
 
 Her unaffected kindness unsealed my 
 lips, and I said : " Yes, madam, I cannot help 
 being sorry and lonesome among strangers, 
 where no one loves me, and when I am so 
 far away from my relations, who are very 
 fond of me ; but I would not cry before 
 my grandmother, when she has brought 
 me here, and wants me to stay. Was it 
 wrong ? " 
 
 " No, my child," answered Mother Alippe ; 
 " but perhaps your grandmother did not 
 understand. Go and play now. Be a good
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 7 
 
 girl, and everybody will love you here, just 
 as they do at home ; only, when you see 
 your grandmother the next time, do not for- 
 get to tell her that the reason you did not 
 show any grief at parting was because you 
 did not want to make her feel badly." 
 
 I went back to play, but my heart was full. 
 I thought then, and think now, that my 
 grandmother was very unjust. She waited 
 a whole week before she came again, though 
 she had promised to see me in two or three 
 days. 
 
 We were cloistered in the strictest sense 
 of the word ; for we only went out twice a 
 month, and stayed all night only once a 
 year. There were vacations, but I never 
 had any, my grandmother thinking it best 
 not to interrupt my studies, so as to abridge 
 my stay, and it happened twice that I passed 
 a whole year behind the grating. 
 
 We went to mass in our own chapel, and 
 received visits in the parlor, where we also 
 took our private lessons, the professor on 
 one side of the -grating and we on the other. 
 All the windows that opened on the street 
 were not only grated, but filled in with 
 white cloth. It certainly was a prison; 
 though with an extensive garden and plenty
 
 8 Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 of companions ; but I must say that I was 
 not oppressed by the feeling of captivity, and 
 that the precautions to keep us in, and pre- 
 vent us from looking out, only amused me. 
 These precautions were certainly remind- 
 ers of the loss of liberty. The streets into 
 which our windows looked were very dirty 
 and uninviting, and not one of us could 
 have been induced to go out alone at home ; 
 but every girl, without exception, took in- 
 stant advantage of any accident by which the 
 convent door was left ajar and unguarded 
 for a moment, and seized every opportu- 
 nity to peer through the splits in the white 
 window-shades. To outwit the porter or 
 portress, to run down two or three steps of 
 the flight leading into the yard, to see a 
 hack go by, was the summit of ambition for 
 forty or fifty gay girls, who the next day, 
 perhaps, might walk freely about Paris in 
 company with their parents, without over- 
 estimating the privilege, so long as it was 
 not forbidden. 
 
 My stay in the convent was marked by 
 three distinct phases, each in turn a source 
 of anxiety to my grandmother, who ought 
 to have known what to expect when she 
 placed me there. The first year I was more
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 9 
 
 than ever an " enfant terrible," because a 
 sort of despair, or rather desperation, con- 
 stantly prompted me to deaden my pain and 
 drown my homesickness in a sort of intox- 
 ication. The second year I suddenly be- 
 came an ardent devotee, and the third was 
 passed in a state of calm exaltation, of firm 
 and cheerful piety. The first year I had a 
 great many scolding letters from my grand- 
 mother ; the next she seemed far more 
 troubled by my devotion than she had ever 
 been by my mischief; and the third, she was 
 pleased, but expressed satisfaction alloyed 
 by slight uneasiness. 
 
 Such in general was the result of my 
 cloister life ; but since a more detailed ac- 
 count may interest those who are curious 
 in regard to the good and bad influences 
 of convent education, I shall relate my own 
 experience in the most unvarnished way, 
 with perfect sincerity, I trust, of thought 
 and feeling. 
 
 But it may be well to describe first the 
 convent itself; for the places we inhabit 
 exert upon our characters an influence al- 
 most inseparable from the reminiscences 
 themselves.
 
 io Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 T 
 
 II. 
 
 HE English Augustinian Convent was 
 a conglomeration of courts, buildings, 
 and gardens, a sort of village instead of one 
 house ; but there was nothing in its aspect 
 to interest an architect or an antiquary. 
 During the two hundred years and more 
 of its existence there had been so many 
 changes, additions, and adaptations, that 
 it was hard to detect the original design. 
 This very heterogeneousness, however, be- 
 came its principal characteristic. It was 
 mysterious and labyrinthine, in all its ug- 
 liness not devoid of a certain poetic charm 
 with which these recluses knew how to in- 
 vest the most ordinary objects. It was a 
 whole month before I could find my way 
 about alone, and after all our exploring 
 expeditions I never knew all the winding 
 passages or visited all the recesses of the 
 place. The front on the street was wholly 
 uninteresting; a great, bare, ugly building, 
 with a low, arched doorway that gave access
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 1 1 
 
 to a wide, steep flight of steps. After 
 mounting these stone stairs (there were 
 seventeen if I remember rightly), you found 
 yourself in a court paved with flagstones 
 and surrounded by low buildings with blank 
 walls, on one side the church, on the 
 other the cloisters. Adjoining these last 
 was the lodge of a porter, whose duty it 
 was to open and shut the entrance of a 
 vaulted passage communicating with the in- 
 terior of the convent by a turning-box for 
 parcels, and also opening into four grated 
 parlors where visitors were received, the 
 first used by the nuns themselves, the sec- 
 ond for lessons, and the third, the largest, 
 reserved for the friends and relations of 
 the pupils. In the fourth the Superior 
 received those who asked for her; but 
 she had in another part of the building 
 a still larger grated parlor where she en- 
 tertained ecclesiastical visitors or members 
 of her own family, as well as those who 
 had any important or confidential commu- 
 nication to make. No other part of the 
 convent was ever seen by men, or even by 
 women, unless they were especially favored ; 
 but let us penetrate into the carefully 
 guarded interior.
 
 12 Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 The door in the court, furnished with a 
 wicket, ground on its hinges as you passed 
 through to the echoing cloisters, a quad- 
 rangular gallery paved with sepulchral stones 
 adorned with death's-heads and crossbones 
 and inscribed with " Requiescat in pace." 
 Through the arches you looked out on the 
 courtyard with its beautiful flower-beds and 
 the traditional well. At one end of the 
 cloisters was the entrance to the church 
 with its adjoining garden, and at the other 
 the new building containing on the ground 
 floor the large schoolroom for the older 
 girls, on the entresol the nuns' workroom, 
 on the first and second story the cells of 
 the sisters, and on the third the dormitory 
 for the younger children. The third side 
 of the cloister was that of the kitchens and 
 offices, and led to the cellars as well as to 
 a separate building containing the school- 
 rooms of the lower classes. Farther on 
 were several other constructions, very rui- 
 nous, a perfect maze of dark passages, spiral 
 staircases, little detached buildings, con- 
 nected with one another by flights of worn 
 and uneven steps, or by boards thrown 
 across. These were probably parts of the 
 original convent, and the attempts to con-
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 13 
 
 nect them with the whole showed either 
 lack of means in revolutionary times, or 
 great stupidity in the builders. There were 
 galleries that led nowhere, and passages 
 that you could hardly squeeze through to 
 strange edifices, that reminded you of those 
 in bad dreams that shut down upon you 
 and crush you between the walls that come 
 slowly together. This part of the convent 
 baffles description, and the uses to which 
 these buildings were put were as various 
 as their grouping. Here lived a boarder, 
 next door a privileged pupil ; farther on was 
 a room for piano practice, then a linen 
 storehouse, adjoining vacant apartments oc- 
 casionally occupied by friends from across 
 the Channel ; with here and there a nock 
 packed with the miscellaneous objects that 
 old women, especially nuns, delight in 
 hoarding, such as dilapidated church or- 
 naments, strings of onions, broken chairs, 
 empty bottles, old garments, etc. The 
 garden was vast, shaded by superb horse- 
 chestnut-trees. On one side a high wall 
 separated us from the Scotch convent, and 
 on the other stood a long row of small 
 houses tenanted by pious ladies retired 
 from the world. Besides this garden, there
 
 14 Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 was also, in front of the new building, a 
 double quadrangle planted with vegetables, 
 also bordered by houses, all occupied by 
 old matrons or by boarding-pupils who had 
 quarters to themselves. Here was the laun- 
 dry, and a door that opened on the public 
 street, only unlocked for the lodgers in the 
 rows of houses, who had also a parlor for 
 their own visits. There was yet another 
 garden, the largest of all, the Garden of 
 the Hesperides, that we were never allowed 
 to enter. Here vegetables were cultivated 
 for the use of the community ; and it was 
 also full of flowers and fine fruit. We 
 could see through the high open-work iron 
 gate bunches of golden grapes, superb 
 melons, and beautiful variegated carnations ; 
 but you could only get in at the risk of 
 breaking your neck. Some of us, however, 
 ventured to climb over occasionally. Still 
 beyond was the garden of another sister- 
 hood. I have not mentioned the church, or 
 the cemetery either, the only parts of the 
 convent considered remarkable ; but I shall 
 describe them in the course of my recital. 
 
 In this way a hundred and twenty or 
 thirty nuns, lay sisters, pupils, lodgers, re- 
 cluses, secular teachers, and servant-maids,
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 15 
 
 were lodged in the most eccentric man- 
 ner, often inconveniently, in one place 
 crowded together, in another widely scat- 
 tered over a space where a dozen families 
 could have lived comfortably, each with a 
 little land to cultivate. The different rooms 
 we used were so far apart that fully a quarter 
 of our time was spent running to and fro. 
 
 I have forgotten to speak of the large 
 laboratory where mint water was distilled, of 
 the poultry-yard whose emanations poisoned 
 the air of the children's schoolroom, of the 
 back room where we breakfasted, of the front 
 schoolroom, the refectory and the chapter- 
 house, to say nothing of the cellars and un- 
 derground passages, theatres of our future 
 exploits. But with all this space, the want 
 of systematic arrangement caused discom- 
 fort and inconvenience of which it would 
 be hard to give an idea. 
 
 The cells occupied by the nuns were de- 
 lightfully neat, tricked out, however, with 
 knick-knacks devised, framed, colored, and 
 tied up with ribbons by the patient inge- 
 nuity of dainty devotees. 
 
 In every corner of courts and gardens 
 grape-vines and jessamine draped the crum- 
 bling walls. The cocks crowed at midnight
 
 1 6 Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 as if they were in the country, and the con- 
 vent bell rang out with a silvery, feminine 
 tone. In a niche artistically hewn, you 
 saw a pretty conventional madonna of the 
 seventeenth century; in the workroom rare 
 English engravings represented scenes in 
 the life of Charles I. All, to the wavering 
 light of the little night lamp in the clois- 
 ters, and the heavy doors that were swung 
 to and bolted every evening, grating on 
 their hinges, at the end of the reverberat- 
 ing passages, all was fraught with a 
 mysterious poetic charm to which I became 
 peculiarly sensitive. 
 
 My first impressions, however, on enter- 
 ing the children's schoolroom, were very dis- 
 agreeable ; thirty of us were crowded in a low, 
 small room, with an ugly, glaring yellow 
 wall-paper and a smoky, dilapidated ceiling. 
 The furniture consisted of shabby stools, 
 benches, and tables, with a dirty, smoky 
 stove, and the atmosphere was redolent of 
 bituminous coal and odors from the poultry- 
 yard. The floor was uneven, and a hideous 
 plaster crucifix was the only ornament of 
 the room in which thirty children must pass 
 two thirds of the day in summer and three 
 quarters in winter.
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. i 7 
 
 Far more important, however, than sur- 
 roundings, is giving children into the keep- 
 ing of persons remarkable for intellect or 
 character ; and I am at a loss to understand 
 how these nuns, so beautiful and kind them- 
 selves, with such distinguished or affable 
 manners, could have intrusted us to the 
 care of a woman so repulsive in appear- 
 ance and bearing as Miss D , head mis- 
 tress of the children's division. Corpulent, 
 untidy, round-shouldered, narrow-minded, 
 bigoted, and irritable, always harsh and 
 often cruel, sly and vindictive, ill-tempered 
 and ill-mannered, she inspired me at first 
 sight with the instinctive aversion felt for 
 her by all my companions. No doubt some 
 repulsive persons become so conscious of 
 the effect they produce that they are there- 
 by incapacitated from helping others, feeling 
 that they make duty disagreeable merely 
 by recommending it; and thus they come 
 at last to care only for their own salva- 
 tion, irrespective of others, - the most irre- 
 ligious of all pursuits. 
 
 Miss D may have been warped in 
 
 this way. Not to be unjust, I must say 
 that she seemed really devout and austere, 
 a sort of intolerant, detestable fanatic,
 
 1 8 Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 who might have had a certain grandeur 
 about her if she had lived long ago in the 
 desert with the anchorites whose faith she 
 emulated. In her relations with us her 
 austerity became ferocious. It was a joy 
 for her to punish, a luxury to scold, and 
 in her mouth scolding degenerated into 
 abuse. She was treacherous, too, pretend- 
 ing to go out (a thing she had no right 
 to do when she was in charge of the 
 schoolroom), and listening at the doors so 
 as to overhear all we said against her 
 and afterwards entrap us in falsehoods. 
 Then her punishments were of the most 
 degrading and humiliating kind. For in- 
 stance, she would make us kiss the floor 
 for what she called " our filthy speech." It 
 is true that it was part of the conven- 
 tional discipline ; but the nuns required 
 only apparent conformity to the regulation, 
 never seeming to notice that we merely 
 kissed our hands in stooping to the floor, 
 
 while Miss D pushed our faces down 
 
 in the dust, and would have hurt us if 
 we had resisted. It was easy to detect per- 
 sonal resentment in her severity, and she 
 evidently was constantly enraged because 
 we hated her.
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 19 
 
 There was one poor little English girl, 
 five or six years old, a pale, delicate child, 
 
 named Mary Eyre. At first Miss D 
 
 seemed to try to take an interest in her, 
 with a gleam of something like motherly 
 feeling ;. but it was so foreign to her brutal, 
 unfeminine nature, that there was an imme- 
 diate revulsion. When she reproved the 
 poor child she frightened her to death, or 
 excited her to rebellion. Then, not to give 
 way, she would end by shutting her up or 
 even striking her. When at times she 
 tried to joke, or amuse the little thing, it 
 made you think of a bear playing with a 
 grasshopper. Mary often seemed to scream 
 and rebel either from a spirit of revolt or in 
 angry despair; and from morning to night 
 there was a perpetual contest going on, in- 
 supportable to 'witness, between this great 
 coarse creature and the feeble child. But 
 the rest of us did not escape ; there was 
 always time left for the ungovernable abuse 
 and condign punishments of which we were 
 all in turn the indignant victims. 
 
 I had been content to enter the lower 
 class from an innate modesty not unusual 
 in the children of vain parents ; but it was 
 an inexpressible humiliation to find myself
 
 20 Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 in the power of this unsexed tyrant. Her 
 ill-humor was chronic, and I soon incurred 
 her displeasure. Indeed, the first time she 
 looked at me she said, " You seem to be 
 a very idle person," and I was soon ranked 
 with her worst antipathies ; for gayety was 
 repugnant to her, a child's laugh made her 
 grind her teeth, and gladness and youth 
 were criminal in her eyes. 
 
 We only breathed freely when a sister 
 came in to take her place ; but that was 
 generally merely for an hour or two in the 
 day. The nuns made a great mistake in 
 coming so little in direct contact with the 
 pupils. We loved them ; for they were 
 all either distinguished, stately, sweet, or 
 imposing. There was a nameless charm 
 about them, and the dress may have had 
 something to do with it; but their presence 
 certainly calmed us as if by enchantment. 
 These cloistered lives, their renunciation of 
 the world and domestic joys, might have 
 been useful to society if they had conse- 
 crated themselves to the work of touching 
 our hearts and forming our minds. The 
 task would not have been a hard one if 
 they had been truly devoted to such a mis- 
 sion ; but they said that they had no time
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 21 
 
 to spare, which was true because of the 
 hours spent in church services and pri- 
 vate devotion. That is one objection to 
 convent schools ; there are so many secu- 
 lar teachers, female ushers supposed to be 
 pious women, who are unfitted for their 
 work and who tyrannize over the children. 
 Our nuns would have been more meritori- 
 ous in the sight of God, and it would have 
 been far better for us and our parents, if 
 they had devoted to our well-being our 
 salvation they would have said a part of 
 the time they selfishly spent in securing 
 their own. 
 
 The nun who occasionally took Miss 
 
 D 's place was Mother Alippe, as 
 
 plump and ruddy as an over-ripe lady-apple 
 that is just beginning to pucker. She 
 was not very gentle, but she was just; and 
 although I did not get along with her very 
 well, we all liked her extremely. Having 
 charge of our religious instruction, one day 
 she asked me where the souls of unbaptized 
 children were languishing:. I knew nothing 
 
 o o o 
 
 about it, and had never suspected that there 
 could be a place of exile or punishment 
 for these poor little beings, so I boldly 
 answered, "They are in God's bosom."
 
 22 Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 " What are you thinking of, wretched 
 child ! " half screamed Mother Alippe. 
 " Did n't you hear me ? I asked you 
 where the souls of unbaptized children 
 dwell." 
 
 I was very much confused, and one of 
 the girls, taking pity on my ignorance, 
 prompted me in a whisper, saying, " In 
 limbo," aux limbes. Her English ac- 
 cent deceived me, and sure that she was 
 joking, I repeated, " Olympe," in Olym- 
 pus, turning round and bursting into 
 laughter. 
 
 " For shame !" exclaimed Mother Alippe. 
 " Are you making fun of the catechism? " 
 
 " Excuse me," I answered ; " I did not 
 mean to." 
 
 My evident sincerity appeased her, and 
 she said, " Since your laughing was invol- 
 untary, you need not kiss the floor ; but 
 you can make the sign of the cross to re- 
 call your thoughts and bring you into a 
 proper frame of mind." 
 
 Unfortunately, I did not know how to 
 cross myself. It was the fault of my nurse, 
 who had taught me to touch my right 
 shoulder before the left; and the old 
 priest at home had never noticed the mis-
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 23 
 
 take. But when Mother Alippe beheld 
 this enormity, she frowned and said, " Are 
 you doing that on purpose, miss ? " 
 
 " No, ma'am ; what did I do ? " 
 
 " Make the sign of the cross over again." 
 
 " So, Mother Alippe ? " 
 
 " You have done the same thing again ! " 
 
 " Certainly, Mother Alippe ; what shall I 
 do now ? " 
 
 " And is this the way you have always 
 made the sign of the cross ? " 
 
 "Mon Dieu! yes." 
 
 " So you swear ! " 
 
 " Oh, no, Mother Alippe ! " 
 
 " You miserable child ! How have you 
 been brought up ? Why, she is a heathen, 
 a real heathen ; she says that children's 
 souls go to Olympus. She makes the sign 
 of the cross from right to left, and she says 
 ' Mon Dieu ! ' when she is not praying. 
 Go and study your catechism with little 
 Mary Eyre ; I should not be surprised if she 
 knew more about it than you do." 
 
 I was not very much mortified, I ac- 
 knowledge, and had to try hard to keep 
 from lau^hinof. The convent religion 
 
 o o o 
 
 seemed to me so petty and childish that 
 I made up my mind to have very little to
 
 24 Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 do with it, and not treat it seriously. I 
 was mistaken ; my time was yet to come ; 
 but not till I had left the lower class. The 
 atmosphere was not conducive to devotion, 
 and certainly I should never have been 
 pious if I had remained under the hated 
 
 sway of Miss D or the slightly fussy 
 
 rule of good Mother Alippe.
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 25 
 
 III. 
 
 entering the convent I was not de- 
 liberately rebellious, upon the whole 
 I was more inclined to docility than revolt; 
 but when I found myself subject to the 
 senseless injustice of Miss D , I en- 
 rolled myself resolutely with " les diables," 
 for so they called those girls who were not 
 devout and did not mean to be. The well- 
 behaved pupils were known as " the good 
 girls," " les sages ; " and there was an in- 
 termediate variety that went by the name of 
 "the stupid ones," "les betes." These 
 last never took sides with any one, laughing 
 heartily at the misdemeanors of " les dia- 
 bles," till the. teachers or " the good girls " 
 came in, when they cast their eyes down, 
 and never failed to say " I did n't do it," as 
 soon as there was any danger of punish- 
 ment. The most cowardly among them 
 even got into the habit of adding, " It was 
 Mary G or Dupin."
 
 26 Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 I was Dupin, and Mary G was the 
 
 leader of " les diables " in the lower class, 
 the most original girl in the whole con- 
 vent. She was of Irish extraction, and 
 though only eleven was taller and stronger 
 than I was at thirteen. Her deep voice, 
 her frank, fearless expression and rough, 
 independent manners had obtained for her 
 the nickname of " the boy; " and though 
 she afterwards became a beautiful woman, 
 there was certainly something masculine 
 about her. She was proud and outspoken, 
 remarkable for her strength and agility 
 and still more phenomenal boldness ; but 
 her exuberant spirits and constant activity, 
 her heartfelt contempt for anything that 
 was false and mean, excited my unbounded 
 admiration. 
 
 On my arrival Mary G was away, but 
 
 was soon described to me as a person above 
 all things to be avoided. In fact, she was the 
 terror of the stupid girls, who naturally tried 
 to enroll me in their ranks. The good girls 
 also were friendly, and put me on my guard 
 against her roughness and petulance, so 
 that I began to be really afraid of what she 
 might do. Some knowing ones told me, in 
 an undertone of conviction, that she was
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 27 
 
 truly a boy, whom her parents were trying 
 to pass off as a girl*. She destroyed every- 
 thing she laid her hands on, she tormented 
 everybody, she was stronger than the gar- 
 dener, she would not let the girls alone who 
 wanted to study, in short, she was a 
 plague and a nuisance, and it was useless to 
 try and stop her. " Wait a little," said I to 
 myself. " I am strong, too, and I am not 
 cowardly either. I should like to see any 
 one prevent me from saying and thinking 
 just as I please ! " However, I must say I 
 awaited her return with some anxiety, for I 
 did not like the idea of a hostile element in 
 the class ; it was enough to contend with 
 
 the common enemy, Miss D . 
 
 Mary came, and I was at once attracted by 
 her open countenance. " Good ! " said I to 
 myself. " I know we shall get along per- 
 fectly." But I hung back, since it was for her, 
 an old pupil, to make the first advances. She 
 began by making fun of me : " Dupin, du 
 pain, some bread ; and then Aurora, the 
 rising sun, what beautiful names, and what 
 a face, to be sure ! Why, she has a horse's 
 head on a hen's body ! Aurora, I pros- 
 trate myself before you, and wish I were a 
 sunflower to salute you the first thing in
 
 28 Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 the morning. It seems that you call aux 
 limbes * Olympus.' A pretty education you 
 must have had ! You will be capital fun." 
 
 All the girls shouted with laughter, es- 
 pecially the stupid ones, and the good girls 
 did not seem displeased to have one " dia- 
 ble " attack another ; for union is strength. 
 I laughed as heartily as any, and Mary saw 
 at once that I was not thin-skinned. She 
 went on joking, but in a good-humored way, 
 and half an hour later she gave me a tre- 
 mendous slap on the shoulder. It would 
 have knocked down an ox; but I returned 
 it with interest, laughing all the time. 
 
 " Say, let us go to walk ! " 
 
 " Where ? " I answered. 
 
 " Oh, anywhere, so long as it is out of 
 the schoolroom ! " 
 
 ' How can we ? " 
 
 "Don't be a ninny! Watch me see 
 what I do, and do the same." 
 
 We were all standing, getting up from 
 table. Mother Alippe was coming along 
 with her books and papers, and profiting 
 by the momentary confusion, but without 
 taking the slightest precaution, Mary walked 
 out unnoticed, and sat down outside in the 
 deserted cloister. I joined her a few min-
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 29 
 
 utes later, but did not say a word. " So 
 here you are," she said. " What excuse did 
 you make to get out ? " 
 
 " I did n't make any ; I walked out just 
 as you did." 
 
 11 That is the right way. Some girls tell 
 lies, ask permission to go and practise, or 
 pretend that they have bleeding at the 
 nose ; others say they want to go and say 
 their prayers in the chapel, old stories. 
 I, won't lie, because it is mean ; I go in and 
 out, they ask me questions, and I won't say 
 a word ; then they punish me, and I laugh 
 at it. The upshot is that I do as I like." 
 
 "I wish I could!" 
 
 "Then be a ' diable.'" 
 
 " I want to be one." 
 
 " Like me ? " 
 
 " Just like you." 
 
 "Well and good," said she, shaking 
 hands. " Let us go back now and behave 
 very well for Mother Alippe ; she is an ex- 
 cellent woman. We can save ourselves for 
 
 Miss D . Every single evening out of 
 
 the schoolroom ! do you hear ? " 
 
 " How do you mean, out of the school- 
 room ? " 
 
 " Why, evening recreation in the school-
 
 30 Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 room is horribly stupid. We can vanish, 
 coming out of the refectory, and only go back 
 
 at prayer-time. Sometimes D does not 
 
 notice our absence, and when she does she 
 is enchanted, because she has the pleasure 
 of punishing us when we get back. The 
 punishment is having to wear your night- 
 cap all the next day, even in church. In 
 such cold weather as this it is a capital 
 thing, good for the. health, only when the 
 sisters meet you they make the sign of the 
 cross and say ' Shame ; ' but that does not 
 hurt anybody. When you have worn your 
 night-cap a great deal for a fortnight, the 
 Superior threatens not to let you go out 
 when your parents send for you; but some- 
 times our relatives coax her, or else she 
 forgets. However, when the night-cap be- 
 comes chronic, she has to keep you in ; but 
 I say it is better to lose a day's pleasure 
 once in a while than to have a stupid time 
 all your life." 
 
 " I think so too ; but what does Miss 
 D do when she perfectly hates you ? " 
 
 " Oh, she abuses you like a fish-wife, 
 that is just what she is, and you never 
 say a word, and that enrages her still 
 more."
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 31 
 
 " Does n't she ever strike you ? " 
 
 " She is dying to all the time ; but she 
 would have no excuse to give, and she 
 knows that. Some of the good girls and 
 all the stupid ones are afraid of her ; the rest 
 despise her and hold their tongues just as 
 we do." 
 
 " How many ' diables ' are there in the 
 class?" 
 
 " Not many, and we need reinforce- 
 ment, only Sophia, Isabella, and our- 
 selves. All the others are either good or 
 stupid. Among the good girls there are 
 two Valentine de Gouy and Louise de la 
 Rochejaquelein who know as much as I 
 do, only they don't dare to come out. 
 Never mind, though ; some of the older 
 girls keep us in countenance, and they will 
 join us to-night." 
 
 " What do you do ? " 
 
 " You shall see ; you are going to be 
 initiated this evening." 
 
 -You may think with what impatience I 
 waited for night and supper-time. On leav- 
 ing the refectory recreation began. In sum- 
 mer both classes met in the garden ; but 
 in winter the big girls went back to their 
 handsome, spacious quarters, and we were
 
 32 Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 cooped up where Miss D forced us to 
 
 amuse ourselves quietly, that is to say, not 
 amuse ourselves at all. Coming out of the 
 refectory there was naturally a throng about 
 the door, and I was delighted to see how 
 adroitly " les diables " availed themselves of 
 the confusion they created on purpose to 
 steal away. The cloister was only lighted 
 by one small lamp, which left the other 
 passages almost dark. Instead of walking 
 straight forward to the schoolroom, you 
 slipped aside into the left-hand corridor, let 
 the other girls go by, and you were free. 
 
 There I was in the dark with Mary and 
 the other girls she had mentioned. I only re- 
 member that evening Sophia and Isabella, 
 who belonged to our class, two charm- 
 ing girls two or three years older than 
 myself. Isabella, tall, fair, and rosy, was 
 pleasant to look at, but not strictly pretty ; 
 very gay and good-tempered and full of fun, 
 especially remarkable for her talent and 
 facility in drawing. She would take *a 
 piece of paper, with a bit of charcoal or a 
 spattering-pen, and in the twinkling of an 
 eye you would see hundreds of figures, well 
 grouped, boldly sketched, each one helping 
 to carry out the main idea, that was always
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 33 
 
 original and often extraordinary. Some- 
 times there were processions of nuns cross- 
 ing a gothic cloister, or else a cemetery by 
 moonlight. The tombs were opening as the 
 sisters drew near, and the shrouded dead 
 were beginning to bestir themselves, sing- 
 ing, playing on different instruments, and 
 inviting the nuns, with extended hands, to 
 be their partners in a dance. Some of the 
 sisters were frightened and were running: 
 
 o o 
 
 away and screaming, while the bolder nuns 
 danced along, dropping veils and mantles 
 as they whirled and capered with the spec- 
 tres in the dim distance ; or again, there 
 were fancy nuns, with goats' feet, or in 
 Louis XIII. boots, decked with enormous 
 spurs, displayed as they held up their flow- 
 ing garments. Her vivid imagination cre- 
 ated a hundred ways of representing this 
 dance of death, for I do not believe that 
 she knew about it historically. Then there 
 were sketches of interiors, caricatures of 
 sisters, pupils, servants, teachers, professors, 
 visitors, and priests. She was the faithful 
 chronicler of all the adventures, hoaxes, 
 panics, and skirmishes, of all the annoy- 
 ances and all the pleasures of our convent 
 life. The incessant contest of poor little 
 
 3
 
 34 Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 Mary Eyre with her tormentor furnished 
 her every day with twenty sketches, each 
 one more pitiful and realistic than the last, 
 and her invention seemed as inexhaustible 
 as our admiration. Drawing these figures 
 on the sly, at all hours, during lessons, even 
 in the face and eye* of our Argus, some- 
 times she narrowly escaped detection by 
 rolling up the paper and tossing it adroitly 
 in the fire or out of the window. That 
 schoolroom stove has thus devoured count- 
 less unknown masterpieces. My retrospec- 
 tive imagination may exaggerate the merit 
 of her productions ; but it seems to me that 
 they must have been very remarkable, and 
 would have excited the surprise and interest 
 of a good teacher. 
 
 Sophia Isabella's inseparable friend 
 was one of the prettiest and most graceful 
 girls in the school. Her willowy figure was 
 insular in its languid poses ; but she had 
 none of the national awkwardness. Her 
 neck was swan-like, and her small head, 
 beautifully poised, was graceful in every 
 motion. She had fine eyes ; a low, stubborn 
 forehead, shaded by a profusion of shining 
 brown hair ; a rosy mouth, pearly teeth, and 
 a blooming complexion (very white for a
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 35 
 
 brunette) ; and even her ugly nose could not 
 spoil her beautiful face. We all called her 
 " the jewel." Amiable and sentimental, ex- 
 clusive and enthusiastic in her friendships 
 and implacable in her aversions, she showed 
 dislike by an invincible disdain. Adored 
 by almost all the girls, she only deigned to 
 return the affection of a chosen few. I was 
 devoted to her and Isabella ; but they were 
 rather condescending in their manners: per- 
 haps that was natural, for I was a mere child 
 in comparison. 
 
 That night when we first met in the 
 cloister, I saw that all were armed with 
 shovel, tongs, or sticks of wood. Not liking 
 to be the only one without anything in 
 my hand, I ventured back to the school- 
 room, seized a large poker, and succeeded 
 in getting away again undiscovered. I was 
 then told the great secret, and we all set 
 out on our expedition. This secret was a 
 convent legend, handed down for more 
 than two centuries, founded, perhaps, on 
 reality, but which certainly at this late day 
 was only perpetuated by our lively imagi- 
 nations. We were to find and deliver " the 
 victim." There was somewhere a prisoner 
 some said several prisoners confined in a
 
 36 Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 cell contrived in the thickness of the walls, 
 or else incarcerated in a deep dungeon be- 
 neath the vaults of the immense subterra- 
 nean passages that extended not only under 
 the whole monastery but beneath a great 
 part of that quarter of the city. There was 
 really a great underground labyrinth, which 
 we never fully explored, and from which we 
 emerged into different parts of the cellars 
 of the vast convent buildings. We said to 
 each other that these passages must be 
 connected with the excavations that under- 
 lie a great part of Paris and the surround- 
 ing country as far as Vincennes. From 
 the convent cellars perhaps we could get 
 into the catacombs, the quarries, the Palais 
 des Thermes. In short, to us it was the 
 entrance to a whole world of darkness, ter- 
 ror, and mystery, a gulf under our very 
 feet, closed with iron doors ; and our ex- 
 ploring expeditions were as fraught with 
 imaginary peril as the descent into hell of 
 ;3ineas or Dante. The danger was the 
 great temptation, to which we yielded 
 with delight, in spite of the insurmount- 
 able difficulties of the enterprise and the 
 condign punishment that no doubt awaited 
 our detection.
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 37 
 
 There was a main entrance wide open at 
 the foot of the cellar stairs leading from the 
 kitchen ; but the lay sisters were always 
 near at hand, and we were persuaded that 
 .there were many other ways of getting in. 
 According to us, every walled-up door, 
 every dark corner, every wall that sounded 
 hollow, might be in mysterious connection 
 with these places ; and we tried unweariedly 
 to find an opening, even under the roofs. 
 I had read Mrs. Radcliffe, and my com- 
 panions had a store of Scotch and Irish 
 legends that would make your hair stand 
 on end ; the convent, too, had its own 
 stories of ghostly apparitions and mys- 
 terious noises. All that, and the undying 
 hope of discovering " the victim," stimu- 
 lated the girls to a wild enthusiasm ; and 
 they were easily persuaded that they heard 
 sighs and groans issuing from the ground 
 under their feet, or from fissures in the 
 doors and walls. 
 
 So I set out on my first expedition, 
 thrilled with the expectation of finding the 
 long-lost captive. It might have quenched 
 our enthusiasm to consider that she was no 
 longer young, two hundred years old 
 more or less ; but we never stopped to
 
 38 Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 think about that. We sought, we called 
 aloud, we thought of her unceasingly, and 
 never despaired of success. 
 
 That night we directed our steps to the 
 most ruinous part of the building, very 
 mysterious for a nocturnal exploration, 
 and cautiously walked along a narrow shelf 
 on the brink of what we supposed to be a 
 deep cellar, without any apparent outlet. 
 A mouldy wooden railing guarded the 
 edge, and stairs, with a baluster, led down 
 to this unknown region ; but an oaken door 
 at the head of these stairs closed the en- 
 trance, and we found it was padlocked. To 
 circumvent this obstacle! we managed to 
 squeeze between the rails, and walking on 
 the outer edge of the worm-eaten baluster, 
 we reached the other side of the door at the 
 head of the stairs. Below us yawned a dark 
 abyss ; we had only one little coil of wax 
 taper, called a " rat de cave," that shed a 
 faint light on the upper steps of this mys- 
 terious stairway, and it seemed a great risk ; 
 but Isabella led the way like a heroine, 
 Mary followed with the practised ease and 
 agility of a professor of gymnastics, and we 
 all imitated her, more or less clumsily, and 
 never thought of turning back.
 
 Convent Life of George Sand, 39 
 
 In a moment we were at the foot of the 
 flight, but discovered, with more joy I 
 think than real disappointment, that there 
 was no getting out of this square cellar but 
 the way by which we had come. There 
 was no door, no window, no apparent or 
 assignable use for this large space abso- 
 lutely without egress. What could be the 
 object of a staircase to get down into such 
 a place ? we said ; and why was there a 
 solid padlocked door to close the entrance ? 
 We divided the taper, and each one searched 
 for herself. There might be a secret trap- 
 door, leading to a passage, under one of the 
 wooden stairs. While some examined the 
 steps, and tried to pry the old boards apart, 
 others sounded the walls, hoping to find a 
 crack, a button, or a hidden ring, some 
 Radcliffian invention to lift a stone or move 
 a sliding panel that would prove the en- 
 trance to mysterious and unknown regions. 
 But we discovered nothing of the kind ; the 
 rough, whitewashed wall presented an un- 
 broken surface, the floor sounded dead 
 under our feet, we could find no flagstone 
 to lift, and the staircase concealed no secret 
 passage. But Isabella would not give up ; 
 in the farthest corner under the stairs she
 
 4O Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 was sure that the wall sounded hollow. We 
 all tried it, and were convinced that it was 
 really so. 
 
 " That is it ! " we cried. " There must be 
 the entrance to the secret dungeon, to 
 the sepulchre of living victims." 
 
 We all listened intently, but heard no- 
 thing. Isabella, however, declared that she 
 could plainly distinguish low moans, and 
 clanking of chains. What was to be 
 done ? 
 
 " Nothing is easier," said Mary. " We 
 must break through this masonry ; all to- 
 gether we can certainly make a hole in this 
 wall." 
 
 So we went to work with a good will, 
 some knocking with sticks of wood, others 
 scraping away with shovels and tongs, 
 without once stopping to think of the 
 danger of bringing the old wall down on 
 our heads. Fortunately we could not ac- 
 complish much, because if we dealt heavy 
 blows, the noise would betray us, so w r e 
 could do nothing but poke and scratch ; 
 but we had succeeded in making quite a 
 pile of rubbish when the bell rang for 
 prayers. We had barely time to make 
 our perilous ascent, put out our lights, and
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 41 
 
 grope our way back to the schoolroom, 
 appointing a rendezvous for the next night 
 at the same hour. It was agreed that no 
 one should wait for the others who might 
 be kept away by punishment, or called 
 back as they were going out. Each one 
 should do her best to make a breach in 
 the wall. There was no danger of the 
 heap of rubbish attracting attention, for 
 the place seemed given up to mice and 
 spiders. 
 
 We helped one another to brush off the 
 dust and lime with which we were covered, 
 hurried through the cloisters, and got back 
 to our schoolroom just as prayers were be- 
 ginning. I do not remember being pun- 
 ished that time ; but not infrequently we 
 
 escaped with impunity. Miss D used 
 
 to knit of an evening, talking all the time, 
 and squabbling with Mary Eyre. The 
 room was imperfectly lighted, and I do 
 not think her sight was very good. How- 
 ever that may be, with all her love of es- 
 pionage, she was not very discerning; and 
 \ve often succeeded in eluding her vigi- 
 lance. In fact, once outside the school- 
 room door, it would have been hard to 
 find us in the great rambling convent, and
 
 42 Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 she was probably afraid of a scandal if she 
 divulged our frequent absences, for which 
 they might hold her accountable ; the fact 
 would have been a discredit to her disci- 
 pline : and we cared as little for the peniten- 
 tial night-cap as we did at last for the lav- 
 ish abuse of this delightful person. The 
 Superior, politic and indulgent, was not 
 inclined to keep us from going out on 
 holidays, and she alone decided those ques- 
 tions ; so that upon the whole we had a 
 great deal of liberty, in spite of the bad 
 temper of our schoolmistress. 
 
 The pursuit of the great secret, the search 
 for the victim, was continued all the winter; 
 and we made a considerable breach in the 
 wall before coming to heavy beams that 
 brought us to a full stop. Then we sought 
 elsewhere, dug in twenty different places, 
 without any success, but with unfailing 
 hope. One day we took a fancy to seek an 
 entrance to the subterranean world of our 
 dreams by descending from the roof, where 
 there were a great many mansard windows 
 lighting undiscovered regions. In one of 
 these garrets was a small room for piano prac- 
 tice, one of the thirty or more scattered 
 about the establishment. We all were ex-
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 43 
 
 pected to practise an hour at least every 
 day, and sometimes we were sent to the 
 garret for this purpose, thus affording a 
 good opportunity for adventures by day as 
 well as by night. We agreed to meet in 
 one of these out-of-the-way rooms, and 
 thence start as fancy led in search of the 
 unknown. From the attic where I was 
 supposed to be practising scales, I could 
 see a wide expanse of roofs, sheds, and pent- 
 houses, all covered with moss-grown tiles 
 and diversified by tumble-down chimneys. 
 This was a fine field for new exploring ex- 
 peditions ; so out we went on the roofs, 
 jumping down from the window to a gutter, 
 six feet below us, connecting two gables. 
 To scramble up these gables, encounter 
 others, leap like cats from one steep roof to 
 another, was more dangerous than difficult; 
 and the risk only added to the delightful 
 excitement. 
 
 For more than an hour we had gone 
 on in this way in our lofty gymnasium 
 overlooking the gardens, dodging be- 
 hind a chimney whenever we caught sight 
 of the black veil of a sister who might 
 have looked up, when all at once we 
 stopped and asked one another how we were
 
 44 Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 ever going to get back. Jumping up was 
 a different thing from jumping down ; and 
 in some places we should certainly have 
 needed a ladder. Moreover, we had no idea 
 where we were. At last we recognized the 
 window of a private pupil, Sidonie Mac- 
 donald, daughter of the celebrated general, 
 and we could get there by one more jump, 
 longer than any we had yet undertaken. I 
 was in too much of a hurry, and caught my 
 heel in the sash of a skylight over a gallery, 
 breaking half a dozen panes of glass, that 
 fell with a crash thirty feet below into a 
 court close to the entrance of the kitchens. 
 I should have fallen through also, but 
 fortunately came down sidewise, and es- 
 caped with skinning my knees, which bled 
 profusely. 
 
 Great excitement ensued among the lay 
 sisters, who came running out. Lying low 
 aloft, we heard the resounding voice of 
 Sister Theresa abusing the cats and accus- 
 ing " Whisky," the favorite tabby of Mother 
 Alippe, of fighting with the others and 
 breaking all the window-glass in the con- 
 vent. Sister Marie took up the cudgels for 
 Whisky, and Sister Helen was sure that a 
 chimney had been blown down on the
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 45 
 
 roof. Hearing them talk in this way threw 
 us into uncontrollable fits of laughter : we 
 knew that they were coming upstairs to 
 investigate ; but though in danger of being 
 detected in the unpardonable sin of scramb- 
 ling over the roofs, we could not have 
 moved to save our lives. One girl was 
 stretched out at full length in a gutter, an- 
 other had lost her comb, and I had just 
 discovered that one of my shoes had gone 
 through the opening and fallen at the 
 kitchen door. In spite of my knees, I 
 was choking with laughter, and could only 
 point to my shoeless foot and explain the 
 situation by signs; then there was a new 
 explosion of laughter. 
 
 But the alarm had been given, and we 
 heard the sisters coming. This sobered 
 us, and gave us time to reflect that where 
 we were it was impossible for them to see 
 us unless they mounted by a ladder to 
 the broken skylight, or followed in the 
 way we had come over the roofs; and we 
 were perfectly sure that the nuns would not 
 do thdt. Once conscious of the superior 
 advantages of our position, we began to mew 
 vigorously, so that Whisky and his com- 
 panions might be accused and convicted in
 
 46 Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 our stead ; and then we all climbed through 
 Sidonie's window, without, however, meet- 
 ing with a very cordial reception. The poor 
 child, practising conscientiously, had paid no 
 attention to the feline howls that saluted her 
 ears. She was ,delicate and nervous, very 
 gentle and quiet, quite incapable of under- 
 standing what pleasure there could be in 
 such expeditions as ours. When she heard 
 us all bouncing through the window, to 
 which her back was turned, she jumped up, 
 and screamed with terror. We could not 
 stop to explain, fearing that her cries would 
 bring the nuns to her assistance ; so we 
 darted through the room and out of the 
 door, while, trembling all over, with af- 
 frighted eyes she saw the strange proces- 
 sion rush by, without guessing what it 
 meant, or recognizing one of us in her be- 
 wilderment. In a moment we had scat- 
 tered : one ran up to the room whence we 
 started, and played with all her might on 
 the piano; another went a long way round 
 to reach the schoolroom ; my anxiety was 
 to recover my shoe, and I was fortunate 
 enough to find it before that incriminating 
 piece of evidence had been noticed, or 
 brought forward by any one. Whisky was
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 47 
 
 formally accused, and bore all the blame, 
 but not all the penalty, for my knees were 
 very painful for several days. I said noth- 
 ing about it, however, and our nightly ex- 
 peditions went on as usual.
 
 48 Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 IV. 
 
 T3UT for this constant excitement, I do 
 -*-^ not believe thai I could have remained 
 in the convent. The fare was very good ; 
 but we suffered cruelly from cold, and the 
 winter was exceptionally severe. The first 
 half of the day I was literally benumbed. 
 Our dormitory was under the mansard roof, 
 and it was so cold there that often I could 
 not sleep, and heard the clock strike hour 
 after hour. At six the two maids, Josepha 
 and Marie Anne, came pitilessly to wake 
 us up ; and washing and dressing by candle- 
 light in the morning has always seemed to 
 me forlorn. We often broke the ice for 
 our ablutions, to get at water that did not 
 wash. Then we had chilblains, and it 
 was dreadful to squeeze our swollen, some- 
 times bleeding feet into tight shoes. We 
 heard mass by candle-light, shivering in 
 our seats, or falling asleep on our knees in 
 the attitude of devotion. At seven we 
 breakfasted on a bit of bread and a cup of
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 49 
 
 tea, and at last in the schoolroom saw the 
 light of day, and a little fire in the stove ; 
 but as I said, it was often noon before I 
 thawed out. I had severe colds, and sharp 
 pains in all my limbs ; and it was fifteen 
 years before I fully recovered from the 
 effect of these hardships. But my friend 
 Mary could not tolerate complaining. 
 Strong as a boy herself, she scorned want 
 of endurance in others; and in much suf- 
 ering I learned the hard lesson of not 
 indulging in self-pity. 
 
 When my grandmother was about to 
 leave Paris she asked permission to have 
 me with her for two or three consecutive 
 Thursdays. The Superior did not dare to 
 acknowledge that I had bad marks from all 
 the teachers without exception, that I was 
 making no progress, and that the night-cap 
 was my habitual head-dress. If she had done 
 so, my grandmother might have said that 
 since I was wasting my time, I had better 
 go home ; therefore little notice was taken 
 of my idleness or misdemeanors. 
 
 I expected to enjoy these holidays far 
 more than I really did. I had become accus- 
 tomed to living in common with other girls, 
 and to passing comparatively unnoticed ; and 
 
 4
 
 50 Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 at home they made too much of me, asked 
 me too many questions, said I was changed, 
 dull, or absent-minded. When evening 
 came, and they took me back to the con- 
 vent, the first impression was painful", the 
 contrast was too great, coming from the 
 warm, perfumed, well-lighted parlor, to the 
 cold, dark cloister, with its bare walls ; from 
 my grandmother's fond caresses, to the 
 glum salutation of the porter and the nun 
 at the turning-box. I shivered as I hurried 
 through the corridors paved with tomb- 
 stones ; but once past the cloisters, I was 
 under the spell. Vanloo's madonna seemed 
 to smile down on me ; I was not devout, 
 but the bluish light of her little lamp 
 always threw me into a sweet, vague 
 revery. I heard Mary call me impatiently ; 
 the stupid girls thronged about me, asking 
 what I had seen and what I had done 
 through the day. 
 
 " Is n't it horrid to come back? " they said. 
 
 I did not answer; for I could not tell 
 why I liked the convent life better than 
 living with my family. 
 
 On the eve of my grandmother's depart- 
 ure a great storm burst upon me. Al- 
 though I was no talker, I wrote with great
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 51 
 
 ease, and delighted in keeping a journal, in 
 which our daily misdemeanors and the pun- 
 ishments inflicted by Miss D were 
 
 duly recorded in a sarcastic style. This 
 was regularly sent to my grandmother, who 
 seemed very much amused, and, far from 
 scolding me, never once inculcated submis- 
 sion or cajolery, certainly not hypocrisy. 
 It was customary to leave all the letters to 
 be sent away every night on a chest in the 
 Superior's ante-chamber. Those not ad- 
 dressed to relatives must be left open ; but 
 parents' letters were always sealed, and it 
 was understood that the seal was to be re- 
 spected. It would have been very easy for 
 me to send these effusions by the servants, 
 who often brought me things, or came to 
 ask how I was ; but it never entered my 
 head to doubt the honor of the Superior. 
 She had said in so many words before me 
 that she never opened letters written to 
 parents, and I believed her. 
 
 It appeared that the volume and fre- 
 quency of my letters had aroused her sus- 
 picion, and that she had deliberately un- 
 sealed and suppressed my satires, doing 
 this repeatedly before denouncing me, so 
 that she might become well acquainted
 
 52 Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 with my ideas and statements about Miss 
 
 D . If the reverend mother had been 
 
 wise and kindly, she might have availed 
 herself of this discovery, reproving me, 
 but dismissing the teacher. A really good 
 woman, however, never could have set 
 such a trap for an unsuspecting child, or 
 have violated a confidence she had her- 
 self authorized. Madame Canning showed 
 
 the letters to Miss D , who naturally 
 
 enough did not think my unflattering por- 
 trait a very good likeness. The hatred 
 already provoked by my invincible obsti- 
 nacy, as well as by the calm suavity of 
 my manners, flamed out. She called me 
 an abominable liar, a free thinker, a vile 
 informer, a serpent. The Superior then 
 confronted her with me ; but I remained 
 unrepentant and mute, till Madame Can- 
 ning graciously volunteered not to let my 
 grandmother know, and to keep silence 
 in regard to these infamous letters. I felt 
 keenly the duplicity of such a proceeding, 
 and told her that I had a rough draft of 
 each one of my letters, that my grand- 
 mother should have it, and that I should 
 maintain then and now the truth of my 
 assertions; moreover, that since I could
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 53 
 
 not depend upon assurances that had been 
 made me, I should ask my grandmother to 
 take me away from the convent. 
 
 It cannot be said that the Superior was 
 , destitute of good qualities ; but her conduct 
 was not calculated to inspire respect, when, 
 pouring out the vials of her wrath on my 
 head, with a torrent of abuse she ordered 
 me to leave the room instantly. Though 
 a woman of the world, who could be queenly 
 in her manner at times, she certainly was 
 not ladylike when she flew into a rage. 
 Perhaps, however, as a foreigner, she did not 
 appreciate the full value of the expressions 
 she used, and I did not know enough Eng- 
 lish to be rebuked in that language. Miss 
 
 D shut her eyes, and looked down 
 
 with a hypocritical expression, as if she 
 were a saint listening to the voice of God 
 in her soul, pitying me, and keeping silence 
 in mercy. 
 
 An hour afterwards the Superior entered 
 the refectory, Followed by a train of attend- 
 ant nuns. After inspecting the table, she 
 stopped directly in front of me, and open- 
 ing her handsome dark eyes very wide, said 
 impressively, 
 
 " Try and speak the truth ! "
 
 54 Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 The good girls shuddered and crossed 
 themselves, the stupid ones whispered to 
 one another and stared at me; and when 
 dinner was over I was eagerly questioned 
 to know what it meant. 
 
 " It means," I said, "that next week I 
 shall not be here." 
 
 I was very angry, but deeply grieved ; for 
 I did not want to leave the convent, and 
 break up my precious friendships. 
 
 My grandmother arrived, was closeted 
 with the Superior, who, sure that I would 
 tell everything, made up her mind at last 
 to relinquish my letters, characterizing them 
 as a shameless tissue of falsehoods. I 
 rather think that she had the worst of it, 
 and that my grandmother told her plainly 
 what she thought of such an abuse of con- 
 fidence, defending me, and declaring that 
 she should take me away at once. 
 
 However that may be, I know that when 
 I was summoned to the Superior's parlor 
 both ladies were trying to be very grave and 
 quiet, and both looked very much excited. 
 My grandmother kissed me affectionately, 
 and reproached me for nothing but my 
 idleness, and the time I had wasted in 
 childish mischief. Then the Superior said
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 55 
 
 that it was decided that I was to leave the 
 lower division, where my intimacy with 
 Mary had proved so prejudicial, and enter 
 immediately the higher class. 
 
 This piece of good news a change for 
 the better in reality was announced in 
 a very severe tone of voice. She hoped 
 that since I should now be separated from 
 
 Miss D , I would cease to satirize her, 
 
 and told me that I must at once break off 
 my relations with Mary. She trusted that 
 this enforced separation might be of use to 
 both of us. 
 
 I assured her that I was perfectly willing 
 
 to let Miss D alone, but that I should 
 
 never promise not to love Mary. Of course 
 we must be separated, since we could only 
 meet now in the garden at recess. 
 
 My grandmother went off to Nohant, 
 very well satisfied with the result of this 
 affair. I was promoted to the upper class, 
 where Sophia and Isabella had already pre- 
 ceded me. I vowed to Mary a friendship 
 for life and death ; but I had not heard the 
 last of the dreadful Miss D .
 
 56 Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 V. 
 
 T MUST not leave the lower class with- 
 -*- out mentioning two girls whom I loved 
 very much, although they were not " dia- 
 bles," Valentine de Gouy and Louise de 
 la Rochejaquelein. 
 
 Valentine was a mere child, if I remem- 
 ber rightly, about nine or ten years old ; 
 and as she was small and delicate, she 
 did not seem much older than Mary Eyre 
 and Helen Kelly, the two " babies " of the 
 class. But she was so intelligent that her 
 companionship was as agreeable as Sophia's 
 or Isabella's. With a marvellous facility 
 of acquiring, she was as far advanced in 
 her studies as many of the larger girls ; and 
 she was very interesting, too, full of can- 
 dor and kindness. My bed was next to 
 Valentine's in the dormitory, and I liked 
 to take care of her at night as if she had 
 been my child. 
 
 The other friend, who soon rejoined me 
 in the upper class, was Louise de la Roche-
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 57 
 
 jaquelein, daughter of the Marchioness de 
 la Rochejaquelein who wrote an Interesting 
 history of the first Vendean war, a book 
 that does equal credit to the head and the 
 heart of its author. Louise had inherited 
 from her mother, with that heart and head, 
 the courage and intolerance of the old 
 
 O 
 
 Chouans, as well as the poetic nobleness 
 of that warlike peasantry among whom 
 she had been brought up. I had read 
 Madame de la Rochejaquelein's book, pub- 
 lished not long before, and though I had 
 no sympathy with Louise's royalist pre- 
 judices, I avoided all dispute, feeling a 
 profound respect for her religious inher- 
 itance, and great interest in her vivid de- 
 scriptions of the manners and scenery of 
 " Le Bocage." 
 
 I visited her once, a few years later, and 
 saw her mother. I do not remember 
 exactly where they lived, but it was a 
 great hotel of the Faubourg Saint Germain. 
 I arrived modestly in a hack, an equi- 
 page suited to my means and habits, and 
 alighted in the street, for the door of the 
 court was not swung open to hired car- 
 riages. The porter, an old family servant, 
 tried to stop me as I entered ; but I said,
 
 58 Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 " Excuse me, but I have come to see Ma- 
 dame de la Rochejaquelein." 
 
 " You ! " he said, surveying me from head 
 to foot, with evident contempt for my plain 
 street dress. " Well, then, come in ; " 
 and he shrugged his shoulders, as if to 
 say, " The family receives Tom, Dick, and 
 Harry." 
 
 I tried to close the door behind me, but 
 it was too heavy ; so I left it ajar, not wish- 
 ing to soil my gloves, and I was already 
 half-way upstairs when the old Cerberus 
 called after me, 
 
 " Your door ! " 
 
 "What door?" 
 
 " The street door." 
 
 " Oh, excuse me ! that is your door, not 
 mine," I answered, laughing. 
 
 He went off, grumbling, to shut it, and 
 I kept on my way, wondering if the 
 illustrious lackeys of my old friend would 
 treat me in the same manner. 
 
 Seeing a great many of these gentlemen 
 in the antechamber, I perceived that there 
 was company, and sent in my card to 
 Louise ; for I was in Paris only for a few 
 days, and she had expressed a wish to see 
 me. She came out directly, and carried
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 59 
 
 me off to the drawing-room with all her old 
 gayety and cordiality. In the corner where 
 she made me sit down by her there were 
 only young persons, her sisters and their 
 friends. The older guests were clustered 
 round her mother, who occupied an arm- 
 chair a little apart from the rest. I was 
 terribly disappointed to find that the heroine 
 of La Vendee was a common-looking, red- 
 faced woman. On her right stood a 
 Vendean peasant, who had left his village 
 probably for the first time, to see her or to 
 see Paris. He had been dining with the 
 family. Undoubtedly he was an old re- 
 tainer, perhaps a hero of the last Vendee ; 
 for he seemed too young to have been in 
 the first war, and Louise only said, in an- 
 swer to my inquiry, " He is one of our 
 good peasants." Coarsely dressed in jacket 
 and trousers, with a white scarf on his 
 arm, he carried a venerable rapier, that was 
 always getting between his legs, and made 
 him look like a constable in a country pro- 
 cession. Altogether he was not at all my 
 ideal partisan, half shepherd and half 
 brigand, and he had a way of saying, 
 every minute, " Madame la Marquise," that 
 displeased me very much.
 
 60 Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 But I admired the high-bred kindness 
 and simplicity of the old lady's manners : 
 she was almost blind; and as she sat there 
 surrounded by a bevy of beautiful women, 
 all showing her profound respect, I said 
 to myself, " Not one of them all has for 
 that white hair and those dimmed blue 
 eyes half the veneration, perhaps, that I 
 feel for her in my heart of hearts, a 
 secret homage, more to be appreciated be- 
 cause it is the spontaneous tribute of a 
 girl. who is neither a devotee nor a royal- 
 ist." Her conversation seemed to me more 
 sensible than witty. 
 
 When the peasant took leave, he shook 
 hands, put his hat hard on his head, and 
 strode out of the room ; but no one even 
 smiled. 
 
 Louise and her sisters were as simple in 
 their dress as in their manners, which were 
 plain, sometimes almost abrupt. They had 
 no fancy work, but spun flax, peasant-fashion, 
 with a distaff. It all seemed charming to 
 me then, and perhaps it was so. Louise, 
 I am sure, was perfectly simple and natu- 
 ral ; but there was something incongruous 
 about it. The surroundings of a Vendean 
 Chatelaine did not harmonize very well
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 61 
 
 with such rural occupations. A beautiful 
 drawing-room, brilliantly lighted ; an admir- 
 ing crowd of noble, well-dressed ladies and 
 ceremonious aristocrats ; an antechamber 
 full of lackeys ; a porter who almost insulted 
 visitors who came in hired carriages, 
 there was a discordant note that made you 
 feel the insuperable difficulty of a public 
 and legitimate union of the people with 
 the nobility.
 
 62 Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 VI. 
 
 T HAVE kept the elementary school- 
 -*- books we used in the lower class, the 
 spelling-book, the " Garden of the Soul," 
 etc. They are scribbled over with mot- 
 toes and rebuses, and best of all with 
 the dialogues that we kept up surrepti- 
 tiously during enforced silence, a very 
 common punishment. 
 
 The cover of the book we were using 
 passed along under the table kept the con- 
 versation going at such times; and we also 
 had letters, cut out of pasteboard, slipped 
 on a string from one end of the schoolroom 
 to the other. Words were rapidly formed 
 in this way, and even a girl set apart by 
 herself in a corner, for some misdemeanor, 
 was easily kept informed of what was 
 going on. 
 
 Sometimes we improvised written con- 
 fessions and examinations of conscience 
 for the little girls, of which the following
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 63 
 
 is a specimen ; but I do not remember who 
 wrote it, nor for whom it was intended. 
 
 CONFESSION OF 
 
 Alas ! dear Father Villele, I very often get ink 
 on my hands. Sometimes I snuff the candle with 
 my fingers ; and when I eat too many beans, I 
 suffer from indigestion, as I was taught to say in 
 the fashionable world where I was brought up. 
 I have shocked the young ladies of the class 
 by my untidiness. I have looked as stupid as an 
 owl, and I have forgotten to think of anything in 
 particular, more than two hundred times a day. 
 I have gone to sleep at catechism, and I have 
 snored at mass. I have said that you were not 
 handsome. I have let my taper drip on Mother 
 Alippe's veil, and I meant to do it. This last 
 week I have said s for t and t for s more than 
 fifteen times in French, and thirty times in Eng- 
 lish. I have burned my shoes at the stove and 
 made a bad smell in the schoolroom. It is my 
 fault, my fault, my very great fault, etc. 
 
 Such nonsense was not very impious ; 
 but we were severely reprimanded and pun- 
 ished if Miss D found any com- 
 positions of this kind. Mother Alippe 
 pretended to be angry, inflicted some 
 slight punishment, and confiscated the 
 papers, with which I suspect she sometimes 
 amused the nuns in the work-room.
 
 64 Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 It does not take much to set a parcel of 
 little girls laughing, and panic is as conta- 
 gious as laughter. A timid child would 
 scream at a spider, and then the whole class 
 shrieked in concert, without knowing why. 
 One evening at prayer-time, I cannot tell 
 what happened ; no one ever found out. 
 But one of the pupils screamed ; her neigh- 
 bor jumped up, the next left her seat, and 
 there was immediately a general stampede. 
 We rushed out of the room, knocking down 
 the chairs and candles, overturning the 
 benches and tables, tumbling over one an- 
 other as we fled along the cloisters, drag- 
 ging with us the teachers, who screamed 
 'and ran just as we did. It was a whole 
 hour before calm was restored, and an in- 
 vestigation made ; but no cause was ever 
 discovered. 
 
 In spite of all this feverish excitement, 
 I suffered so much physically and morally 
 in the lower class that I remember the day 
 when I entered the older girls' schoolroom, 
 and belonged there, as one of the happiest 
 in my life. 
 
 I have always been dependent on light, 
 finding dark places depressing. The 
 schoolroom for the second division was
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 65 
 
 spacious, with five or six large windows, 
 almost all opening on the garden. It was 
 warmed by a bright open fire, and a good 
 stove. Then, too, it was early spring, and 
 the great .candelabras of the horse-chest- 
 nuts were almost in bloom. It seemed like 
 paradise. 
 
 The presiding genius of the place, who 
 went by the name of " the Countess," was 
 very much ridiculed by the girls. She was 
 really very eccentric, and almost as absent- 
 minded as Miss D ; but she was a good 
 
 woman. Her own apartment on the ground 
 floor, opening on a garden, was only separated 
 from our domain by some beds of vegetables ; 
 so that from her window, when she was not 
 on duty, she could see what we were about. 
 But it interested her much more to watch 
 from the schoolroom what was going on in 
 her own apartment. There at her window, 
 or out in front at her door, lived, climbed, 
 scratched, and screeched in the sunshine the 
 only object of her idolatry, a shabby-look- 
 ing gray parrot, an ill-natured old thing, 
 constantly insulted and despised by the 
 girls. We were very wrong to behave so, 
 however, for we certainly owed a great 
 deal to Jacquot. Thanks to him, the Coun- 
 
 5
 
 66 Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 tess often left us to our own devices. Perched 
 on his stick, in full view from her seat in 
 the schoolroom, Jacquot uttered piercing 
 cries whenever he was not particularly 
 amusing himself. The Countess would 
 run directly to the window, and if a cat 
 were seen prowling about near his perch, or 
 if, tired of the sameness of life, the discon- 
 tented bird had started off for a pleasure 
 trip in the lilac-bushes, she forgot everything 
 else, and rushed madly through the clois- 
 ters across the garden, to reclaim, scold, and 
 caress the dear delinquent. Meantime, we 
 danced about on the tables, or, following 
 Jacqtiot's bad example, went off to amuse 
 ourselves in garret or cellar. 
 
 The Countess was forty or fifty years 
 old, unmarried, of noble birth (as she con- 
 stantly reminded us), and probably unedu- 
 cated, for she never gave any lessons, but 
 was a sort of superintendent. Though she 
 was undeniably tiresome and ridiculous, she 
 was naturally kind, and perfectly respect- 
 able. Yet some of us disliked her so much, 
 and treated her so badly, that we forced her 
 to be severe at times. She was always kind 
 to me, and I am ashamed to say that I 
 laughed with the others at her lofty airs, at
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 67 
 
 the black poke bonnet she never took off, 
 at the green shawl constantly pulled up on 
 her shoulders, and at her frequent lapses in 
 speaking, which we never allowed to pass 
 unnoticed, and pitilessly reproduced in our 
 own conversation. This mimicry delighted 
 us, and she never found it out. I ought 
 to have taken her part, for she often es- 
 poused mine when I was in disgrace ; but 
 children are proverbially ungrateful. La 
 Fontaine says, " This age is pitiless." The 
 right to ridicule seems to it an inalienable 
 right. 
 
 Our second superintendent was a very 
 austere nun, Madame Anne Frances. She 
 was aged, thin, and pale, with a great Roman 
 nose ; her strongly marked face was full of 
 character, and she looked like an old Do- 
 minican. She scolded a great deal, up- 
 braided us too much, and was decidedly not 
 a favorite. I neither liked nor disliked her, 
 and she seemed indifferent to me, though 
 I never could see that she preferred any of 
 the girls. We strongly suspected he*r of 
 being philosophical, because she was so 
 much interested in astronomy. In some 
 ways she was very different from the other 
 sisters. For instance, instead of commun-
 
 68 Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 ing, as they did, every day, she only ap- 
 proached the sacraments on great festivals. 
 Her reprimands never did us any good ; 
 they were nothing but threats, uttered in 
 such bad French that it was hard not to 
 laugh outright. She punished a great deal ; 
 and when she happened to be jocose, her 
 pleasantries were coarse and offensive. She 
 certainly was not devout, not even pious 
 for a nun. 
 
 Our principal was Madame Eugenie, 
 a tall woman with a beautiful figure and 
 noble bearing, very graceful and stately. 
 Rosy and wrinkled, like most middle-aged 
 nuns, her pretty face was disfigured by a 
 haughty, almost scornful expression, that 
 repelled one on first acquaintance. We 
 found her more than strict, severe, and 
 sometimes caustic in her remarks ; and she 
 allowed herself to be so unduly influenced 
 by her personal antipathies that she never 
 became popular with the girls. Her man- 
 ners were so cold and reserved that I never 
 knew any one but myself with whom she 
 had affectionate relations ; but I was really 
 fond of her, and this was the way our friend- 
 ship originated. 
 
 Three days after my promotion to the
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 69 
 
 first class I happened to meet Miss D 
 
 as I was going into the garden at recreation, 
 and she looked at me savagely. I returned 
 her stare with my habitual coolness. She 
 had felt herself humiliated by my advance- 
 ment, and was perfectly furious. 
 
 " You are very lofty," she said ; " you do 
 not even deign to speak to me." 
 
 " Good morning, madam. How do you 
 do?" 
 
 " You need not be so impertinent ; I can 
 make you feel who I am." 
 
 " I hope not, madam ; I have nothing 
 more to do with you." 
 
 " Wait and see ! " and she walked away 
 with a threatening gesture. 
 
 It was the hour of recess ; everybody was 
 in the garden ; and I took this opportunity 
 of getting some copy-books that I had left 
 in a closet adjoining the schoolroom. This 
 closet (where they kept writing-desks, ink- 
 stands, and large pitchers full of water for 
 washing the floor) served also as a prison 
 for the little ones, Mary Eyre and Com- 
 pany. I had been there a few minutes, 
 trying to find my books, when Miss 
 
 D suddenly appeared before me like 
 
 Tisiphone.
 
 7<D Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 " I am very glad to find you here," she 
 said. " Now you shall ask my pardon for 
 the impertinent way you looked at me just 
 now." 
 
 " No, madam," I replied ; " I was not im- 
 pertinent, and I shall not ask your pardon." 
 
 " Very well, then I shall punish you as I 
 do the little girls ; you shall stay shut up 
 here till you change your mind." 
 
 " You have no right to do so ; you have 
 no longer any authority over me." 
 
 " Try, then, and get out." 
 
 " Very well, I am going out now ; " and 
 taking advantage of her astonishment, I 
 walked out of the closet. 
 
 Transported with rage, she rushed at me, 
 grasped me in her arms, and pushed me in 
 again. In all my life I never saw anything 
 more repulsive than this pious fury. Half 
 in fun and half in earnest, I kept her off 
 and held her against the wall, nothing 
 more, till I saw that she was going to strike 
 me, and then I raised my clinched fist She 
 turned very pale ; and when I felt that she 
 was giving way, I contemptuously released 
 her, satisfied with having shown my physi- 
 cal and moral superiority. Taking advan- 
 tage at once of my magnanimity, she re-
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 71 
 
 turned to the charge and pushed me with 
 all her might. My foot hit a great jug of 
 water, that overturned as I fell into the 
 
 closet, where Miss D locked me in, 
 
 pouring out a volley of abuse. The situa- 
 tion was not pleasant : I was literally in a 
 cold bath, for the closet was small and the 
 pitcher enormous ; the water came up to 
 my ankles. But I could not help laughing 
 when I heard her mutter: " The perverse, 
 miserable child ! She has made me so 
 angry that I shall have to confess all over 
 again. I have lost my absolution." 
 
 When she had gone, I gathered my wits 
 together, climbed upon a shelf out of reach 
 of the water, tore a blank leaf .out of a copy- 
 book, found pen and ink, and wrote a note 
 to Madame Eugenie something like this : 
 
 " MADAME, I recognize no authority but 
 
 your own. Miss D has just shut me up by 
 
 main force. Please come and let me out." 
 
 Then I waited for a messenger, and pres- 
 ently one of the girls came to the school- 
 room. Seeing me looking out of the tran- 
 som, she was frightened, and turned to run 
 away ; but I called her back, and begged her 
 to take my letter to Madame Eugenie, who
 
 72 Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 was in the garden. A few minutes after, 
 
 Madame appeared, followed by Miss D , 
 
 took me by the hand and led me away with- 
 out saying a word. Miss D held her 
 
 peace too. When I was alone in the clois- 
 ter with Madame Eugenie, I threw my arms 
 about her and kissed her affectionately. She 
 was not given to caresses, and I had never 
 seen any one kiss her before ; but she was 
 evidently not displeased with my impulsive 
 action, and seemed affected by my warm 
 embrace, like a woman who does not know 
 what it is to be loved, and yet yearns for 
 affection. She questioned me skilfully ; 
 and without appearing to heed my answers 
 particularly, she did not lose a word or an ex- 
 pression of my face. Persuaded at last that 
 I spoke the truth, she grasped my hand 
 tenderly, and told me to go back to the 
 garden. 
 
 The Archbishop of Paris was coming in 
 a few days to confirm some of the girls who 
 had had their first communion but had not 
 partaken of the sacrament. They were to 
 make their " retreat " together in a room 
 
 presided over by Miss D , who was also 
 
 the reader, and made the religious exhorta- 
 tions. That very day I was sent for as
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 73 
 
 one of the number, but she refused to re- 
 ceive me, and ordered me to make my " re- 
 treat " in a room by myself somewhere. 
 
 Then Madame Eugenie took my part 
 openly. 
 
 " Is she so pestilential as that ? " she said 
 ironically. " Then she had better come to 
 me in my cell.' r 
 
 She took me by the hand, and we went 
 out, followed by Mother Alippe. While I 
 made myself at home in the cell, the two 
 nuns stayed outside in the corridor, and I 
 overheard their conversation, which was 
 carried on in English. Perhaps they did 
 not know that I could understand them as 
 well as I did. 
 
 " Tell me," began Madame Eugenie, " is 
 this child really so abominable ? " 
 
 " She is not abominable at all," answered 
 Mother Alippe. " She is a good enough 
 child ; that woman makes all the trouble. 
 'T is true that she is a ' diable,' as they 
 call them. I see that makes you laugh ; I 
 have always understood that you have a 
 weakness for ' les diables.' " 
 
 " Good ! " said I to myself ; " that is worth 
 remembering." 
 
 Madame Eugenie went on : " But she is
 
 74 Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 such a wild child that perhaps she had 
 better not be confirmed at present ; she is 
 hardly sober-minded enough. Wait till she 
 has sown her wild oats ; and meantime let 
 us keep her out of the way of this woman, 
 who owes her a grudge. You agree that 
 the child belongs now to me, and that 
 you have no longer any right to control 
 her?" 
 
 " No other ri^ht but that of Christian 
 
 O 
 
 charity," said Mother Alippe: "but don't 
 
 disturb yourself ; Miss D is clearly in 
 
 the wrong, and must stop where she is." 
 
 Then they went off, as I supposed 
 to find the Superior, explain the matter 
 to her, and confer perhaps also with 
 Miss D . 
 
 While I was awaiting their return, 
 safely ensconced in the cell of my protec- 
 tress, our dear sympathetic Poulette came 
 in to console me. That was the name \ve 
 children had given to the sister of Mother 
 Alippe, Madam Mary Austin, the treas- 
 urer of the community. We idolized her ; 
 for not having any official relation with the 
 pupils, and consequently no responsibility, 
 she took it upon herself to spoil us contin- 
 ually, administering, however, a good-
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 75 
 
 humored scolding now and then for our 
 frolics. She kept a store of dainties that 
 we could buy, and they were often given 
 to the girls who were out of money, 
 opening accounts never closed by debtor 
 or creditor. This kind soul had no gloom 
 or austerity in her piety. Always gay, 
 we hugged and kissed, even teased her, 
 without ever making her angry. Now she 
 came to comfort me in my misfortunes, 
 with such ardent sympathy and exagger- 
 ated sense of my wrongs that she might 
 have done me harm if I had not really 
 longed to live in peace with every one. 
 
 After we had chatted an hour or more, 
 the door opened, and who should come in 
 
 but Miss D ! Evidently she had been 
 
 taken to task by the Superior, or her con- 
 fessor ; for she was as sweet as honey, and 
 I was stupefied by her novel, caressing 
 ways. She announced that I was not to 
 be confirmed before next year, because I 
 was not thought to be in a proper frame of 
 mind to receive the sacrament, adding 
 
 o 
 
 that Madame Eugenie was coming to tell 
 
 O ^> 
 
 me herself, but that she had obtained per- 
 mission to do so, because she wanted to be 
 reconciled, to make her peace with me
 
 76 Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 before going into " retreat " with the other 
 girls. 
 
 " Come, now," she said ; " acknowledge 
 that you have been wrong, and give me 
 your hand ! " 
 
 " Willingly," I answered. " I will do any- 
 thing that you ask kindly and pleasantly." 
 
 Then she kissed me. I did not like that ; 
 but the storm had blown over, and I never 
 had any trouble with her again. The next 
 year, after my conversion, I made my " re- 
 treat " under her auspices. She was very 
 amiable, and complimented me on my 
 change of heart. She read to us a great 
 deal, explaining and commenting witli a 
 certain rude eloquence that was sometimes 
 magnetic. At first her manner of read- 
 ing seemed bombastic ; but after a while it 
 was impressive. I remember nothing more 
 about her from this time. I forgave her 
 sincerely, and never regretted it ; but I must 
 say that we should have been infinitely 
 better, and far happier, if the nuns had de- 
 voted themselves to our education, instead 
 of leaving it in the hands of such women.
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 77 
 
 VII. 
 
 of the oldest nuns whom I remem- 
 her was Madame Anne Augustine. 
 She was so aged and infirm that we used to 
 say one had plenty of time to learn one's 
 lessons going upstairs behind her to recita- 
 tion. She never spoke French, and had a 
 very severe and solemn expression. I do 
 not believe that she ever said a word to any 
 one of us. The story ran that after a very 
 serious illness she had to wear a silver 
 stomach. This was a current convent tra- 
 dition, and we were silly enough to accept 
 and repeat it. We even persuaded our- 
 selves sometimes that we could hear it 
 click as she walked ; and this old nun, 
 mended with metal, who never spoke to us, 
 who did not know the name of a single 
 girl, and who gave us a startled look as we 
 passed, became in our imaginations a very 
 mysterious and rather a dreadful being. 
 We trembled as we bowed to her. She 
 returned our salutations silently, and passed
 
 78 Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 on like a spectre. We used to declare that 
 she must have died two hundred years be- 
 fore, and that it was her ghost we saw keep- 
 ing up the habit of walking about. 
 
 Madame Marie Xavier was the most 
 beautiful person in the convent, tall, slight, 
 and well-formed. She was always as white 
 as a sheet, and as gloomy as the grave, say- 
 ing that she was very ill, and only hoped to 
 die. She was the only nun I ever saw in 
 despair because she had pronounced the 
 final vows ; but she made no secret of the 
 fact, and passed her time in sighs and tears. 
 The law does not sanction such vows now- 
 adays : but she did not dare, apparently, to 
 break them, since she had solemnly sworn ; 
 and while she was not philosophical enough 
 to do this, she was not pious enough to 
 become resigned to her fate. Faltering, 
 restless, and wretched, she seemed more im- 
 passioned than loving ; for she often gave 
 way to fits of anger, as if utterly worn out 
 and exasperated. We talked a great deal 
 about her. Some of us thought that she 
 had taken the veil on account of a disap- 
 pointment, and that she still cared for her 
 lover ; others said that she hated him, 
 and that her heart was full of rage and re-
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 79 
 
 sentment ; while a few accused her of hav- 
 ing an unhappy temper, and of chafing 
 under the authority of the older nuns. Al- 
 though it was all kept from us as much as 
 possible, we could not help seeing that she 
 lived apart, that the sisters seemed to con- 
 demn her, and that she was on cool terms 
 with all the others, whose dislike she re- 
 turned. Yet she communed daily, and 
 remained, I believe, ten years in the con- 
 vent. Not long after I went away I heard 
 that she had broken her vows, and de- 
 parted ; but no one knew how it came to 
 pass. What was the end of her sorrowful 
 life ? Did she find the object of her passion 
 free and repentant ; or did she never really 
 have a passion ? Did she go back to the 
 world, or enter another convent, to end her 
 days in penitence and mourning; or did 
 she die of a broken heart ? None of us 
 ever knew. The sisters explained her ab- 
 sence, saying that the doctors declared that 
 she must live in a different climate and 
 change her manner of life ; but it was easy 
 to see, by their constrained smiles, that 
 there was a mystery about it. 
 
 Another beautiful girl, Miss Croft, 
 who entered as a postulant while I was at
 
 8o Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 the convent, after my departure followed 
 the example of Madame Marie Xavier, and 
 left the community, before taking the 
 black veil, however. 
 
 Miss Hurst who took the final vows 
 during my stay, and who did it very deliber- 
 ately, without repenting afterwards was 
 my English teacher, and I passed an hour 
 every day in her cell. She explained all the 
 difficulties of the language clearly and pa- 
 tiently, and I became very fond of her, 
 with reason, for she was extremely kind to 
 me, even when I was a " diable." Her con- 
 vent name was Maria Winifred ; and I 
 never read Shakespeare or Byron in the 
 original without thanking her in my heart. 
 
 Sister Anne Joseph was the gentlest and 
 most affectionate little creature that ever 
 breathed, without a particle of English 
 stiffness or Roman Catholic caution. She 
 was always kissing us, and calling us by the 
 most endearing names ; but her talk was as 
 incoherent as her ideas, and she chattered 
 away without really saying anything. It 
 may be that she had so much to say that 
 she could not express it, even in her own 
 language. There did not seem to be so 
 much absence, as utter confusion of ideas.
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 81 
 
 Her thoughts got ahead of her speech ; and 
 then she used the wrong word, or left a 
 phrase unfinished, so that you had to guess 
 the end while she was rattling on with an- 
 other. Her actions were like her talk ; 
 she tried to do forty things at once, and 
 naturally never did one well. Her gentle- 
 ness and sweet temper seemed to fit her 
 for the place she had in the infirmary ; but 
 unfortunately, when she was flurried she 
 could not tell her right hand from her left, 
 or doses of medicine from outward applica- 
 tions, and made sad confusion with patients 
 and prescriptions. In a great hurry to get 
 something in the pharmacy, she would run 
 upstairs when she should have run down, 
 and vice versa. Her whole life was passed in 
 trying to correct her mistakes. " As good 
 as an angel and as silly as a goose," they 
 used to say of her; and I sometimes thought 
 that the other nuns were needlessly severe, 
 and laughed too much at her misfortunes. 
 Once she complained of having rats in her 
 cell, and was told that they must have come 
 out of her own brain. When she had done 
 something hopelessly absurd she would get 
 completely bewildered, and shed tears in 
 despair. Poor little Sister Anne Joseph !
 
 82 Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 You did well in your trouble to turn to 
 God, who never rejects the offering of a 
 loving heart ; and I thank him for enabling 
 me to feel the beauty of your perfect sim- 
 plicity and tenderness ! Scorn such if you 
 will, you who often find unselfish good- 
 ness like hers in the world ! 
 
 I have kept the nun whom I loved most 
 dearly for the last picture in this portrait 
 gallery. Madame Marie Alicia was the 
 best, the most attractive, and the most in- 
 telligent of all the women, old and young, 
 who inhabited this English Augustinian 
 convent. When I first knew her, she could 
 not have been thirty years old ; and she was 
 still very handsome, though her mouth was 
 rather small, and her nose too large. 
 But those great blue eyes, with their long 
 black lashes, were more tender, more lim- 
 pid, and more truthful than any other eyes 
 I ever saw in my life. In them all her 
 generous, candid, motherly soul, all her 
 pure, lofty aspirations, lay mirrored. In 
 mystic language they might have been 
 called " wells of purity." Even now, when 
 I awake in the night from some bad 
 dream, that haunts me even when wide 
 awake, I recall Madame Alicia's eyes ;
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 83 
 
 and their pure rays always put the phan- 
 toms to flight It is no affectionate exag- 
 
 O <-* 
 
 geration to say that there was something 
 ideal about her. She made the same im- 
 pression on persons who only saw her 
 for an instant behind the grating, or who 
 knew her slightly in the convent. They 
 always felt for her instinctively the sympa- 
 thy and respect inspired by the chosen few. 
 Religion may have rendered her humble ; 
 but nature made her modest, and endowed 
 her with all the virtues, charms, and noble 
 qualities that her enlightened conception 
 of Christianity only served to develop and 
 strengthen. In coming in contact with her, 
 
 O O 
 
 one felt that there was no inward struggle in 
 her life, and that she naturally tended to all 
 that was good and beautiful. Everything 
 about her was harmonious ; her figure was 
 grace and majesty combined, under her robe 
 and wimple. Her hands were lovely, with 
 tapering, rounded fingers, finely formed, in 
 spite of a slight rheumatic stiffness of the 
 joints, that was not always perceptible. Her 
 voice was musical, and her enunciation ex- 
 quisitely modulated and distinct, in English 
 as well as in French, for she spoke both 
 languages perfectly. Bom in France, of a
 
 84 Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 French mother and English father, she 
 united the finest qualities of the two races, 
 that seemed to constitute in her a perfect 
 being. She had the dignified bearing, with- 
 out the stiffness, of an Englishwoman, and 
 there was no tinge of harshness in her re- 
 ligious austerity. When she reproved us, 
 in a few well-chosen, simple words, we felt 
 convicted. Her reproaches sank into our 
 hearts, but were always accompanied by 
 such hopeful encouragement; that we were 
 humbled and subdued, without being in the 
 least hurt, offended, or humiliated. We 
 respected her for her sincerity, and loved 
 her all the more because, with the sense of 
 being unworthy of her friendship, there 
 dawned the hope of some day deserving 
 it ; and this hope tended to become its own 
 fulfilment. 
 
 Some of the nuns had daughters one or 
 more at a time among the pupils ; that 
 is to say, at the request of the parents, or 
 the child herself, with the permission of 
 the Superior, there was a sort of maternal 
 oversight. This adoption consisted in at- 
 tention to physical or spiritual welfare, and 
 in administering encouragement, or tender 
 or severe rebuke, as the case might require.
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 85 
 
 The daughters were allowed to go to their 
 mother's cell, to ask her advice and pro- 
 tection if needed, to take tea with her some- 
 times in the nuns' workroom, to give her 
 some little present made by themselves, on 
 her birthday, to love her, in short, and 
 to tell her that they loved her. Many 
 aspired to be the daughter of Poulette or 
 Mother Alippe. Madame Marie Xavierhad 
 several children ; and not a few were very 
 anxious to be adopted by Madame Alicia. 
 But she was chary of such a favor. As 
 secretary of the community, with all the 
 Superior's office work to attend to, she 
 had little leisure, and was often very tired. 
 She had cherished one beloved daughter, 
 Louise de Courteilles, who had gone 
 away, and no one had dared to hope to fill 
 her place ; but I was audacious enough 
 to entertain this idea, in my unsuspecting, 
 childish simplicity. All the girls about 
 me adored Madame Alicia, but did not 
 venture to tell her of their devotion ; but 
 I went directly to her, without an idea of 
 presumption. 
 
 " You ? " said she, after hearing what I 
 had to say, "you, the naughtiest girl in 
 the convent ? Do you wish to make me
 
 86 Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 do penance ? What harm have I ever done 
 you, to put it into your head to come to 
 me and ask to be taken care of ? Such an 
 ' enfant terrible ' as you, in the place of my 
 good Louise, that sweet, gentle child! 
 You are either crazy, or else you bear me 
 some grudge." 
 
 " Oh, no ! " said I, without being at all 
 disconcerted ; " but won't you please to 
 try? Who knows? perhaps I may mend 
 my ways, and become delightful just to 
 please you." 
 
 " Ah," said she, " if that is it, if it is 
 with an idea of improving you that I must 
 undertake this task, perhaps I may make 
 up my mind to try the experiment ; but 
 as a means of saving my soul, I should 
 have preferred some easier way." 
 
 " But an angel like Louise could not 
 help save your soul," I argued. " There 
 was no merit in taking care of her, and 
 there will be a great deal in taking care 
 of me." 
 
 " But suppose that with all the pains I 
 take, I do not succeed in making you good 
 and pious, what then ? Will you faith- 
 fully promise to help me yourself all you 
 can ? "
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 87 
 
 " I can't say," I answered. " I do not 
 know yet what I really am, or what I want 
 to be. I only know that I love you dearly; 
 and I rather think that, whether I am good 
 or bad, you will love me too." 
 
 " I see, Aurora, that you have a very good 
 opinion of yourself." 
 
 " Oh, no ; but I do need a mother. Be 
 mine, in your own way; I am sure that you 
 will do me good. You see I ask you to 
 do it in my own interest, without any pre- 
 tence. Come, dear mother, say ' Yes.' I 
 warn you that I have already asked permis- 
 sion of my grandmother and the Superior, 
 and that both of them mean to speak to 
 you about it." 
 
 Madame Alicia then consented, and my 
 astonished companions exclaimed, when I 
 told them : " You are fortunate ! You are 
 just as bad as you can be ; you are always 
 in some mischief or other; and yet Madame 
 Eugenie takes you under her wing, and 
 now Madame Alicia loves you. What 
 luck ! " 
 
 "Yes, that is so," I answered, with the 
 nonchalant fatuity of a careless child. 
 
 My affection, however, for this admirable 
 woman, struck deeper roots than either of
 
 88 Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 us knew. In spite of what seemed my 
 careless idleness, I had times of revery, and 
 even of discontented reflection, which, 
 however, I kept to myself. Sometimes I was 
 so depressed, while committing the wildest 
 extravagances, that I was forced to say I 
 was in pain, to keep from breaking down. 
 My -English companions would laugh, and 
 say, " How low-spirited you are to-day ! " 
 and when I was dejected, in "a green 
 and yellow melancholy," Isabella would 
 exclaim, " She is in the dumps, the absent- 
 minded creature ! " and then she would 
 make such a caricature of me that I could 
 not help laughing. Nevertheless I kept 
 my own secret. Certainly, if 1 had had 
 more strength of will, more initiative, I 
 should not have been a " diable " so long. 
 If any of the others had proposed to give 
 up our misdemeanors, I should have acceded 
 at once ; but I loved them, and they made 
 me laugh, and diverted me from my sad 
 thoughts. 
 
 Five minutes, though, with Madame Ali- 
 cia did me a great deal more good ; because 
 in her severity I discerned whether it 
 was friendship or Christian charity a real 
 interest that made me happier with her
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 89 
 
 than I was with my young companions. 
 If I could have divided my time between 
 the work-room and my dear mother's cell, 
 in three days I should have been at a loss 
 to understand what amusement there could 
 be in climbing over roofs or exploring dark 
 cellars. I had needed to love and vener- 
 ate some one superior to myself, and I had 
 found such a person in Madame Alicia. 
 She was my ideal, my holy mother. 
 
 When I had been a " diable " all day, I 
 would slip into my mother's cell at evening 
 after prayers. That was one of my privi- 
 leges as an adopted child. Prayers were 
 over at half-past eight. We went upstairs to 
 the dormitory, and saw in the long corridors 
 the nuns marching two by two on their 
 way to their cells, chanting Latin prayers 
 as they went along. Stopping 'before a 
 figure of the Virgin on the upper landing, 
 after several verses and responses they sep- 
 arated for the night, and each one entered 
 her cell without speaking ; for between 
 prayers and sleep, silence was imposed. 
 They, however, who were in attendance on 
 the sick, or who had adopted daughters, 
 were not subject to this regulation ; and I 
 had a right to go and see my mother for a
 
 90 Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 quarter of an hour between a quarter to 
 nine and nine o'clock. When the great 
 clock struck nine, her light must be put out, 
 and I must go back to my dormitory : so 
 that I only had five or six minutes some- 
 - times, and even those were divided between 
 me and attention to the demi-se mi-quarters 
 of the old clock ; for Madame Alicia was too 
 scrupulous to infringe upon the regulation, 
 even for a second. 
 
 " Well," she would say, opening her door, 
 at which I scratched to be let in, " so here 
 comes my torment ! " That was what she 
 always called me ; but her tone was so 
 sweet and cordial, her smile so tender, and 
 her expression so friendly, that I knew I 
 was welcome. 
 
 " Well, what news have you to tell me ? 
 Have you been good to-day by accident ? 
 No! but I see no night-cap." (That penal 
 head-dress had become almost chronic.) 
 
 " I have only worn it two hours this 
 evening." 
 
 " Ah ! that is very well ; and how was it 
 this morning ? " 
 
 " I had it on in church, and I got be- 
 hind the others so that you should not 
 see me."
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 91 
 
 " You need not do that ; I hardly ever 
 look at you, for fear of seeing that odious 
 night-cap : and you will probably have it on 
 again to-morrow ? " 
 
 " Yes, I suppose so." 
 
 " Don't you mean ever to improve ? " 
 
 " I can't yet." 
 
 " Then what do you come here for? " 
 
 " To see you, and to be scolded." 
 
 " That amuses you, then ? " 
 
 " No ; it does me good." 
 
 " I do not see that it does you the least 
 good, and it does me harm ; it troubles me, 
 you naughty child ! " 
 
 " So much the better ! " I exclaimed. 
 " That shows that you love me." 
 
 " And that you do not love me" she 
 rejoined. 
 
 Then she gave me a good scolding. I 
 liked to hear her, and listened with the 
 greatest attention, as if I had resolved at 
 last to amend my ways ; but I had no defi- 
 nite plan of doing so. 
 
 " Come," said she, " you are going to act 
 differently, I hope. You must be tired of 
 this foolish behavior. Listen to the voice 
 of God in your soul." 
 
 " Do you often pray to God for me ? "
 
 92 Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 " Yes, often." 
 
 " Every day ? " 
 
 " Yes, every day." 
 
 " Now you see, madame, that if I were 
 good, you would not love me so much ; I 
 should be less in your thoughts." 
 
 She could not help laughing at this ; for 
 she had all the natural gayety inseparable 
 from a heart at rest and a quiet conscience. 
 Then she would take me by the shoulders 
 and give me a good shaking, as if to 
 shake the Evil One out of me, and put 
 me out of the door just as the clock struck 
 nine, laughing merrily. I would go up to 
 the dormitory lighter-hearted, carrying with 
 me the subtile influence of the serenity and 
 frankness of her beautiful soul. But I 
 shall have more to say of my dear Madame 
 Alicia.
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 93 
 
 VIII. 
 
 HP HERE were four lay sisters in the 
 -^ convent, but I only remember two 
 distinctly, Sister Theresa and Sister 
 Helen. 
 
 The former who had christened me 
 " Madcap" was a tall old woman of an 
 excellent type. Gay, rough, but kindness 
 itself, she liked to laugh at us. She was 
 a strong, active, raw-boned Scotchwoman, 
 sending us away often in a manner that 
 showed she wanted us to come back, 
 amused with the tricks we played, but using 
 her broomstick freely upon occasion. She 
 liked " les diables," was not a bit afraid of 
 them, and laughed louder than any one at 
 our pranks. 
 
 Sister Theresa knew how to distil the 
 mint-water for which our convent was fa- 
 mous. The mint was cultivated in great 
 quantities in the nuns' garden. Three or 
 four times a year it was mown, and heaped 
 in a great cellar used as a laboratory.
 
 94 Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 This cellar was directly under our large 
 schoolroom, and a wide staircase led to it, 
 so that it was naturally one of our first 
 halts when we started on an expedition ; 
 but when Sister Theresa was away the lab- 
 oratory was carefully locked up, and when 
 she was there we could not caper about 
 among all her retorts and alembics. At 
 such times we would stand at the open 
 door and try to tease her; but she never 
 seemed to mind. 
 
 However, by persistent efforts, I suc- 
 ceeded at last in getting a foothold in the 
 sanctuary. For a long time I had only 
 reconnoitred, but now I enjoyed watching 
 her. All alone in the vast cellar, a strong 
 light falling from above on her violet dress, 
 coarse black veil, and strongly-marked, 
 weather-beaten face, she looked like one 
 of Macbeth's witches stooping over the fire. 
 Then again she would sit as still as a 
 statue, close to the alembic, watching the 
 precious fluid as it distilled drop by drop ; 
 or she would read the Bible to herself, and 
 repeat her prayers in a hoarse, monotonous 
 voice, as beautiful in her old age as a 
 portrait by Rembrandt. 
 
 One day when Sister Theresa was ab-
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 95 
 
 sorbed in her work, or fast asleep, I stole in 
 on tip-toe ; and she did not know I was 
 there, till I was standing triumphant in the 
 midst of her fragile apparatus. Then she 
 was obliged to capitulate and satisfy my 
 curiosity. From that time she took a 
 fancy to me, and often let me come in. She 
 found that I was not clumsy, and would 
 not break anything ; moreover, she seemed 
 amused with my lounging about, and though 
 she often said that I ought to go back to 
 the schoolroom, she never put me out by 
 force, as she did some of the others. The 
 smell of the mint gave her a headache, and 
 its emanations hurt her eyes ; therefore she 
 liked to have me help her to spread and turn 
 her fragrant harvest ; and on summer days, 
 when the heat became suffocating in the 
 schoolroom, I delighted in taking refuge 
 in this cool cellar, where the strong perfume 
 revived me. 
 
 The other lay sister Sister Helen was 
 the maid-of-all-work of the convent, making 
 the beds, sweeping the church, etc. She 
 became afterwards more dear to me than 
 any one save Madame Alicia ; but I was a 
 long time without noticing her. The two 
 other lay sisters did the cooking. Thus
 
 96 Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 there was an aristocracy and a democracy 
 in the convent, as in the world. The choir 
 sisters lived like patricians ; their robes were 
 white, and they wore fine linen, while the lay 
 sisters worked hard, and their dark clothing 
 was of a much coarser kind. They were 
 women from the lower orders, uneducated ; 
 and they were unavoidably much less ab- 
 sorbed in ritual and devotions than in the 
 household occupations of this great estab- 
 lishment. There were too few of them, 
 however, to do all the work, and it became 
 necessary to reinforce them by lay servants. 
 Upon the whole, it was a genial family 
 of women. I do not remember one dis- 
 agreeable girl; and with the exception of 
 
 my experience with Miss D , I met 
 
 with nothing but kindness and forbearance 
 from nuns and teachers. It is impossible 
 not to cherish the memory of the most 
 tranquil, if not the happiest years of my life. 
 Of course there was physical as well as 
 moral suffering ; but never, before nor 
 since, have I had so little reason to com- 
 plain of others.
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 97 
 
 IX. 
 
 TV /[" Y first grief after I entered the upper 
 ** class was the departure of Isabella, 
 whose parents took her away to travel in 
 Switzerland. She left us, delighted at the 
 prospect of such a journey, regretting no 
 one, apparently, but Sophia, and paying 
 very little attention to my woe. That hurt 
 my feelings. I loved Sophia too, and was 
 doubly jealous, in the first place, because 
 she preferred Isabella to me ; and then 
 because Isabella liked her better. For 
 some days I was in great affliction ; but 
 when I saw how much Sophia missed her 
 friend, I begged her to let me sympathize 
 with her sorrow. Though she seemed at 
 first to care little for my efforts at consola- 
 tion, I entreated her very humbly to be as 
 miserable as she liked when she was with 
 me, and to talk of Isabella to her heart's con- 
 tent, without fearing to weary my patience 
 and affection. Then Sophia exclaimed, 
 throwing her arms around my neck, 
 
 7
 
 98 Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 " I wonder why Isabella and I have al- 
 ways treated you as if you were a little 
 child ! You have so much feeling ! and I 
 want you to be my real friend ; only you 
 must always let me love Isabella the best. 
 She comes first ; but after her, I am sure I 
 love you better than any one else here." 
 
 I joyfully accepted the second place, and 
 became from this moment Sophia's insepa- 
 rable companion. She was always lovely 
 and engaging, but I must acknowledge 
 that I was the more devoted and enthusi- 
 astic of the two ; for, exclusive by nature, 
 she could not well divide her affection. 
 Sometimes I accused her of ingratitude ; 
 then I felt that I was wrong; and without 
 neglecting her, opened my heart to other 
 friendships. 
 
 Mary had gone to England to stay a 
 short time. My grief was not very great 
 because I had seen very little of her since 
 I left the lower class, and I thought that 
 on her return she would be promoted also ; 
 but after a prolonged absence, she came 
 back to the lower division. 
 
 A new friendship now absorbed and 
 consoled me ; for I found Fanelly de 
 Brissac the most loving of all my school
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 99 
 
 companions. She was a little blonde, as 
 fresh as a rose, with such an animated, 
 frank, kind face, that it did one good to 
 look at her. Her beautiful light hair fell in 
 curls over her blue eyes and plump cheeks ; 
 and as she was always in motion, running 
 when most girls walked, and bounding 
 like a ball when others ran, the perpetual 
 undulation of her golden tresses was a de- 
 light to the eyes. Her red lips were al- 
 ways parted with a smile; and, being a 
 native of Nerac, she spoke French with 
 the most bewitching little Gascon accent. 
 Her horizontal eyebrows almost met above 
 her nose, and her radiant eyes sparkled 
 like stars. She was always doing or plan- 
 ning something, chattering all the time, 
 and constantly on the wing like a butterfly. 
 Ardent, loving, sunny-tempered, she was a 
 perfect southern type, the sweetest and 
 most engaging companion I ever had. She 
 loved me first, and told me so frankly, with- 
 out waiting to see how I would receive her 
 advances ; but I responded at once heartily, 
 without stopping to think. My good star 
 evidently presided over this impulse, for I 
 found in her a perfect treasure of sweet- 
 ness, the gentleness of an angel with the
 
 ioo Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 vivacity of a sprite. She possessed such 
 buoyancy of physical and moral health, 
 such inexhaustible kindness, such eager, 
 active, ingenious endeavors to make people 
 happy about her, such unfailing and in- 
 stinctive generosity, as made a rare union 
 of qualities, a character perfectly reliable, 
 without a single flaw. Any one seeing 
 her so gay and volatile, with her hair all 
 flying about her face, might have sup- 
 posed she was thoughtless ; while in reality 
 she was always thinking of others, living in 
 the affection she had for them and the 
 hope of contributing to their pleasure. I 
 can see her now entering the schoolroom 
 (she was constantly going in and out), peer- 
 ing right and left to find me, for in 
 spite of her beautiful eyes she was near- 
 sighted. 
 
 " Where is my aunt ? " she would say 
 (the name by which she called me). " What 
 have you done with my aunt? Young 
 ladies, young ladies, who has seen my 
 aunt?" 
 
 " Here I am," I would say. " Come and 
 sit by me." 
 
 " That is right ; you have kept my place. 
 Good ! now we shall have a fine time.
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 101 
 
 What is the matter, auntie ? You look 
 troubled. Tell me what is the matter. 
 Nothing? Well, then, laugh. Are you 
 getting tired ? Yes, that is so. Come, let us 
 go off ; I have found something delightful." 
 
 And she would take me to the garden or 
 the cloisters in search of amusement ; or 
 perhaps she had prepared some surprise. 
 In her society it was not possible to be sad 
 or dreamy; and, strange to say, her per- 
 petual motion was never wearisome. She 
 took possession of her companion, and one 
 never regretted yielding to her charm. For 
 me she was health and strength, for body 
 and soul. 
 
 We had i-n the convent a childish notion 
 of respecting the. priority of friendship, 
 and we exacted it of one another. We used 
 to make out a list of our intimates in regu- 
 lar succession ; and the initials of the four 
 or five favorite names decorated, like heral- 
 dic devices, the walls, our copy-books, and 
 the tops of our desks. When the first 
 place had been once taken, we had no 
 right to give it to another ; priority was 
 an obligation. Thus my list, while I was 
 in the upper class, always consisted of 
 Isabella Clifford at the head ; then came
 
 IO2 Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 Sophia Gary ; Fanelly could only have the 
 third place, although I loved her more than 
 the others, and she had no friend but me. 
 She accepted, however, without pain or 
 jealousy, this inferior rank. After her came 
 Anna Vie, who took the fourth place ; and 
 for a year I had no other intimacies. The 
 name of Madame Alicia, however, crowned 
 the list ; and she was placed above them all, 
 alone. The initials of my four compan- 
 ions formed the word " ISFA," which I wrote 
 on everything that belonged to me, like a 
 cabalistic formula. Sometimes it was sur- 
 rounded by a halo of little as, to show 
 that Alicia filled all the rest of my heart. 
 How often Madame Eugenie, who, even 
 with her poor eyes, saw everything, in 
 examining our papers, puzzled herself over 
 this mysterious word ! Since we all had 
 a logogriph of some kind, she was in- 
 clined to think it must be a sort of cipher, 
 in which we were conspiring against her 
 authority ; but when she questioned us, we 
 all said that it was a word we used to try 
 our pens Mystery is so delightful, es- 
 pecially when the secret is transparent ! 
 
 Anna Vie, my fourth letter, was very in- 
 telligent, gay, fond of mischief and ridicule,
 
 Convent, Life of George Sand. 103 
 
 the wittiest girl in school and the most 
 amusing. Poor, and unprepossessing in 
 appearance, we loved her all the more for^ 
 these two disadvantages, of which she was 
 always making fun herself. She was an 
 orphan, under the care of an old Greek 
 uncle, whom she hardly knew, and of whom 
 she was very much afraid. A leader 
 among il les diables," very high-tempered, 
 and dreaded on account of her sharp 
 tongue, she had, nevertheless, a noble, gen- 
 erous heart Her sparkling gayety masked 
 a great deal of real bitterness ; but the future 
 that she dreaded, her wit that made her 
 more feared than loved by most of the girls 
 her poor little shabby black gowns, her 
 small undeveloped figure, her yellow, bil- 
 ious complexion, her queer little eyes, all 
 were for her subjects of constant jest and 
 ceaseless pain. Some said she was envious 
 of others' advantages ; but it was not so. 
 She had excellent good sense ; there was 
 no meanness about her; and when she 
 became intimate enough with us not to 
 laugh at us or with us all the time, she 
 excited our sympathy by her reticent un- 
 happiness. We talked a great deal about 
 a favorite project of mine, of taking her
 
 IO4 Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 to Nohant to live. My grandmother con- 
 sented, but Anna's uncle vetoed the plan. 
 
 For nearly a year, Sophia, Fanelly, Anna, 
 and I were inseparable. I was the connect- 
 ing link ; for till Sophia accepted me for her 
 second friend, and the two others had given 
 me the first place, they had had little to do 
 with one another. Our intimacy was un- 
 clouded, though it pained me sometimes 
 that Sophia felt herself obliged to love the 
 absent Isabella more than me ; and then I 
 thought it my bounden duty to love the ab- 
 sent Isabella and indifferent Sophia more 
 than Fanelly and Anna, who adored me 
 without any reserve. But that was the rule, 
 the law; if we had disturbed the order of 
 the list, we should have thought ourselves 
 guilty of the most reprehensible fickleness. 
 However, I must say that in spite of all, 
 I knew that I loved Fanelly more than all 
 the others ; and I often told her, very illogi- 
 cally, that by my will she was the third 
 on the list, but that against my will she 
 was my best, perhaps my only real, friend. 
 Then she would answer, laughingly, " What 
 difference does that make, whether I am 
 the third or not, so long as you love me as 
 much as I love you ? That is all I ask of
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 105 
 
 my aunt. I am not too proud to love all 
 the girls you are fond of." 
 
 After some months Isabella came back 
 from Switzerland, but only to say good- 
 by ; she was now to live in England. I was 
 in great affliction, all the more because, 
 engrossed by Sophia, who absorbed all her 
 attention, she hardly took any notice of 
 me, except to turn round and say, " What 
 makes that child cry so ? " That was the 
 " unkindest cut of all ; " but when Sophia 
 told her that I had been her comforter, and 
 that she had adopted me as her second 
 friend, Isabella condescended to console me, 
 and even invited me to join them in their 
 walk. She made one more appearance 
 among us, and then went away. I heard 
 that she married a very wealthy man, but 
 I never saw her again. 
 
 A year, indeed nearly eighteen months, 
 slipped by almost unconsciously, and I was still 
 a"diable." Sophia and Anna often declared 
 that they were tired to death of the convent ; 
 and whether because it was the fashion, or 
 because they were really sick of this life, 
 all my companions said the same thing. 
 Those who were devout thought it wrong 
 to complain ; but they did not seem happy.
 
 io6 Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 Most of these children probably regretted 
 pleasant homes ; and those who had none 
 Anna Vie, for instance did nothing but 
 dream of balls and parties, of travelling, 
 of all sorts of delights consistent with free- 
 dom and incompatible with regular, serious 
 occupation. Seclusion and the monotony 
 of a studious life seem in fact to be par- 
 ticularly distasteful to young girls. 
 
 I was happier, however, in the convent 
 than anywhere else : no one there was 
 sufficiently well acquainted with my past 
 life to talk of what I must expect in the 
 future ; and that is what one's relatives al- 
 ways have in view. It is their tender care, 
 their constant preoccupation. They try to 
 make your future secure ; and then some- 
 how fate foils all their plans. Moreover, 
 children seldom profit by their parents' ad- 
 vice ; their instinctive independence and 
 curiosity constantly excite them to opposi- 
 tion. Nuns have not the same kind of 
 solicitude for the children under their care; 
 they think of nothing but heaven and hell, 
 and for them the girl's future is her soul's 
 salvation. 
 
 Even before my conversion, this spiritual 
 future had no terrors for me. Since, ac-
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 107 
 
 cording to the Catholic religion, one can 
 choose between salvation and perdition ; 
 since grace abounds, and our own free 
 will may set our feet in the path where 
 the angels themselves deign to guide us, 
 I used to say to myself in my vainglorious 
 self-reliance that I should attend to that 
 one of these days ; but I was in no haste 
 to do so. I had never worried a great 
 deal about myself, certainly not in mat- 
 ters of religion. I wanted to love God for 
 the sake of loving him ; I did not want 
 to be afraid of him, and I always said so 
 when others tried to frighten me. 
 
 Thus thoughtlessly, without anxiety about 
 this life or the one to come, I let the days 
 slip by, only thinking of my own amuse- 
 ment, or rather not thinking about any- 
 thing at all. always ready to go in search 
 of pleasure with my friends. Anna liked 
 to talk to me, and I loved to listen to her. 
 Sophia was dreamy and sad; I followed her 
 about silently, not disturbing her medita- 
 tions, and never upbraiding her when she 
 shook off her lethargy. Fanelly loved ex- 
 citement, was always gay, ferreting about 
 or setting on foot some mischief or other. 
 With her I was full of fun, ardor, and motion.
 
 io8 Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 Fortunately, she liked to take the lead. 
 Anna followed us from affection, and 
 Sophia because she had nothing else to do ; 
 thus we spent whole days deep in mis- 
 chief. Sometimes we planned to meet in 
 an out-of-the-way place, where Fanelly, who 
 had more money than either of us, and who 
 knew besides how to cajole the old porter 
 into buying everything she wanted, had 
 prepared some delightful surprise, gener- 
 ally something good to eat, magnificent 
 melons, cakes, baskets of cherries or grapes, 
 fritters, pates, all sorts of things ; she was 
 marvellously ingenious in regaling us with 
 the most unexpected dainties. 
 
 For a whole summer we almost lived on 
 the fruit of this smuggling. What a diet ! 
 Any one over fifteen would have had a fit 
 of sickness in consequence. I contributed 
 to these " treats " the dainties given me by 
 Mother Alicia and also by Sister Theresa, 
 who used to make in her laboratory the most 
 delicious things, with which she stuffed 
 my pockets. To share these treasures, and 
 feast secretly between meals, against the 
 rules, was a delight, a high festival, and we 
 indulged in fits of laughter over rather vul- 
 gar pranks, such as tossing up to the ceiling
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 109 
 
 the bottom of a pie filled with sweetmeats, 
 and seeing it stick; hiding chicken bones in 
 a piano, or dropping fruit-parings on dark 
 staircases so as to make solemn persons 
 slip. All that seemed to us very witty, in- 
 toxicated as we were with our own merri- 
 ment, and with nothing else, for we never 
 had anything to drink on these occasions but 
 water and lemonade. The search for the 
 victim was kept up, checked from time to 
 time by some great disappointment.
 
 no Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 X. 
 
 OO far as studies were concerned, I did 
 *"-' nothing but learn a little a very little 
 Italian, music, and drawing. I readily ap- 
 plied myself to nothing but English ; and I 
 did this because one lost half the pleasure 
 of life in the convent, if one did not under- 
 stand that language. 
 
 I also began to want to write. It was 
 the fashion ; those who had no inspiration 
 wrote letters to one another, often charm- 
 ing in their tenderness and simplicity. This 
 correspondence was contrary to the rules ; 
 but that only made it more interesting. 
 That, and other severe restrictions pro- 
 hibition of kisses, insisting that there 
 should always be three instead of two to- 
 gether seemed to me a great error in the 
 system of convent education. Most of us, 
 however, brought up in our own families, 
 attributed these rules to a desire to restrain 
 human affection, which should be devoted 
 exclusively to the Creator.
 
 Convent Life of George Sand- 1 1 1 
 
 I began of course by writing verses, 
 rebelling against the Alexandrine, which I 
 understood, however, perfectly. I tried to 
 preserve a sort of rhythm without attending 
 to the rhyme or the caesura, and composed 
 many verses that had a great success among 
 the girls, who were not very critical. At 
 last I took it into my head to write a novel ; 
 and thousrh I was not at all religious at that 
 
 O O 
 
 time, I made my story very pious and edify- 
 ing. 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 exhort- 
 ed each other by turns. I knew that they 
 ought to fall in love, but I could not man- 
 age 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 enchanting spot at the en- 
 trance 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;
 
 112 Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 but I had examples of piety all the time be- 
 fore 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 dreadfully tiresome, and 
 they did not seem to consider the heroine 
 much more amusing. There was a mother 
 whom they liked better ; 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 clay I put it into the stove. Then 
 I stopped writing, and decided that it was 
 not an amusing occupation, though I had 
 taken infinite delight in the preliminary 
 composition. 
 
 In the middle of my second year in the
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 113 
 
 convent my grandmother came back to 
 Paris, and I was allowed to go out several 
 times. She did not think me improved 
 in appearance or manners, and said that I 
 was more absent-minded than ever. The 
 dancing-lessons of M. Abraham a former 
 
 O 
 
 teacher of Marie Antoinette had not made 
 me graceful, though he had done his best. 
 He used to come in court dress, black silk 
 stockings, and knee-breeches, with buckled 
 shoes, a powdered wig with a queue, a 
 diamond ring on his finger, and a violin in 
 his hand. He was about eighty, but had a 
 slender, graceful, even elegant figure, deli- 
 cate features, and a pleasant, wrinkled face, 
 all veined in red and blue on a yellow back- 
 ground, like an autumn leaf. He was an 
 excellent man, polite, solemn, distinguished, 
 the very pink of propriety. He gave his 
 lessons in the Superior's large parlor, to 
 about fifteen girls at a time ; and on this 
 occasion we were all outside the grating. 
 
 After some geometrical illustrations of 
 grace, and drill in the customary dancing- 
 steps, he would seat himself in an arm- 
 chair, and say : " Now, young ladies, I am 
 the King or Queen, as the case may be ; and as 
 you will all doubtless be presented at court,
 
 1 14 Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 let us practise the way of entering the room, 
 and also of retiring after the presentation, 
 with the appropriate courtesies." At other 
 times we practised less thrilling solemnities, 
 imagining- a drawing-room filled with guests. 
 
 O O O Q 
 
 He made some of us sit down, while others 
 entered or took their leave ; and he taught 
 us how to speak to the mistress of the 
 house, then to a princess, duchess, mar- 
 chioness, countess, viscountess, baroness, 
 and lady presiding, each with the measure of 
 respect due to her rank. Then he took by 
 turns the part of a prince, duke, marquis, 
 etc., and came to speak to us in that 
 character, so that we might learn to re- 
 spond properly. We had to put on and 
 take off our gloves, use a fan, smile, get up 
 and sit down, cross the room, in short 
 do everything imaginable. It seemed as 
 if in this antiquated French politeness 
 everything must be done by rule, even 
 sneezing. 
 
 We were all ready to burst out laughing, 
 and made no end of intentional mistakes to 
 exasperate him ; but toward the end of the 
 lesson, so as to send the excellent old man 
 away happy, we pretended to have learned 
 something, and put on all the airs and graces
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 115 
 
 we could muster to please him. It would 
 have been too cruel to go on vexing such 
 a kind and patient teacher. But it was 
 very hard to follow his directions with 
 proper gravity, though in this way we 
 learned how to act. Certainly old-fashioned 
 grace must have been very different from 
 what goes by that name nowadays ; for 
 the more absurd and affected we were, the 
 more he praised us. 
 
 In spite of all M. Abraham's lessons, I 
 was still round-shouldered, with abrupt, un- 
 conventional manners and an utter abhor- 
 rence of gloves and low courtesies. My 
 grandmother scolded me a great deal for 
 these shortcomings. The days when I was 
 allowed to leave the convent were mainly 
 occupied with visits to some of her old 
 countesses, to whom she wished to intro- 
 duce me, apparently with the hope of in- 
 teresting them in me, and laying the foun- 
 dation of future social relations ; but most 
 of these ladies seemed to me very uncon- 
 genial. In the evening we dined at my 
 uncle's, or with my cousins, and it was 
 always time to go back to the convent just 
 when I began to feel somewhat at ease. In 
 the morning I would start joyous and alert,
 
 u6 Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 and reach my grandmother's full of impa- 
 tient expectation; but after two or three 
 hours a chill would come over me, par- 
 ticularly as the moment of departure drew 
 near, and I was never calm and gay till I 
 found myself back again in the convent.
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 117 
 
 XI. 
 
 " I ^HE pleasantest thing that happened to 
 -*- me about this time was having a cell 
 to myself. Each of the young ladies of the 
 upper class had one, but I had been kept 
 in the dormitory on account of my unruly 
 ways. In this dormitory under the roof it 
 was suffocating in summer, and freezing in 
 winter; and one could hardly ever pass a 
 night undisturbed, for there was always 
 some child who cried out with pain or 
 terror. And then, never to be in one's 
 own room, never to be alone by day or by 
 night, is very hard for those who like to 
 think and dream. Life in common is ideal 
 when people are fond of one another ; I 
 have realized this in the convent, and I 
 shall never forget it : but every thoughtful 
 person needs times of solitude and reflec- 
 tion, for in this way only one can enjoy thor- 
 oughly the sweetness of companionship. 
 
 The cell that they gave me was the 
 worst in the convent, a garret room at
 
 n8 Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 the farthest end of the building, adjoining 
 the church. The next, similar to mine, 
 was occupied by Coralie le Narrois, a very 
 austere, but simple, pious, timid creature, 
 whose proximity it was thought would in- 
 spire me with awe. 
 
 However, we got along very well together, 
 in spite of the difference in our tastes ; for 
 I took great care not to disturb her sleep 
 or devotions when I slipped out noiselessly 
 to meet Fanelly and other light-minded 
 comrades on the staircase : and then we 
 would wander about till late at night in the 
 organ-loft perhaps, or in the garret where 
 they kept onions. We had to pass close 
 to the door of Maria Josepha, one of the 
 servants ; but she was always a sound 
 sleeper. 
 
 My cell was about ten feet long by six 
 wide, and so low that, lying in bed, my 
 head touched the sloping roof. The door, 
 when it opened, grazed the bureau close 
 to the window opposite ; and I could not 
 shut it without getting into the embra- 
 sure of this window, consisting of four 
 panes, looking on a projecting gutter 
 that completely hid from view the court 
 below. But the outlook was superb ; I saw
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 119 
 
 a part of Paris over the tops of our great 
 horse-chestnut trees, and large nurseries 
 and kitchen gardens spread out below, 
 encircling our domain. But for the sil- 
 houettes of houses and public buildings 
 against the sky, I might have fancied my- 
 self, if not in the country, at least in an 
 immense village. The bell-tower of the 
 convent and the low cloisters stood out 
 in the foreground ; and by night, espe- 
 cially by moonlight, the effect was very 
 picturesque. 
 
 I heard the clock strike close by ; and 
 though at first that prevented me from 
 sleeping, I became gradually accustomed to 
 its ponderous, melancholy chime, and liked 
 to lie there, half asleep and half awake, 
 listening to the far-away nightingales tak- 
 ing up again their interrupted song. 
 
 My furniture consisted of a wooden 
 painted bedstead, an old bureau, a straw- 
 bottomed chair, a miserable little rug, and 
 a small Louis XV. harp, extremely pretty, 
 which had gleamed under the white arms of 
 my grandmother in her youthful days, and 
 on which I was learning to accompany my- 
 self when I sang. For this purpose I was 
 allowed to practise in my cell ; and this
 
 I2O Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 became an excuse for passing an hour there 
 every day alone. In truth, I rarely prac- 
 tised at all ; but this hour of solitude and 
 revery became very precious. The spar- 
 rows hopped in boldly, and ate even on my 
 bed the crumbs I gave them. Although 
 this poor little cell was an oven in summer, 
 and in winter literally an ice-house, the 
 moisture from the roof congealing and 
 forming stalactites in the cracks of my 
 dilapidated ceiling, I was so much at- 
 tached to the place that I remember kissing 
 the walls fondly when I left. A whole world 
 of dreams and experience seemed to abide 
 in this little dusty, miserable nook. There 
 alone I was myself, belonged to myself alone. 
 By day I thought of nothing in particular ; 
 I watched the clouds, the branches of the 
 trees, the swallows' flight. By night I lay 
 and listened to the distant, confused mur- 
 mur of the great city, that died away and 
 was lost in the rural sounds of our suburb. 
 As soon as the day dawned, the noises of 
 the convent began, and drowned the out- 
 side clamor. Our cocks crowed, the bells 
 rang for matins, and the blackbirds in the 
 garden repeated over and over again their 
 morning song. The monotonous voices of
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 121 
 
 the nuns chanting the service came faintly 
 to my ears, penetrating every fissure of the 
 sonorous pile. The hoarse cries of the 
 venders of provisions rose from the court 
 below, contrasting with the cadences of 
 the nuns' sweet chant ; and finally the 
 shrill call of Maria Josepha came nearer 
 and nearer as she hurried from room to 
 room, and pushing back the creaking bolts 
 of the doors that closed the passages, put 
 an end to my listening. 
 
 The studies for which my grandmother 
 gave up the pleasure of having me at 
 home amounted to nothing. She laid 
 great stress upon accomplishments ; and 
 as a " diable " emeritus, I took no interest 
 in my lessons. In truth, I was getting 
 sick of this aimless waste of time ; but it 
 had become a habit difficult to break.
 
 122 Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 XII. 
 
 'THHERE came all at once, however, a 
 -*- great change in my life ; and a pas- 
 sionate devotion blazed up spontaneously 
 in a soul ignorant of itself. I was weary of 
 idleness, of yielding to the caprices of my 
 companions or following their lead, tired, 
 in short, of our long-continued, systematic 
 rebellion against discipline. My worship- 
 ful love for Madame Alicia was a calm 
 affection, and I needed some ardent pas- 
 sion. I was fifteen years old, with a great 
 yearning for love, and a void in my heart. 
 Personal vanity was not yet aroused, and I 
 felt none of the inordinate solicitude about 
 my own appearance so common in almost 
 all the young girls of my age. I needed to 
 love some one or some thing that was not 
 myself ; and I knew no one on eartji whom 
 I could love with all my might. I did 
 not turn to God ; but what Christians call 
 divine grace came down to me, and took 
 possession of me as if by surprise. I had
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 123 
 
 listened with indifference to the exhorta- 
 tions of the nuns ; even Madame Alicia 
 herself had not influenced me consciously. 
 This is the way it happened. I shall sim- 
 ply relate the facts, without attempting any 
 explanation ; for there is a mystery in these 
 processes, these sudden transformations of 
 our innermost souls, which it is not well 
 to try to unveil, even to ourselves. 
 
 We went to mass at seven every morning, 
 as I have said ; and at four in the after- 
 noon we returned to the church for half an 
 hour, which was passed by the devoutly 
 inclined in prayer, meditation, or some re- 
 ligious reading. The others yawned, took 
 .naps, or whispered when the teacher was 
 not watching them. One day, for want of 
 occupation, I opened a book that had been 
 given into my hands, and which I had not 
 yet thought of reading. The leaves were 
 still stuck together by the coloring on 
 the edges. It was an abridgment of the 
 " Lives of the Saints ; " and glancing at 
 
 o o 
 
 the pages, my eye was caught by the 
 strange legend of Saint Simeon Stylites, so 
 ridiculed by Voltaire. In fact, it is much 
 more the story of an Indian fakir than 
 of a .Christian philosopher. The legend
 
 124 Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 first made me smile ; then its originality 
 captivated me. I read it over again with 
 interest, and thought it even more poetical 
 than absurd. The next day I read another 
 story, and on the following devoured sev- 
 eral with avidity. I did not care for the 
 miracles related ; but the faith, the courage, 
 the endurance of these martyrs seemed to 
 me glorious, and made some hidden chord 
 vibrate in my soul. 
 
 There was at the back of the choir a 
 superb picture by Titian, that I could 
 never see distinctly. Very dark itself, 
 and hung too high in a corner where 
 there was little light, it was hard to dis- 
 tinguish anything more than masses of rich 
 color on a sombre background. The sub- 
 ject was Jesus in the Garden of Olives. 
 He was represented fainting in the arms of 
 an attendant angel. The kneeling Saviour 
 had sunk down, one of his arms sustained 
 by those of the angel, who supported on 
 his breast that beautiful, ghastly, agonized 
 head. I sat opposite this picture, and 
 had looked at it so constantly that at last 
 I divined, more than comprehended, its 
 meaning. There was one time only when 
 I could see the details clearly. This was
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 125 
 
 in winter, when the rays of the setting sun 
 fell on the red drapery of the angel and the 
 white, bare arm of the Christ. The glitter 
 of the glass gave it for a few moments a 
 transcendent beauty ; and at that instant I 
 always felt a thrill of emotion, even when 
 I was far from being devout, and never 
 dreamed that I could become so. 
 
 As I turned over the pages of the " Lives 
 of the Saints," my eyes wandered continu- 
 ally to this picture. It was in summer; 
 the setting sun no longer illumined the 
 painting, but the contemplated object was 
 visible to my mind, if not to my eyes. 
 Looking fixedly at those great masses of 
 color, I sought the hidden meaning of such 
 a keen, voluntary sorrow, and began to ap- 
 prehend something far deeper and grander 
 than anything I had ever been told. I 
 grew very sad myself, as if in sympathy, 
 deeply distressed, and touched to the heart 
 by pain and pity such as I had never be- 
 fore imagined. Unbidden tears rushed 
 to my eyes ; but I brushed them away, 
 ashamed to be overcome by my feelings 
 without knowing why. It could not have 
 been the beauty of the picture ; for it 
 was so indistinct that I should only have
 
 1 26 Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 said it looked as if it must be beautiful. 
 There was another painting in the choir, 
 that we could see better; but it was far less 
 remarkable. It represented Saint Augus- 
 tine under the fig-tree, with the miraculous 
 sunbeam on which was written the famous 
 " Tolle, lege," the mysterious words that 
 the son of Monica thought he heard in the 
 branches, a command that decided him 
 to open and read the Gospels. 
 
 I found the Life of Saint Augustine, of 
 which I knew something already ; for the 
 saint, as the patron of our order, was held 
 in especial veneration in the convent. The 
 story delighted me with its impress of sin- 
 cerity and enthusiasm. Then I read the 
 Life of Saint Paul, and the " Cur me per- 
 sequeris ? " made a deep impression on 
 me. The little Latin that I had learned 
 at home enabled me to understand a part 
 of the services. I began to listen, and to 
 discover in the Psalms, recited every day 
 by the nuns, admirable poetic simplicity. 
 In short, for a whole week the Catholic 
 religion seemed to me a very interesting 
 study. 
 
 " Tolle, lege," decided me also, at last, to 
 open the New Testament and read the Gos-
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 127 
 
 pels over attentively. The first impression 
 was not strong; there was no novelty in 
 the Holy Book. I had always enjoyed the 
 beauty of the narrations ; but my grand- 
 mother had tried so hard to show me the 
 absurdity of the miracles, and had repeated 
 so many of Voltaire's witticisms, espe- 
 cially what he says of the evil spirits escap- 
 ing into the herd of swine, that I had 
 looked at it all very sceptically under her 
 influence, and was not now particularly 
 moved, even in reading of the agony and 
 death of Jesus. 
 
 That day, at nightfall, I was sadly pacing 
 the cloisters. All my friends were in the 
 garden, and there were no teachers near. 
 I was not at all in the mood for a frolic ; 
 in fact, I had come away to avoid my com- 
 panions, for I felt disgusted with the 
 inanity of my life, and asked myself : " Is 
 there any new thing left for a ' diable ' to 
 do, after all ? " Some of the nuns passed, 
 and a few boarders ; they were going to 
 pray or meditate in the church, each one 
 separately, as was the pious custom at this 
 hour of recreation. 
 
 The idea occurred to me to follow them, 
 put some ink in the holy-water font, or tie
 
 128 Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 Whisky by one leg to the cloister bell-rope ; 
 but these things had been done so many 
 times already that they were old tricks. 
 I saw plainly that I had exhausted the 
 resources of my disorderly career, and that 
 something new must be done. But what ? 
 Even if I could, I did not want to be 
 one of the good girls, most assuredly 
 not a stupid one ; and I said to myself : 
 " To-day I have tried ; I have read the 
 Holy Book, the life and teachings of 
 the Redeemer, and my heart was not 
 touched, and I do not believe it ever will 
 be." Several devotees just then passed 
 along in the gloom, going by themselves 
 to pour out their contrite souls before a 
 God of love and forgiveness. I had a curi- 
 osity to see what they did, and how they 
 manifested their devotion in solitude, 
 especially a humpbacked old woman, one 
 of the lodgers, who stole by looking more 
 like a witch than one of the wise virgins. 
 " I mean to go and see," I said to myself, 
 " how that little monster wriofsrles about on 
 
 OO 
 
 her bench ; when I tell the other ' diables,' 
 it will make them laugh." I followed her, 
 crossed the chapter-house, and entered the 
 church. We were not allowed to go there
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 129 
 
 at this time of the evening without a spe- 
 cial permission ; and this was another 
 inducement, for I felt that it was not 
 derogatory to a " diable " to smuggle her- 
 self in. It is singular that the first time I 
 ever entered a church of my own accord 
 it was against the rules, and with the inten- 
 tion of committing a shameful action. 
 
 Hardly had I set foot in the church than 
 I entirely forgot my old woman, who trotted 
 along and disappeared in some nook as if 
 she had been a rat. She vanished also from 
 my thoughts, I was so charmed and im- 
 pressed with the aspect of the church itself 
 by night. It was really more a chapel than 
 a church, and had nothing remarkable about 
 it except its exquisite neatness. An oblong 
 building, with freshly whitewashed walls and 
 no architectural pretension whatever, it was 
 more like a Protestant conventicle than a 
 Catholic place of worship. There were, as 
 I have said, a few pictures in the choir ; on 
 the simple altar, decked with pretty silken 
 stuffs, stood massive silver candlesticks, and 
 beautiful flowers constantly renewed. The 
 nave was divided into three parts, one in- 
 tended for the use of priests and privileged 
 guests on festival days ; the front choir for
 
 130 Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 the pupils, servants, and residents ; and 
 last, the chancel, appropriated to the nuns. 
 This part of the sanctuary had an inlaid 
 floor, waxed every morning and carefully 
 polished ; and here also were the nuns' 
 stalls, arranged in a semicircle against the 
 wall. They were of walnut, and shone like 
 glass. A high grating with very small 
 interstices, and a grated iron door never 
 closed, made a line of separation between 
 the sisters and ourselves. On each side of 
 this door heavy fluted rococo wooden pillars 
 supported the organ, as well as an open 
 gallery thrown across like a "jube" be- 
 tween the two parts of the church. Thus, 
 contrary to custom, the organ stood out 
 almost in the centre of the nave, and added 
 greatly to the effect of our voices when 
 we sang motets and choruses on great oc- 
 casions. The part of the choir reserved for 
 the pupils was paved with sepulchral slabs ; 
 and on the old flagstones were inscribed epi- 
 taphs of prioresses who had died before the 
 Revolution, with names of ecclesiastics, and 
 even of laymen, of the time of James Stuart. 
 I remember the name of Throckmorton 
 under our feet ; and it was said that if you 
 went into the church at midnight, all these
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 131 
 
 dead men pushed up the stones with their 
 fleshless skulls and glared at you, beseech- 
 ing your prayers. 
 
 In spite of these associations, and the 
 obscurity of the church, the impression I re- 
 ceived that night was not gloomy. There 
 was no light save that which came from 
 the little silver lamp in the chancel, and its 
 white flame was imaged in the polished 
 floor like a star in a pool of water. This 
 reflected light touched here and there the 
 fretted picture frames, gleamed on the chis- 
 elled candlesticks, and glimmered on the 
 gilded sheathing of the tabernacle. The 
 door at the back of the chancel was wide 
 open on account of the heat, as well as 
 one of the large windows above the burial- 
 ground. The perfume of jessamine and 
 honeysuckle was borne to me on the wings 
 of a refreshing breeze. A star, lost in 
 immensity, framed by the open window, 
 seemed to look at me intently. Nightin- 
 gales were singing in the distance. I had 
 never felt before the charm and mystery of 
 this holy peace, and I gave myself up to the 
 new delight. By and by the few persons 
 scattered about the church went out noise- 
 lessly. A nun who had been kneeling in
 
 132 Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 the chancel, wishing apparently to read 
 after her meditation, came forward to light 
 her taper at the lamp swinging before the 
 altar. The sisters did not merely bend the 
 knee, but prostrated themselves literally, as 
 if bowed to the earth before the Holy of 
 Holies. This nun was tall and stately : it 
 must have been Madame Eugenie, Madame 
 Marie Xavier, or Madame Monica ; but we 
 never could recognize these ladies in church, 
 for their faces were covered by their veils, 
 and they wore long black woollen mantles 
 that disguised the figure and swept the 
 floor. The sombre dress ; the slow, noiseless 
 motions ; the simple, graceful gesture with 
 which she lifted her arm to grasp the ring 
 and bring the shining silver lamp within 
 her reach ; the strong light thrown on her 
 black form as she slid the cresset back to 
 its place ; her long, reverent prostration be- 
 fore the altar; the noiseless, graceful way in 
 which she returned to her stall, even the im- 
 personality of the unknown nun (who might 
 have been, for aught I knew, a phantom 
 from the past, on the point of disappearing 
 beneath the storied slabs, to lie down again 
 on her marble couch), all filled me with 
 emotions of mingled terror and delight.
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 133 
 
 Enraptured with the poetry of the place, 
 I lingered long after the nun had finished 
 reading and had gone away. It was grow- 
 ing late ; prayers were over, and it was time 
 ,to close the church. I had lost all sense of 
 time. I do not know exactly how it was, 
 but it seemed as if I were breathing an 
 atmosphere of indescribable sweetness, in- 
 haling it more with my soul than with my 
 senses. All at once I felt something like 
 a shock, and grew dizzy. A white light 
 flashed before my eyes, in which I gradu- 
 ally seemed enveloped. I thought I heard 
 a whisper in my ear, " Tolle, lege ! " I 
 turned quickly round, thmking that Mother 
 Alicia was speaking to me ; but I was 
 alone ! 
 
 Knowing well that I was under a sort of 
 hallucination, I was neither elated nor ter- 
 rified. I did not say to myself that it was a 
 miracle, or even a vainglorious deception, 
 but I tried to see things as they really were ; 
 only I felt sure that faith had taken posses- 
 sion of my heart, as I had always hoped 
 it might, and my face was bathed in 
 tears of happiness and gratitude. I knew, 
 too, that at last I loved God ; that my 
 thought unquestioning embraced that ideal
 
 134 Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 justice, tenderness, and holiness, whose 
 existence I had never doubted, but with 
 which I had never been in direct communi- 
 cation. I felt all at once that this commu- 
 nication was established, as if an insur- 
 mountable barrier had suddenly given way 
 between the source of infinite life and the 
 slumbering forces of my soul. I saw a long 
 vista stretch out endlessly before me, and I 
 longed to tread that road. There was no 
 more doubt or lukevvarmness, and it never 
 even occurred to me that I could regret or 
 ridicule this passionate excitement; for I 
 was one of those who never look behind, 
 who hesitate a long time before passing the 
 Rubicon, but who, once on the other side, 
 lose sight entirely of the shore they have 
 just left. " Yes, the veil is lifted," I softly ex- 
 claimed ! " I see the light, and I shall walk 
 toward it. But, first of all, let me give 
 thanks." 
 
 To whom, and how ? I said to the un- 
 known God who had drawn me to him. 
 "What is thy name? How shall I pray? 
 What words worthy of thee, and capable 
 of expressing love, can my soul utter ? I 
 know not ; but thou readest my thoughts, 
 thou knowest that I love thee ! " and my
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 135 
 
 tears broke forth at last like rain. I sobbed 
 convulsively ; I fell prostrate behind my 
 bench, and literally watered the floor with 
 my tears. 
 
 The sister who came in to close the 
 church heard me weeping, and came to me 
 in some alarm. I do not think she recog- 
 nized me, and I did not know her under 
 her veil in the darkness. Quickly rising, I 
 passed by her without looking up or speak- 
 ing, and groped my way back to my cell. 
 
 The prayers were all over; but I had 
 prayed more fervently than any of the girls 
 that night, and I soon fell asleep, overcome 
 with fatigue, yet in a state of indescribable 
 beatitude. The next day the Countess, 
 who had happened to remark my absence 
 from prayers, asked me where I had been 
 all the evening. I had never been a liar, 
 and now I answered promptly, "In the 
 church." She looked at me for a moment 
 in doubt, but saw that I was speaking the 
 truth, and kept silence. I was not punished, 
 but I do not know what she thought of my 
 answer. Strange to say, I did not go at 
 once to Madame Alicia and pour out my 
 heart. I said nothing to my friends, " les 
 diables ; " for I felt reticent about my
 
 136 Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 new-found happiness, though not in the 
 least ashamed. What other people would 
 think did not much concern me, and I was 
 like a miser with the treasure of my joy. I 
 awaited impatiently the hour for meditation 
 in the church. The " Tolle, lege," of my 
 ecstatic vision was ringing in my ears, and 
 I longed to read again the sacred book ; 
 yet I did not open it, but thought it all 
 over, knowing it almost by heart. The 
 miraculous part, which had been such a 
 stumbling-block, troubled me no longer. 
 Not only did I feel no inclination to ex- 
 amine critically, but I despised the idea of 
 doing so. After the deep emotion I had 
 experienced, I said to myself that I should 
 be demented, and my own worst enemy, 
 coolly to try and analyze, comment upon, 
 or discuss the source of such ecstatic 
 delight. 
 
 At the end of four or five days, Anna, 
 remarking that I was silent and absorbed, 
 and that I went to church every evening, 
 said, with astonishment, 
 
 " My dear ' note-book ' [that was the 
 name she had given me], what does all this 
 mean ? Can it be that you have actually 
 become pious ? "
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 137 
 
 " I have become pious, my child," I an- 
 swered quietly. 
 
 " That is impossible." 
 
 " I give you my word of honor that I am 
 speaking the truth." 
 
 " Well," she said, after thinking a min- 
 ute, " I shall say nothing to dissuade you, 
 in the first place, because I do not be- 
 lieve it would be of any use ; and then I 
 have always said that you are an impulsive 
 creature. But you must not expect me to 
 follow your example ; I am naturally scep- 
 tical, and reason about things. I envy you 
 your happiness, and think you are right 
 not to hesitate ; but I do not believe that 
 I shall ever be satisfied without proof. If 
 such a miracle came to pass, however, I 
 should do the same, I acknowledge." 
 
 " Shall you love me less ? " I asked. 
 
 " If I did, it would not afflict you now," 
 she answered ; " devotion is all-absorbing, 
 and makes up for everything. But I believe 
 you are perfectly sincere, and I shall remain 
 your friend just the same." 
 
 She went on to speak very affection- 
 ately, and never failed to be from that time 
 sensible, considerate, and even indulgent. 
 
 Sophia was not much affected by the
 
 138 Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 change that had been wrought in me. She 
 had always been a sober sort of a " diable," 
 having occasional fits of devotion and mo- 
 ments of depression that she could never 
 explain and did not like to acknowledge. 
 It was becoming rather unfashionable to be 
 a " diable," and my conversion seemed to 
 give the institution its finishing stroke. 
 Perhaps the others, like me, were secretly 
 tired of so much dissipation. 
 
 Fanelly was the one whom I feared most 
 to grieve ; but she spared me the pain of 
 refusing to join her sports by coming to 
 me at once and saying : " So, my aunt, you 
 are going to be good ! Well, if that makes 
 you happy, I am glad ; and if you like, I will 
 be good too. I am willing to be pious, so 
 as to do just what you do, and stay always 
 with you." 
 
 If that had depended on an affectionate 
 impulse, it would have been as she said ; but 
 she was too unstable. In truth, among " les 
 diables " Anna and I were the only ones 
 susceptible of what is technically called, 
 conversion. The others were not pious, be- 
 cause they were too frivolous ; but they were 
 not unbelievers, and the moment our mis- 
 demeanors came to an end, they became a
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 139 
 
 little more regular in pious practices, with- 
 out being a whit more fervent than before. 
 
 Anna was strong-minded. That word 
 describes her perfectly, because she had a 
 great deal of intellect and will ; while I had 
 neither strength of mind nor force of will. 
 There was nothing strong in me but pas- 
 sion ; and when that took the form of reli- 
 gion, it consumed my heart, and nothing in 
 my intellect opposed it. Anna became 
 pious after her marriage, but so long as 
 she remained in the convent, she was stead- 
 fast in her unbelief. 
 
 I kept up my intimacy with Louise de la 
 Rochejaquelein. She was still in the lower 
 division, being one of the younger girls ; but 
 she was always more sensible and better 
 informed than I was. I met her in the 
 cloisters a few days after my change of 
 heart ; since she was neither good, stupid, 
 nor a " diable," her judgment would be un- 
 biassed, and I was curious to know what 
 she would say. 
 
 " Well," she asked, " are you going on 
 in the same way ; are you just as much of 
 a reprobate as ever ? " 
 
 " What should you say," I answered, " if I 
 told you that I had become very religious ? "
 
 140 Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 " I should say that you were doing right, 
 and I should love you more than ever." 
 
 She kissed me most affectionately, with- 
 out attempting any encouragement to per- 
 severe, perceiving, undoubtedly, how en- 
 thusiastic I was. 
 
 Mary came back about this time. She 
 had grown a head taller ; her expression 
 was more boyish, and her manners even 
 more impetuous and independent than for- 
 merly. She re-entered the lower class, and 
 became so uproarious that her relatives 
 took her away after a few months. She 
 was never tired of laughing at my piety ; 
 and whenever we met she made me the 
 butt of her unsparing ridicule. I was not 
 angry, however; for she was so gay and free 
 from malice that she made fun of me with- 
 out hurting my feelings. We met long 
 afterwards, when we were both upwards of 
 forty, with unabated affection for each other, 
 and hearty reciprocal enjoyment in talking 
 over old times. 
 
 My sudden conversion hardly allowed me 
 time to breathe. Absorbed as I was in 
 this new passion, I was eager to taste all its 
 delights, and made haste to see my confessor, 
 that I might be officially reconciled with
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 141 
 
 Heaven. He was an aged priest, the 
 most simple, sincere, and pure-minded of 
 men ; and yet he was a Jesuit. But no 
 one could be more upright and charitable 
 than Abbe Premord. He was the con- 
 fessor for a few of the girls, Abbe de 
 Villele, the director of the convent, not 
 havinsr time enough to attend to all. We 
 
 o o 
 
 were sent to confession, whether we would 
 or not, once a month, a detestable cus- 
 tom, which did violence to our consciences 
 and condemned to hypocrisy those who had 
 no courage to resist. 
 
 " Father," said I to the Abbe, " you know 
 perfectly well how I have confessed hither- 
 to ; that is to say, that I have not confessed 
 at all. I have only repeated a formula 
 that we have to learn by heart, the same for 
 all who come to confession, against their 
 will. You have never given me absolution, 
 and I have never asked for it; but to-day 
 I do ask you, for I want to confess and 
 repent seriously. I must acknowledge, 
 though, that I do not know what to say; 
 for I cannot remember any sin that I have 
 deliberately committed. I have lived and 
 thought and believed as I have been taught ; 
 and if I have done wrong not to be a be-
 
 142 Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 liever, my conscience never has told me so. 
 Nevertheless, I must do penance, undoubt- 
 edly ; and I want you to direct me, so that I 
 may be able to tell in future what is right 
 and what is wrong." 
 
 " Wait a minute, my child," said he ; "I 
 see that this is what is called a general con- 
 fession, and we shall have a great deal to 
 talk about. Sit down." 
 
 We were in the sacristy. I took a chair, 
 and asked him if he wanted to ask me 
 questions. 
 
 " No," he answered ; " I rarely ask any 
 questions, and this is the only one I shall 
 put to you : Are you accustomed to make 
 out your examinations of conscience from 
 the formulas ? " 
 
 " Yes," I answered ; " but there are a 
 great many sins that I cannot tell whether 
 I have committed or not, because I do not 
 understand about them." 
 
 " Very well ; now I forbid you hence- 
 forward to consult a formulary, or to try to 
 learn the secrets of your conscience from 
 an) r one but yourself. Now let us talk. 
 Tell me simply and quietly all about your 
 life as you remember it, conceive of it, and 
 judge it. Do not arrange anything, or
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 143 
 decide about the right and wrongr of the 
 
 o o 
 
 actions you describe, or your thoughts 
 either. Do not consider me in the light 
 of a judge or a confessor, but talk to me 
 as if I were an old friend. When you have 
 finished, I will tell you what I should advise 
 you to correct or encourage in the interest 
 of your happiness in this world and in the 
 life to come." 
 
 These words, and the kind way in which 
 they were said, put me entirely at my ease ; 
 and I told him what I could recollect of my 
 life so much in detail that the story lasted 
 more than three hours. The good man 
 listened with fatherly interest and unflag- 
 ging attention. Several times I saw him 
 wipe his eyes, especially toward the end, 
 when I told him simply how I had been con- 
 verted, just when I least expected it. 
 
 The Abbe Premord was a real Jesuit, but 
 for all that a conscientious man, with a kind 
 and tender heart ; and his morality was pure, 
 humane, and human. He never encouraged 
 mysticism, and exhorted in a practical way, 
 with a great deal of fervor and kindness. 
 He told me that I must not lose myself in 
 dreamy anticipation of a better world, for- 
 getting how to live well here below; that
 
 144 Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 is why I call him a real Jesuit, in spite of 
 his sincerity and virtue. 
 
 When my story was done, I asked him to 
 condemn what was wrong, so that kneel- 
 ing before him, recalling those faults in 
 confession and sincerely repenting, I might 
 receive absolution. 
 
 " But," he answered, " you have already 
 confessed. If you have not been enlight- 
 ened sooner by divine grace, it is not. your 
 fault. Now, of course, you may be guilty if 
 you neglect to avail yourself of the salutary 
 emotion you have experienced. Kneel to 
 receive absolution, which I will give you 
 with all my heart." 
 
 When he had pronounced the sacramen- 
 tal formula he added: " Go in peace. You 
 can take the communion to-morrow. Be 
 calm and joyous; do not torment yourself 
 with useless remorse; thank God for having 
 touched your heart, and let nothing disturb 
 the deep joy of the holy union of your soul 
 with the Saviour." 
 
 I communed the next day, the I5th of 
 August, the festival of the Assumption. I 
 was fifteen years old, and had never ap- 
 proached the sacrament since my first com- 
 munion. It was on the evening of the 4th
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 145 
 
 of August that I had experienced the deep 
 emotion which I called my conversion ; so 
 that I had not been lon^ in can-vine: out 
 
 o - o 
 
 the impulse received. I was eager to do 
 something in accordance with mv faith, 
 
 O J 
 
 to testify, as they used to say, before the 
 Lord. This day really my first com- 
 munion seemed the happiest of my life; 
 I was full of overflowing tenderness and 
 assurance of strength. I do not know how 
 I prayed; the consecrated formulas did not 
 suffice. I used them as an act of obedi- 
 ence ; but for hours alone in the church I 
 poured out my soul in prayer. 
 
 The summer was passed by me in a 
 blissful state of beatitude. I communed 
 everj' Sunday, and sometimes two days in 
 succession besides. Since then I have 
 shrunk from the materialism of the idea of 
 eating the flesh and drinking the blood of the 
 Divine Being ; but then I did not reason, 
 I was in a bewilderment of joy. I was told : 
 " God is in you, palpitating in your heart, 
 penetrating your life with his divinity; divine 
 grace courses in your veins ; " and I accepted 
 as a miracle this complete identification with 
 the Supreme Being. I was consumed like 
 Saint Theresa. I neither ate nor slept as
 
 146 Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 usual ; I moved unconsciously; I condemned 
 myself to austerities that were not at all meri- 
 torious, for there was no sacrifice, I felt no 
 exhaustion from fasting. I wore constantly 
 a filigree chain that rubbed my skin like a 
 hair shirt ; and when T felt the blood running 
 down my neck, instead of pain the sensation 
 was agreeable. In short, I was in a constant 
 ecstasy ; my body had become insensible, and 
 hardly seemed to exist. I \vas now orderly, 
 obedient, and industrious, as a matter of 
 course, and it cost 'me no effort. Since my 
 heart was touched, it was not hard to perform 
 my daily duties. The nuns treated me very 
 affectionately, but I must say that there was 
 no cajolery ; they did not seek to stimulate 
 my fervor by any of the means of seduction 
 commonly supposed to be employed in reli- 
 gious communities. Their devotion was 
 calm, a trifle cold perhaps, dignified, even 
 proud. With one notable exception, they 
 had neither the gift nor the desire to 
 proselyte. It may have been character- 
 istic of their order, or else a trait of their 
 nationality. 
 
 Madame Alicia was just as kind as ever, 
 though she did not appear to love me 
 any better after rny conversion than she had
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 147 
 
 done before ; and this made my affection for 
 her still greater. Enjoying to the full this 
 pure and reliable loving-kindness, I appre- 
 ciated every day more and more the admi- 
 rable motherly woman who had cared as 
 much for the rebellious, undisciplined child 
 as for the docile, well-behaved girl I had 
 now become. 
 
 Madame Eugenie who had been so in- 
 dulgent to me that the girls had accused her 
 of partiality grew more severe as I became 
 more manageable. Now, when I broke 
 the rules unintentionally or from absent- 
 mindedness, she was often very sharp and 
 exacting ; and one day, when I had been so 
 deep in a pious revery that I did not hear 
 what she said, she mercilessly inflicted upon 
 me the once familiar night-cap punishment. 
 A murmur of astonishment rose from the 
 whole schoolroom. 
 
 "The idea of making Saint Aurora [a 
 name ' les diables ' had given me] wear 
 the night-cap ! " " You see how it is," the 
 girls said to one another ; " this queer, arbi- 
 trary woman really likes ' les diables,' and 
 since Aurora fell into the holy- water font she 
 cannot endure her." 
 
 The night-cap, however, did not trouble
 
 148 Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 me ; for I was sure that I did not mean to 
 do wrong, and I was rather pleased to have 
 Mother Eugenie treat me just as she would 
 have treated another girl in the same cir- 
 cumstances. I did not believe that she 
 loved me any less, for she showed her 
 preference by coming to my cell at night 
 if I had seemed sad or unwell, to ask how 
 I was, coldly, sometimes ironically, it is 
 true ; but to come at all, to show so much 
 interest in me, was a great deal for her 
 to do, and she did it for no one else. I 
 could not open my heart to her as I did to 
 Mother Alicia ; but I was not insensible to 
 these marks of affection, and kissed grate- 
 fully her cold, long white hand.
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 149 
 
 XIII. 
 
 TOURING the height of my first excite- 
 -* ment I contracted a friendship con- 
 sidered still more unaccountable than my 
 partiality for Mother Eugenie, but which 
 remains one of the dearest and sweetest 
 memories of my convent life. 
 
 One morning as I was crossing the clois- 
 ters I saw a lay sister seated on the lowest 
 step of the staircase leading to the dormi- 
 tories, pale, fainting, with beads of per- 
 spiration standing on her forehead. On 
 each side of her was a slop-pail, which 
 she had brought down to empty; but the 
 weight and the offensive odor had over- 
 come her courage and strength. 
 
 This pale, thin, consumptive-looking wo- 
 man was Sister Helen, the youngest of the 
 lay sisters, the one on whom devolved 
 the hardest and dirtiest work of the con- 
 vent. On this account some of the fastidi- 
 ous girls would not go near her, affecting 
 to shudder at the idea of her sitting by
 
 150 Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 them, and carefully avoiding any contact 
 with her garments in passing. She was 
 very plain and ordinary looking, with a 
 cadaverous, freckled face. And yet there 
 was a certain charm about her ugliness ; 
 for on looking more closely one saw that 
 her calm, patient expression indicated no 
 stolid indifference, but a long acquaintance 
 with grief and a habit of resignation, and 
 the surmise became a certainty after hear- 
 ing from her own lips the unvarnished, 
 half unintelligible tale of her humble life. 
 Her teeth were the most beautiful I have 
 ever seen, white, small, and regular as a 
 string of pearls. When the girls were im- 
 agining a perfect beauty, they always gave 
 her Sophia's hair and Sister Helen's teeth. 
 
 When I saw her thus fainting, I ran to 
 her assistance, supported her in my arms, 
 and then, not knowing what else to do, said 
 I must go to the work-room for help ; but 
 she would not allow that, and reviving a 
 little, tried to rise and take up her pails. 
 But the effort was so piteous that it did not 
 require a great deal of virtue to make me 
 seize them and carry them off-. On coming 
 back, I saw her, broom in hand, entering 
 the church.
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 1 5 i 
 
 " Sister Helen," I called out, " you are 
 killing yourself ! you are too ill to do any 
 more to-day. Go to bed, and let me tell 
 Poulette to send some one else to do your 
 work." 
 
 " No, no ! " she answered, shaking her 
 obstinate, bullet-shaped head, " I do not 
 need any help: we can always do what we 
 will, and I choose to die working." 
 
 " But that is committing suicide," I said. 
 "God forbids us to seek death, even by 
 toil." 
 
 " You don't understand," she interrupted. 
 " I must die soon at any rate, the doctors 
 say ; and I had rather go to heaven in two 
 months than linger here six." 
 
 I dared not inquire if she spoke thus in 
 hope or in despair ; so I merely asked her 
 if she would let me help her clean the 
 church, since it was the hour for recrea- 
 tion, and I should not be neglecting any 
 duties. She consented, saying, " I do not 
 need any help, but we must not hinder 
 charitably disposed persons when they want 
 to do us a kindness." She showed me 
 how to wax the floor of the chancel, and 
 dust and rub with a woollen cloth the 
 nuns' stalls. It was not hard, and I fin-
 
 152 Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 ished one side of the semicircle while she 
 did the other ; but young and strong as I 
 was, I became drenched with perspiration, 
 while she, inured to fatigue, and apparently 
 quite recovered from her faintness, had 
 done her part of the work better than 
 I, though moving sluggishly like a tor- 
 toise, and looking as if she were ready to 
 drop. 
 
 The next day was a festival ; but there 
 were no holidays for Sister Helen, since the 
 regular work must be done as usual. I met 
 her again accidentally as she was going up 
 to the dormitory to make more than thirty 
 beds, and she asked me if I would like 
 to help her, not, I think, so much per- 
 haps with a desire of being relieved of 
 her work, as because she began to like 
 my companionship. I acceded, and should 
 have done so even before religious fervor 
 had inspired me with the desire of doing 
 disagreeable things. When the work was 
 clone (in a time made shorter by my help), 
 we had a little leisure, and Sister Helen, 
 sitting down on a chest, said : 
 
 " Since you are so obliging, you might 
 teach me a little French ; it is a great dis- 
 advantage not to be able to speak the Ian-
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 153 
 
 guage, when I have French servants to 
 direct." 
 
 " I am very glad to have you ask me,*' I 
 responded ; " for that shows that you have 
 given up the idea of dying in two months." 
 
 " God's will be done ! " she said. " I can- 
 not help wishing to die ; but I do not pray 
 for death : my suffering must last as long 
 as God wills." 
 
 " My good sister, are you then really so 
 very ill ? " 
 
 " The doctors say so," she answered, 
 " and there are times when I am in so much 
 pain that I think they must be right; but 
 after all, I am so strong that they may be 
 mistaken. However, as God wills." And 
 she rose, saying : " Will you come to my 
 cell to-night ? Then you can give me my 
 first lesson." 
 
 I consented, making an effort to hide my 
 reluctance. This poor sister was very dis- 
 tasteful to me, not so much in herself as 
 in her apparel, which was dirty ; for her 
 woollen robe had a sickening smell. Then, 
 too, I hated to give up my hour of ecstasy 
 in the church in order to teach French to a 
 person who was not very intelligent, and 
 spoke such bad English.
 
 154 Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 However, as I had said I would go, that 
 evening I for the first time entered Sister 
 Helen's cell, very agreeably disappointed 
 to find it not only exquisitely clean, but 
 perfumed by the jessamine that grew in the 
 yard under her window. The poor sister 
 was neat also, attired in a new robe of dark 
 blue serge ; while the array on her toilet- 
 table showed the care she took of her per- 
 son. She saw my surprise, and said : 
 
 " You are astonished to find any one so 
 neat and particular who does nothing but 
 dirty work from morning to night. It is 
 just because I am so sensitive to all that is 
 disagreeable and untidy that I have taken 
 upon myself, as a penance, the lowest kind 
 of drudgery. When I first came to France 
 I. was shocked to see the dull andirons and 
 rusty fastenings, and did not believe that I 
 could ever be accustomed to live in a coun- 
 try where they were so careless. At home 
 I could see my face in the polished furni- 
 ture, and all our tins and brasses. But to 
 make things neat you must take hold of 
 what is dirty sometimes ; you see that my 
 taste pointed out the way to salvation." 
 
 She said this with the gayety of most 
 valiant persons. I asked her where she
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 155 
 
 had lived before she came to the convent; 
 and she began to tell me her story, with 
 a strong brogue, but in a simple, rustic 
 idiom whose vigor I am unable to re- 
 produce. This was the substance of her 
 story : 
 
 " I come from the Highlands of Scot- 
 land, and am one of a large family of chil- 
 dren. My father is a man of strong will. 
 He is not poor, but he works very hard. 
 I looked after the sheep, and busied my- 
 self within doors taking care of my little 
 brothers and sisters. We loved each other 
 dearly. I was happy there in the coun- 
 try, in the fields with the animals; and it 
 did not seem to me possible to live shut 
 up, even in a town. I never concerned 
 myself much about my salvation ; but a 
 sermon that I heard one day changed all 
 my ideas, and filled me with such a desire 
 to please God that I had no longer any 
 delight or rest at home. The sermon was 
 
 o 
 
 about self-renunciation, and when I asked 
 myself what was the hardest thing I could 
 do for the love of God, I made up my 
 mind that it would be to go away and sep- 
 arate myself forever from my family. I 
 soon became resolved to do so. I went to
 
 156 Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 the priest whose sermon I had heard, and 
 told him that I had a 'vocation.' He did 
 not believe me, and took me to the bishop, 
 who said : ' Are you unhappy at home ? 
 Are you tired of living in the country ? ' 
 and he wanted to know if anything had 
 happened to make me angry or grieve me. 
 I told him that if that were the case, I 
 should not think my vocation a true one ; 
 but I was persuaded that it was not a mere 
 fancy, because leaving home was the great- 
 est renunciation I could possibly imagine. 
 When the bishop had questioned me some 
 time longer, he said : ' Yes, you have a 
 true vocation ; but you must obtain your 
 parents' consent.' 
 
 " When I went home and told my father, 
 he swore that if I ever went back to see 
 the priest he would certainly kill me. ' I 
 shall go back,' \ answered ; ' and if you 
 kill me, I shall go to heaven all the sooner. 
 I ask nothing better.' 
 
 " My mother and aunts wept bitterly, 
 and reproached me with not loving them, 
 thus causing me great pain, as you may 
 well think ; but I accepted it as part of my 
 martyrdom, and since I could not be cut to 
 pieces or burned alive for the love of God,
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 157 
 
 I said to myself that I ought to be thank- 
 ful if my heart is broken in this trial. So 
 I only smiled at the tears of my relatives. 
 I grieved really a great deal more than they 
 did ; but I was rejoiced to suffer. 
 
 " I went back to see the priest and the 
 bishop. My father abused me, locked me 
 up in my room, and on the day appointed 
 for me to take the vows he tied me with 
 a rope to the foot of a bedstead ; but I 
 only hoped he would hurt me even more. 
 My mother and aunts, seeing his great 
 anger, and fearing that in a rage he might 
 really kill me, tried to persuade him to let 
 me go. 'Well,' he said at last, 'she may 
 go ; but she will carry away my curse with 
 her.' 
 
 " He came and untied me ; but when I 
 fell at his feet and wanted to embrace him, 
 he pushed me away and went out of the 
 house. My poor father was in great afflic- 
 tion; he had carried his gun with him, and 
 they thought he was going to kill himself; 
 so my elder brothers followed him, and 
 when I was left alone with the women 
 and children, they all fell on their knees 
 and entreated me to stay with them. But 
 I laughed, and said : ' Beg me as long as
 
 158 Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 you like ; you can never make me suffer 
 nearly as much as I hope to.' 
 
 " There was one little boy, the child of 
 my elder sister, a perfect cherub, whom 
 I had brought up, and who was always 
 hanging about me in the house and in the 
 fields. Knowing how devoted I was to 
 him, they put him in my lap, and he cried 
 and kissed me ; but I set him on the floor, 
 took my bundle, and walked to the door. 
 The child got before me, and lying there 
 on the threshold, said: ' If you will go 
 away, you shall walk over me.' I thanked 
 God that he spared me no suffering, and 
 walked over the prostrate, sobbing child. 
 
 " As I turned to go away I looked back ; 
 and he and all my sisters were crying, hold- 
 ing back the little ones so that they might 
 not run after me. I lifted up my right 
 hand and showed them the sky. My fam- 
 ily was not irreligious ; they all stopped 
 crying, and there was a great stillness. I 
 walked on, and did not turn around again 
 as long as they could see me. Then I 
 looked once at the roof of the house, and 
 the smoke curling up from the chimney. 
 I was forced to sit down a moment ; but 
 I shed no tears, and when I got to the
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 159 
 
 bishop's I was as calm as I am now. He 
 gave me into the care of some pious ladies, 
 who sent me here because they feared that 
 if I stayed near home my father might 
 come and take me away by force." 
 
 This simple narrative inspired me with an 
 ardent desire to take the veil, as well as with 
 the most unbounded admiration for Sister 
 Helen. I saw in her a saint like those of 
 old, rough, ignorant alike of the refine- 
 ments of life and the subtle casuistry by 
 which we try to reconcile our consciences 
 with our natural affections. She seemed 
 to me a sort of Jeanne d'Arc or Saint 
 Genevieve. She was really a mystic, the 
 only one in the convent ; but then she was 
 not English. 
 
 Her narrative produced the effect of an 
 electric shock. I grasped her hands and 
 exclaimed : " You are stronger in your sim- 
 ple might than all the learned men in the 
 world ; and I believe that without intending 
 to do so you have pointed out the way I 
 must go ; I shall be a nun." 
 
 " So much the better," she said, with 
 the artless confidence of a child; "you 
 shall be a lay sister, and we can work 
 together."
 
 160 Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 It seemed to me that God himself was 
 speaking through this inspired woman. 
 At last I had found such a saint as I 
 had always imagined. The other nuns 
 were earthly angels, who without strug- 
 gle or suffering enjoyed a foretaste of 
 paradisaic peace. She was more human, 
 and also more divine, more human be- 
 cause she suffered, and more divine be- 
 cause she loved the suffering. She had not 
 sought happiness and rest in the cloister, 
 freedom from worldly temptations. Worldly 
 temptations ! this poor girl, brought up to 
 hard labor, could not conceive of them, did 
 not know what they were. She had planned 
 and carried out a life-long martyrdom, and 
 had reasoned with the rude, uncompromis- 
 ing logic of the faith of earlier days. Her 
 story made me hot and cold by turns. I 
 saw her in the fields, listening like " la 
 grande pastoure " to mysterious voices in 
 the branches of the trees, and the rustling 
 of the grain. I saw her trampling on the 
 prostrate form of that fair child, whose 
 hot tears fell burning on my heart and 
 then seemed to drop from my own eyes. 
 I saw her alone, standing in the road, cold 
 as a marble statue, and yet with her heart
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 161 
 
 transfixed by the seven mystic swords, lift- 
 ing towards heaven her sunburned hand, 
 and imposing silence by her energetic will 
 on that sorrowing, unhappy family. 
 
 " O Saint Helen! " I said to myself; "you 
 are right, you are at peace with your- 
 self. I will be a nun; it will be the despair 
 of my family, and my own too. But nothing 
 less than such a despair as that is needed 
 to give me the right to say to God, ' I love 
 thee.' I will be a nun, but not an elegant 
 cloistered lady, living in exquisite simpli- 
 city a life of sanctimonious idleness. I 
 will be a lay sister, doing hard work, a 
 servant bowed down with fatigue, cleaning 
 sepulchres, carrying filth, anything and 
 everything, so as to be forgotten after 
 being cursed by my relatives ; so that 
 with the bitterness of self-irnmolation for 
 my meat and drink, God may be the only 
 witness of my anguish, and his love my 
 only reward."
 
 1 62 Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 "DEFORE long I confided to Mother 
 *-* Alicia my plan of becoming a nun ; 
 but she did not seem particularly enchanted 
 with the idea. The excellent, reasonable 
 woman said: "If you like, think it over; 
 but do not take it too seriously. It requires 
 more strength than you imagine to carry 
 out such a project. Your relatives, certainly 
 your grandmother, would never consent. 
 They would accuse us of unduly influencing 
 you, and that is not our way of acting. 
 We never encourage these immature voca- 
 tions, but prefer to await their development. 
 You do not know yourself yet, and you 
 have a great deal to learn. Come, come, 
 my dear sister ! it will be a long day be- 
 fore you sign that ; " and she pointed to the 
 formula of her vows in Latin, framed in 
 black over \\w prie-dieu. This formula was 
 irrevocable, binding for life, not allowed 
 now by French law, but it had been signed
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 163 
 
 in the chancel of the church, on a little 
 table on which stood the Holy Sacrament 
 
 Madame Alicia's doubts annoyed me, and 
 also troubled me a little ; but I thought the 
 trouble came from wounded pride, and I 
 persisted in the idea which I kept, how- 
 ever, to myself that Sister Helen had a 
 far higher vocation. Mother Alicia was 
 happy ; she often said so, simply and with- 
 out affectation, sometimes adding : " The 
 greatest happiness of all is to be at peace 
 with God. I should never have known that 
 peace in the world, for I am not a heroine; 
 I am conscious of my own weakness, and 
 that makes me timid. I cannot trust my- 
 self; the cloister is my refuge, and the 
 monastic rule my moral hygiene. With 
 such powerful aid, I go my way without 
 much effort, or any merit on my part." 
 When, in talking with her, I brought for- 
 ward some of Sister Helen's arguments, she 
 would gently shake her head and say : " My 
 child, if you seel^^l^ffermg, you will find 
 plenty without enterirn^ convent. I assure 
 you that a mother, merely in bringing her 
 children into the world, has far more to 
 endure than we ever have. I do not con- 
 sider the sacrifice we make in taking the
 
 164 Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 veil as anything in comparison with what 
 is daily required of a good wife and mother. 
 Don't worry about it, and wait for the in- 
 spiration of God when you are old enough 
 to choose. He is far wiser than we are, 
 and knows what is best for you. If you 
 long to suffer, be sure that life will afford 
 you a great many opportunities; and per- 
 haps if this ardor of self-sacrifice does not 
 die out, you may find that it is not in a 
 convent, but in the world, that you must 
 seek martyrdom." 
 
 Her wisdom inspired me with respect, 
 and I owe it to her that I did not make 
 those irrevocable vows which young girls 
 sometimes pronounce in secret before God, 
 terrible vows, that entail life-long suffering 
 on timorous consciences ; vows that may not 
 be broken, mistaken as they are and un- 
 acceptable in the sight of God, without a 
 serious shock to the dignity and sanity of 
 the soul. 
 
 But I was not proof against Sister Helen's 
 enthusiasm. I saw her every day, and 
 watched for opportunities to help her in 
 her hard work, often giving up my recrea- 
 tion in the daytime for this purpose, and at 
 night teaching her French in her cell. She
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 165 
 
 had, as I have said, very little intelligence, 
 and could hardly write at all. I taught her, 
 in fact, more English than French, for I 
 saw that I must begin that way. Our les- 
 sons hardly lasted half an hour, for she 
 became tired very soon, having more will 
 than intelligence. She never once doubted 
 my " vocation," and did her best to encourage 
 me, believing in good faith that I was as 
 strong as herself. No obstacle embarrassed 
 her, and she was sure that it would be easy 
 for me to procure a dispensation enabling 
 me to enter our convent, in spite of the 
 rule that excluded all but English, Scotch, 
 or Irish postulants. I acknowledge that 
 the thought of being a nun anywhere else 
 made me shudder, a proof of the flimsiness 
 of my vocation ; but when I confided these 
 doubts to Sister Helen, she made light of 
 them. It has been said that great souls are 
 never exacting to others, never require from 
 them such sacrifices as they are willing to 
 make themselves ; and she who had left her 
 family and native land, and had entered 
 unquestioning the first convent proposed to 
 her, was willing to indulge me in the choice 
 of a retreat, thus lessening the sacrifice. 
 For her it was enough, apparently, that a
 
 1 66 Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 girl like me whom she considered very re- 
 markable because I knew my own language 
 better than she knew hers should deliber- 
 ately propose to become a lay sister instead 
 of a teacher. 
 
 So we built castles in the air together. She 
 tried to find a good name for me as a sister. 
 In the community Poulette was called Marie 
 Augustine, the name I had taken at con- 
 firmation ; so it became necessary to choose 
 me another. I was to have a cell close 
 to Sister Helen's, and she authorized me 
 in advance to devote myself to gardening, 
 and to cultivate flowers in the yard. 
 
 I was very fond of digging, and since I 
 was too old to have a little garden of my 
 own, I passed part of my time at recess in 
 wheeling sods and making paths for the 
 younger girls. Of course they worshipped 
 me, but I was well laughed at by the older 
 pupils. Anna especially sighed over my 
 infatuation ; but she was as affectionate as 
 ever. Pauline de Pontcarre one of the 
 friends of my childhood, who had lately 
 come to the convent told her mother one 
 day before me that I had become idiotic ; 
 that I passed all my time with Sister Helen, 
 or with " babies " seven years old.
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 167 
 
 XV. 
 
 TJ OWEVER, one friendship that I had 
 * * contracted ought to have helped to 
 redeem my character, because it was with 
 the most intelligent girl in the school, 
 Eliza Austen. Her father, a nephew of the 
 Superior, Madame Canning, had married in 
 Calcutta a beautiful Hindu, by whom he 
 had a great many children, thirteen or 
 fourteen, I believe. The climate had proved 
 fatal to all but three, a boy who became 
 a priest ; Lavinia, who was with me in the 
 lower class ; and Eliza, now Superior in an 
 Ursuline convent in Cork, Ireland. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Austen seeing their chil- 
 dren perish before their eyes, and unable 
 themselves to leave India, confided the three 
 that were left to Mrs. Blount, sister of Mr. 
 Austen and Madame Canning. They were 
 first sent to school in a convent at Cork ; 
 but when Mrs. Blount decided to take up 
 her abode in Paris, they all came together. 
 I believe that the father was still away when
 
 1 68 Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 I knew the daughters ; the mother was living, 
 and had not seen her children for more 
 than twelve years. 
 
 Eliza had great beauty and a remarkable 
 mind. Her profile was purely Greek, and 
 her complexion literally like lilies and roses. 
 She had superb chestnut hair, and deep 
 blue eyes that were soft, but penetrating. 
 A singular combination of the two types, 
 English and East Indian, she was impe- 
 rious and fascinating, with the most angelic 
 smile I ever saw. Her low brow, clearly 
 cut features, a certain massiveness in her 
 superbly proportioned figure, indicated a 
 tremendous will, a love of mastery, and 
 inordinate pride. From her earliest child- 
 hood inclined to devotion, she came to the 
 convent determined to be a nun, loving 
 but one person, a sister in the Irish con- 
 vent she had just left, Maria Borgia de 
 Chantal, who had always encouraged her 
 vocation, and whom she rejoined afterwards 
 when she took the final vows. The greatest 
 proof of friendship that she ever gave me 
 was making me a present of a little reliquary 
 which I still keep on my mantelpiece. I 
 can read even now on the back : " M. de 
 Chantal to E., 1816." She valued it so
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 169 
 
 highly that she made me promise never 
 to part with it, and I have kept my word. 
 It has followed me in all my wanderings. 
 However, on a journey the glass got broken 
 and the relic dropped out ; but the medallion 
 remains whole, and the reliquary itself has 
 become sacred to me. This beautiful Eliza 
 was the first in all her studies, the best 
 pianist in the convent, superior to all the 
 others in everything; because with her 
 natural talent she had will and patience. 
 Her object was to be able to teach in the 
 convent at Cork, which she loved as I did 
 our own ; and Maria Borgia was to her 
 both Helen and Mother Alicia. More sen- 
 sible than I was, she was determined to 
 make herself useful in the monastic life. 
 
 Though I now attended to my lessons, 
 I made hardly any more progress than I did 
 before my conversion. My only object 
 being to obey the rules, and my mysticism 
 impelling me to eschew all worldly vanity, 
 I did not see why a lay sister that was-to- 
 be should care to play well on the piano, to 
 draw, or to learn history. The result was 
 that at the expiration of three years I was 
 more ignorant than when I entered the 
 convent. I had even lost the intermittent
 
 170 Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 love of study that I had shown as a child. 
 Devotion absorbed me in a different way, it 
 is true, but just as completely as the idle 
 life of my first year. When I had wept pas- 
 sionately a whole hour in church, I was good 
 for nothing, all the remainder of the day. 
 The rapture poured out in the sanctuary 
 unfitted me for secular pursuits, and I had 
 no enthusiasm, perception, or vigor left, 
 no interest in anything. In fact I was be- 
 coming stupid, Pauline was right when 
 she said so. Yet it seems to me now that I 
 gained in a certain way; that I was learn- 
 ing to love what was not myself, and that 
 fanatical devotion has this advantage at all 
 events, if it does make you stupid in some 
 respects, on the other hand it sets you free 
 from many belittling pre-occupations. 
 
 I do not know how it happened that I 
 became intimate with Eliza. While I was 
 a " diable " she had been cold and severe 
 in her manners. She had an overbearing 
 temper, sometimes hard to restrain, and 
 when a " diable " disturbed her medita- 
 tions or meddled with her note-books in 
 the schoolroom, she turned scarlet with 
 anger ; her beautiful cheeks flushed deeply ; 
 her eyebrows, never far apart, were con-
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 171 
 
 tracted in a nervous frown ; she muttered 
 indignant words, and her ironical smile 
 was terrible, for her imperious, haughty 
 nature was asserting itself. We used to 
 say that we could see the Asiatic blood 
 mounting to her face. But it was only 
 for a moment ; her strong will controlled 
 
 O 
 
 the angry impulse, she grew pale, then 
 smiled, and that radiant smile chased away 
 the clouds, lighting up her face like sun- 
 shine, and bringing back all its sweetness 
 and dewy beauty. When she revealed her- 
 self to me it was not gradually or partially ; 
 she candidly confessed her real faults, and 
 confided to me unreservedly the torment of 
 her austere soul. " We are going the same 
 way by different roads," she said one day. 
 " I envy you because your path is so smooth ; 
 you do not love the world, and flattery dis- 
 gusts you. It seems as though you were 
 gliding along from the world to the cloister 
 without effort and without struggle ; for you 
 there is no friction. But I," and as she 
 said this her face shone like that of an arch- 
 angel, " I am as proud as Lucifer; I stand 
 up in the temple like a Pharisee, and I have 
 to make a great effort to retreat to the door, 
 
 O 
 
 where I find you asleep and smiling in the
 
 172 Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 humble place of the publican. I am fastid- 
 ious even in my choice of a religious life. 
 I am determined to obey, but I feel an un- 
 governable impulse to command ; I am fond 
 of praise, criticism irritates me, and ridicule 
 is exasperating. Naturally, I am neither 
 indulgent nor patient. To conquer all these 
 tendencies, to keep myself from sinning a 
 hundred times a day, I have to make a con- 
 stant effort ; and if I finally succeed in 
 overcoming my evil passions, it will be the 
 result of incessant striving on my part, with 
 a great deal of heavenly help." And then 
 she would weep and beat her breast. I, 
 who felt like a nonentity compared with 
 her, tried to console the weeping girl by 
 reminding her that the greatest saints were 
 those who had had the hardest conflicts. 
 
 " That is true," she cried ; " there is glory 
 in suffering, and rewards are in proportion 
 to our deserts." Then, covering her lovely 
 face with her beautiful hands, she exclaimed, 
 " And that too is pride ! It enters every 
 pore of my body, and takes Protean shapes 
 to conquer me. Why should I long for 
 glory at the end of my struggle, and aspire 
 to a higher place in heaven than yours 
 and Sister Helen's ? I am really very un-
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 173 
 
 fortunate not to be able to forget myself a 
 single instant." 
 
 In such inward struggles and revolts 
 this brilliant girl passed her austerely ra- 
 diant youth ; but it seemed as if Nature had 
 fitted her for the contest, for the more she 
 tormented herself the more superb she was 
 in health and strength, the more wonderful 
 in acquirement. 
 
 With me it was different. Without any 
 struggle or storm, I exhausted myself in 
 my devout ecstasies. I began to feel ill, 
 and soon, bodily suffering affecting my 
 state of mind, I entered another phase of 
 this strange life.
 
 174 Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 TOURING several happy months the 
 -^ days had sped by like hours. I en- 
 joyed perfect liberty now that I had no 
 wish to abuse my freedom. I spent all 
 my time with the nuns, in the work- 
 room, where they invited me to tea ; in 
 the sacristy, where I helped them fold 
 and put away the decorations of the 
 altar; in the organ-loft, where we prac- 
 tised hymns .and choruses; in the novi- 
 ces' room, that served also for music les- 
 sons ; and finally, in the burial-ground, 
 where the pupils were not usually allowed 
 to go. This cemetery, between the church 
 and the garden-wall of the Scotch convent, 
 looked like nothing but a bed of flowers ; 
 for there were no tombs, headstones, or 
 epitaphs, only the unevenness of the 
 ground showed that there were graves. 
 It was a delightful spot, shaded by fine 
 trees, and adorned with shrubs and bushes 
 as well as flowers. On summer evenings
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 175 
 
 the air was redolent of the. perfume of roses 
 and jessamine ; and even in winter, when 
 snow had fallen, I have seen tea-roses and 
 violets blooming on the borders of that 
 spotless shroud. A pretty rustic chapel 
 a sort of open shed, covered with grape- 
 vines and honeysuckle sheltered a statue 
 of the Virgin and separated this sacred 
 place from the pupils' garden ; while our 
 lofty horse-chestnuts, which overhung the 
 chapel roof, shaded one corner of the 
 cemetery. There I have passed hours of 
 delightful revery. Before my conversion 
 I used to steal in sometimes to find the 
 nice india-rubber balls that the Scotch 
 students had accidentally thrown over the 
 wall; but now I cared little for india- 
 rubber balls. I loved to dream of a life 
 that should be a sort of living death, of 
 an existence intellectually torpid, indiffer- 
 ent to all earthly considerations, absorbed 
 in contemplation without end ; and I used 
 to choose my place in this burial-ground, 
 and see myself in imagination sleeping in 
 the only spot in the whole world where I 
 longed to rest in peace. 
 
 Sister Helen encouraged these dreams ; 
 but the poor girl was far from happy her-
 
 176 Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 self. She still suffered a great deal, al- 
 though she was better physically, and 
 really seemed convalescent ; but I think 
 that much of her suffering was mental, 
 and that she was scolded often, and even 
 persecuted sometimes, for her mysticism. 
 Some evenings I found her weeping in 
 her cell. I hardly dared question her, and 
 indeed it was of no use ; for at the first 
 word of inquiry she would shake her head 
 deprecatingly, as if to say : " This is not the 
 first time, it is nothing you can help." 
 It is true that immediately afterwards she 
 would throw her arms around me, and sob 
 as if her heart would break ; but not a 
 word of complaint, not a murmur, escaped 
 from her sealed lips. 
 
 One evening when I was in the gar- 
 den, just under the Superior's window, I 
 heard what seemed to be an angry dis- 
 pute. I did not catch the words ; but I 
 instantly recognized the Superior's voice, 
 harsh and irritated, and Sister Helen's 
 distressed accents, interrupted by sobs. 
 Formerly, in our days of intense excite- 
 ment about " the victim," I should have 
 stolen up the staircase into the ante- 
 chamber to find out exactly what was
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 177 
 
 going on ; but now I thought it wrong to 
 listen to what was not intended for my 
 ears, and I walked on as fast as I could. 
 But the heart-rending tones of my dear 
 Helen kept ringing in my ears. She had 
 not seemed to be entreating, but protesting 
 with energy, complaining of some false ac- 
 cusation. Other voices, which I did not 
 recognize, had chimed in reprovingly or in 
 accusation ; and when I was too far away 
 to hear anything distinctly, I fancied that 
 inarticulate cries came to me on the breeze, 
 mingled with the laughter of the school- 
 girls in their playground. This was a 
 deathblow to my serenity. What was 
 going on in the secrecy of the chapter? 
 Were these seemingly gentle nuns un- 
 justly suspicious and cruel to others? 
 
 What fault could Sister Helen have com- 
 mitted, saint that she was ? Was I concerned 
 in it in any way? Could they reproach her 
 with our intimacy? I had distinctly heard 
 the Superior say angrily, "Shame! shame!" 
 That she should use such words to a woman 
 as simple and pure as a little child, that 
 she should gratuitously insult an angel, 
 offended me bitterly ; and a line from 
 Boileau came irresistibly to my lips : " Can
 
 178 Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 there be such hate in the soul of the 
 devout ? " 
 
 It is true that Madame Canning was not 
 quite a female Tartuffe ; she had some 
 excellent qualities, but she was harsh and 
 deceitful, as I had reason to know. How 
 could a person in her position indulge in 
 such a torrent of bitter reproach and humil- 
 iating threats as the tones of her voice had 
 conveyed to my ears ? I asked myself if 
 it were possible for a person of common 
 perception not to love and admire Sister 
 Helen ? And then, how could she thus 
 reproach and humiliate any one capable of 
 inspiring so much esteem and affection, 
 even to do her good, with a view to her 
 ultimate salvation ? " Can it be a quarrel, 
 or is it a trial of her patience ? " I asked 
 myself. " If it is a quarrel, that is ignoble ; 
 and to try her patience thus would be odi- 
 ously cruel." All at once I heard cries, 
 possibly the result of my excited im- 
 agination ; but everything swam before me, 
 and a cold sweat bathed my trembling 
 limbs. " They are beating, they are abus- 
 ing her ! " I cried aloud. 
 
 God forgive me for the thought ! it 
 
 o o 
 
 may have been wild and unjust; but I was
 
 Convsnt Life of George Sand. 179 
 
 for the moment possessed by the idea. I 
 was at the farthest end of the garden, but 
 darted like a flash to Sister Helen's cell ; 
 and if I had not found her there, I think 
 I should have sought her in the Superior's 
 room. But she had just come in, very much 
 agitated, and her face was wet with tears. 
 My first thought was to look for traces of 
 violence, to see if her veil was torn, or if 
 her hands were bleeding for I had sud- 
 
 O * 
 
 denly become as suspicious as those are 
 apt to be who pass instantaneously from 
 blind confidence to the agony of doubt. 
 But there was nothing of the kind ; only 
 her robe was dusty, as if she had rolled on 
 the floor. 
 
 She pushed me away, saying, " It is noth- 
 ing, nothing at all. I am very ill, and 
 must go to bed, leave me ! " 
 
 I went into the corridor, so that she 
 might go to bed; but I put my ear close 
 to the door. She groaned so that it made 
 my heart ache. As I crouched there, fa- 
 vored by the darkness, there was a constant 
 flitting past me to the Superior's room ; 
 doors were continually opened and shut, 
 and rustling robes swept the floor close to 
 me. Then all was still. I went back to
 
 i So Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 Sister Helen, and said : " I am not going 
 to ask you any questions, for I know that 
 you will not answer me ; but let me stay 
 here and take care of you." 
 
 She said she was feverish ; but her hands 
 were icy, and she trembled , all over. She 
 complained of thirst ; and since there was 
 nothing but water in her cell, I insisted 
 on going, in spite of all she could say, to 
 find Poulette, whose room was in the same 
 passage. She was in charge of the in- 
 firmary, kept the keys, and gave out all the 
 remedies. I told her that Sister Helen was 
 very ill. But to my inexpressible astonish- 
 ment, good, kind, motherly Poulette only 
 shrugged her shoulders and said, 
 
 "No, she is not very ill; she 'does not 
 need anything." 
 
 Shocked at her inhumanity, I left her 
 at once, and ran to find my friend Sister 
 Theresa, the tall Scotchwoman, the pre- 
 siding genius of the mint-still in the cel- 
 lar. She also worked in the kitchen, and 
 I wanted her to heat some water and make 
 a cup of herb tea. But she showed as much 
 indifference as Poulette. 
 
 " Oh, Sister Helen ! " she said ; " she is 
 only in low spirits ; " but added presently,
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 181 
 
 "Well, well! to please you, I will go and get 
 some linden-leaves." And off she went, 
 without hurrying in the least, and with a 
 very contemptuous expression ; and hand- 
 ing me at last the herb tea, with a little 
 mint-water, she said: "You had better take 
 some too; it is very good for foolishness 
 and pain in the stomach." 
 
 I could get nothing else out of her, and 
 went back to my patient, who had lost all 
 control of herself, and was now in a violent 
 chill. I brought blankets from my own 
 bed, and the hot tea warmed her a little. 
 It was the hour for prayers, and bed-time ; 
 so I went to look for the Countess, who 
 refused me nothing now, and asked permis- 
 sion to sit up with Sister Helen, who was 
 very ill. 
 
 " What ! " she said, looking very much 
 astonished ; " she is ill, and there is nobody 
 but you to take care of her?" 
 
 " Yes, madame," I answered ; " will you 
 give me permission ? " 
 
 " Certainly, my child ; all that you do in 
 that way is right in the sight of God." 
 
 And such was my treatment at the hands 
 of this good but ridiculous woman, of whom 
 I had made so much fun, but who never
 
 1 82 Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 cherished any ill will toward me or any 
 one else, unless, perchance, they hap- 
 pened to interfere with her parrot Jacquot 
 or Mother Alippe's cat Whisky. 
 
 I stayed late with Sister Helen, and only 
 left her when she seemed to be sleeping 
 quietly. For several hours, however, she 
 had suffered tortures, and I heard her ejacu- 
 late as she writhed on her bed ; " Oh, why 
 can't I die? " But she did not utter a word 
 of complaint or accusation, and the next day 
 she was up and about her work as usual, 
 smiling, almost gay ; she had the recupera- 
 tive power of a child, with the courage and 
 resignation of a saint. 
 
 This mysterious occurrence affected me 
 more than it did her to all appearance. I 
 saw from the manner of the nuns and the 
 way I was permitted to see Sister Helen 
 at all hours, that I had nothing to do with 
 the storm that had burst on her head ; yet 
 I was shaken not in my faith but in my 
 trustful happiness.
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 18; 
 
 XVII. 
 
 A BOUT this time Mother Alippe died 
 '* of a prevailing lung fever, with which 
 the Superior and some of the other nuns 
 were dangerously ill at the same time. We 
 had never been very intimate ; but I was 
 always fond of her, and had thoroughly 
 appreciated, while I was in the lower class, 
 the uprightness and justice for which she 
 was remarkable. Her death, after only a 
 few days' illness, was said to be agonizing, 
 and the regret for her loss was universal. 
 Her sister Poulette, who was in charge, as I 
 have said, of the infirmary, and who also 
 nursed the Superior and the other nuns, 
 fainted away at her post, on the day of her 
 sister's funeral. 
 
 There was a poetic sadness about the 
 beautiful funeral service ; the singing, the 
 tears, the flowers, the prayers at the grave, 
 the pansies planted immediately on the 
 place where she was laid to rest (from 
 which we gathered flowers as mementos),
 
 184 Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 the resigned grief of the sisterhood, all gave 
 a stamp of sanctity, and conferred a hidden 
 charm on this sudden death, this separa- 
 tion for a time, as good, courageous Poulette 
 said in talking to us of her sister. 
 
 But I had been exceedingly disturbed by 
 something very hard to understand. On 
 leaving our cells that morning we were told 
 that Mother Alippe had died in the night ; 
 and though we greeted one another sadly, 
 and some shed tears, there was no violent 
 grief. In fact we had known the night be- 
 fore that she could not recover. Respecting 
 the sleep of childhood, they had not dis- 
 turbed us when she passed away; we had 
 heard no bell toll, nor anything of the last 
 offices for the dying. We went in to 
 prayers. It was a chilly, foggy morning, 
 and the daylight fell wan on our bowed 
 heads as we knelt in the chapel. All at 
 once, in the middle of the " Hail Mary," a 
 horrible shriek arose from our midst. We 
 all started to our feet terrified, all but 
 Eliza, who was lying on the floor, writhing 
 in terrible convulsions. 
 
 By a strong effort of will she recovered 
 sufficiently to go to mass ; but there was a 
 recurrence of the same nervous attack, and
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 185 
 
 she was obliged to leave the church. All 
 day she seemed more dead than alive, and 
 for some time afterwards she would occa- 
 sionally cry out during her lessons or medi- 
 tations, and look about her with a startled 
 expression as if pursued by a spectre. 
 
 At first these attacks were attributed to 
 violent grief ; but then she was not supposed 
 to be more attached to Mother Alippe than 
 many of the other girls. When we were 
 alone she explained it to me. It seemed 
 that only a very thin partition separated her 
 room from the infirmary above, in which 
 Mother Alippe breathed her last. All 
 night long she had heard her dying agony, 
 not losing one word or groan, or the final 
 struggle and death-rattle. It had excited 
 her nervous system so sympathetically that 
 she was obliged to make a tremendous 
 effort not to reproduce it, especially in tell- 
 ing me of this endless night of anguish and 
 terror. I did my best to calm her. There 
 was a prayer to the Virgin that soothed her 
 when she suffered the most, a little prayer 
 in English, given to her by her dear Madame 
 Borgia, who had told her never to say it 
 alone, carrying out the idea of the primitive 
 Christians, who were fond of repeating:
 
 1 86 Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 " Verily I say unto you, where two or three 
 are gathered together in my name, there 
 will I be in the midst of you." For want of 
 a third sympathetic companion, we two used 
 to say it together. Eliza had a prie-dieu 
 in her cell, which was furnished like that of 
 a nun. We lighted a pure white taper, and 
 placed before it a bunch of the prettiest 
 flowers we could get ; Eliza liked these ap- 
 purtenances of devotion, and thought they 
 charmed away the mental torture she so 
 often inflicted upon herself. Even Madame 
 Borgia's prayer, however, produced no last- 
 ing effect, and the poor girl acknowledged 
 that she had fallen a prey to unreasoning 
 and inexplicable terror. The image of 
 death had presented itself to her in all its 
 grimness. Perhaps her exuberant vitality 
 shrank from the idea of physical annihila- 
 tion, though she constantly made a free-will 
 offering of herself to God, and in many 
 respects was of the stuff of which martyrs 
 are made. But suffering and death in 
 a material form affected her imagination 
 powerfully. With a brave soul, she had the 
 nerves of a weak woman. She reproached 
 herself bitterly for this weakness, but never 
 succeeded in surmounting it.
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 187 
 
 I do not know why it should have dis- 
 pleased me so much, but it was another dis- 
 appointment hard to bear that my noble 
 Eliza, my ideal of strength and courage, 
 should be so overcome by anguish at the 
 solemn death of a sinless human being. I 
 had no constitutional horror of death myself, 
 and the philosophical calmness inculcated 
 by my grandmother was heightened by the 
 sight of Christian resignation far more im- 
 pressive than the firmness of a Stoic. 
 
 For the first time, death now seemed 
 dreadful to me from Eliza's unnatural point 
 of view ; and though I blamed her in my 
 heart for not feeling as I did, I could not 
 escape the contagion of her terror, and at 
 night, traversing the corridor near Mother 
 Alippe's cell, I used to fancy I saw her 
 ghost flit before me in white robes, which 
 she shook and waved as she walked. I 
 could hardly help screaming like Eliza; 
 and though I had sufficient self-control to 
 restrain myself, I was deeply ashamed of 
 this idle terror, which seemed almost blas- 
 phemous, and became as much provoked 
 with myself as with Eliza.
 
 1 88 Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 T3UT I tried in vain to recall my vanish- 
 -^ ing illusions ; gloom settled down on 
 me, and at last one evening in church I 
 found that I could not pray, every effort 
 I made only intensifying my despondency. 
 In fact, I had been really ill for some time, 
 suffering from such insupportable spasms 
 that I could neither eat nor sleep. A girl 
 of fifteen cannot endure with impunity 
 such austerities as those to which I had 
 been subjecting myself, in imitation of Eliza, 
 who was nineteen, and Sister Helen, who 
 was twenty-eight years old. 
 
 My strength had evidently given way 
 under my enthusiasm, and for the first time 
 since my conversion I suffered from doubt, 
 not about religion, however, but about 
 myself. I was persuaded that I had fallen 
 from grace, and repeated to myself over and 
 over again those terrible words, " Many are 
 called, but few are chosen." I began to be 
 sure that God did not love me any more,
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 189 
 
 because I did not love him enough ; and I 
 fell into a state of dull despair which I con- 
 fided to Madame Alicia. She smiled, and 
 tried to explain the connection between my 
 state of mind and physical causes, begging 
 me not to attach such exaggerated impor- 
 tance to these impressions. "Everyone has 
 such times of discouragement," she said ; 
 " and the more you torment yourself, the 
 worse it will be. Accept this trial in a spirit 
 of humility, and pray that it may come to an 
 end ; but if you have not committed any sin 
 of which this dejection is a just punishment, 
 have patience, hope and pray." 
 
 What she said was the outcome of her 
 philosophical experience, of her reason and 
 good sense ; but my weak head could not 
 accept it. I had enjoyed ardent devotion 
 too much to await its return with patient 
 resignation. Madame Alicia had said, " If 
 you have committed no sin," etc., and I 
 began to think what I could have done ; for 
 it was incredible that God should be capri- 
 cious and cruel enough to withdraw the light 
 of his countenance only to try me. If it were 
 something that came from without, it would 
 be different. " I should gladly accept mar- 
 tyrdom ; but if I fall from grace, what can
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 I do ? God is my strength ; if he aban- 
 dons me, is it my fault ? " Thus I murmured 
 against the object of my adoration, and like 
 a jealous, irritated lover, I might have be- 
 come reproachful ; but I shrank shuddering 
 from this incipient impiety, and beating my 
 breast, exclaimed : " Yes, it is, it must be, my 
 fault ! I must have committed some crime 
 of which my seared conscience has failed to 
 warn me." After a vigorous self-examina- 
 tion, it occurred to me that a series of venial 
 offences might possibly be equivalent to 
 one deadly sin ; and I tried to enumerate the 
 sins of omission and commission that un- 
 doubtedly I had unconsciously committed, 
 since it is written that the righteous man 
 sins seven times a day, and that an humble 
 Christian must believe that he sins seventy 
 times seven. 
 
 For a long time Abbe Premord was de- 
 ceived -by my self-deception. In my con- 
 fessions I accused myself of lukewarmness, 
 of backsliding, of wandering and wicked 
 thoughts, of indifference in devotion, of idle- 
 ness in school and absent-mindedness at 
 church, consequently of disobedience; and 
 I said all this without efficacious contrition, 
 or any energy to triumph over temptation.
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 191 
 
 He scolded me kindly, enjoined perseverance, 
 and sent me off, saying cheerily, " Come, 
 don't allow yourself to be discouraged, and 
 you will yet be victorious." 
 
 At last one day when I had gone on ac- 
 cusing myself more vehemently than usual, 
 weeping bitterly all the time, he suddenly 
 interrupted me in the midst of my confes- 
 sion with the abruptness of an honest man 
 tired of wasting his time. " Listen to me," 
 he said. "I do not understand you at all. 
 I am afraid that you are morbid. Are you 
 willing that I should ask the Superior, or 
 any one else you may mention, about your 
 conduct ? " 
 
 " Of what use can that be ? " I answered. 
 " All these kind persons, who are fond of 
 me, will tell you that there is nothing 
 wrong. If I have a hard heart, and have 
 gone astray, no one knows anything about 
 it but myself ; and undeserved praise will 
 only make me worse instead of better." 
 
 " No, you cannot be a hypocrite," he pro- 
 tested. " Let me make inquiries. I have 
 set my heart on doing so. Come back at 
 four this afternoon and we will have a talk." 
 
 I believe that he consulted the Superior 
 and Madame Alicia, and when he saw me
 
 192 Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 come in he said, smiling : " I knew that 
 you were demented, and now I am going 
 to scold you in good earnest. Your con- 
 duct is irreproachable ; these ladies are de- 
 lighted with you ; you are considered a 
 model of gentleness, punctuality, and sin- 
 cere piety. But you are ill, and that af- 
 fects your imagination. You have become 
 gloomy, sad, and fanatical. Your compan- 
 ions do not know what to make of you, 
 and they complain of the change. Take 
 care ! if you go on in this way they will 
 hate and dread piety, and your example will 
 help to prevent instead of inducing con- 
 versions. Your relatives are anxious about 
 you ; your grandmother says that convent 
 life is killing you, that you are becoming 
 a fanatic ; and her letters plainly show her 
 distress. You know that instead of urging 
 you on, we are all trying to calm you. As 
 for me, now that I know the truth, I insist 
 on your giving up this exaggeration. Your 
 sincerity makes it all the more dangerous. 
 You must .lead a healthy, natural life of 
 body and mind; and since there is a subtle 
 pride at the bottom of all these scruples, as 
 a penance you must take part in the games 
 and amusements proper for your age. This
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 193 
 
 very evening you must run about in the 
 garden with the other girls, instead of pros- 
 trating yourself in the church for recreation. 
 You must jump rope and play tag. Your 
 appetite and sleep will come back after a 
 while; and when you are in a normal state 
 of health, you will not attach such undue 
 importance to these pretended faults, of 
 which you are proud to accuse yourself." 
 
 " Good heavens ! " I exclaimed, " that is a 
 harder penance than you imagine. I have 
 lost all taste for games, even the habit of 
 gayety ; but I am so frivolous that if I do 
 not keep a constant watch over myself I 
 shall forget all about God and the salvation 
 of my soul." 
 
 " Not at all," said he. " Besides, if you go 
 too far, your conscience, when you are well 
 again, will be quick to warn you, and you 
 will heed its reproaches. I tell you that 
 you are ill, and that the feverish aspirations 
 of a delirious soul are not agreeable in the 
 sight of God. What he wants is reasonable 
 service. Go, now, and mind your doctor. 
 In a week I shall expect to hear that you 
 are entirely different in appearance and 
 manners. I want you to be loved and re- 
 spected, not only by the good girls, but 
 13
 
 194 Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 even more by those who are not good. Let 
 them see that the path of duty is pleasant, 
 and that faith is a sanctuary from which 
 you come forth with a beaming face and 
 kindly ways. Remember that Jesus told 
 his disciples to anoint their heads and wash 
 their hands. He meant, ' Do not imitate 
 those hypocritical fanatics who put ashes 
 on their heads, while their hearts are as 
 unclean as their faces ; but be agreeable to 
 men, so as to make them love the religion 
 you profess.' My child, you must not bury 
 your light under the bushel of mistaken 
 penitence. Adorn your heart with courtesy 
 and your mind with attractive cheerfulness. 
 That is natural at your age, and you must 
 not make people think that piety renders 
 girls unattractive. God should be loved in 
 his servants. Come, declare your contri- 
 tion; say you are sorry, and I will give you 
 absolution." 
 
 " But, Abbe Premord," I exclaimed, " how 
 can you want me to amuse myself and 
 waste all the evening, when I am going to 
 take the communion to-morrow ? " 
 
 " Certainly," he answered, " since I tell 
 you to amuse yourself as a penance, it will 
 be accomplishing a duty."
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 195 
 
 " I will do just as you say, Abbe, if you 
 will only promise me that it will be pleasing 
 to God, and that he will give me back the 
 sweet, transporting spiritual ecstasy in which 
 I felt and returned his love." 
 
 " I cannot promise that," he said, smiling, 
 "but I should not wonder, you will see;" 
 and the good man left me stupefied, con- 
 founded, frightened, at what he had told me 
 to do. 
 
 I obeyed him, however, considering pas- 
 sive obedience a cardinal virtue ; and I 
 soon found that at the age of fifteen it 
 is not very hard to get back a taste for 
 jumping rope and playing ball. I joined in 
 these sports after a while without reluctance, 
 then with pleasure, and at last with some- 
 thing of the old zest. Physical activity is 
 so natural for the young ! and I had been so 
 long deprived of it that now it had an added 
 charm of novelty. My companions wel- 
 comed me back most affectionately ; Fa- 
 nelly first of all, then Pauline, Anna, and the 
 others, " les diables " as well as the good 
 girls. Seeing me so gay, their first idea 
 was that I was going to be wild again, and 
 Eliza scolded me a little ; but I told her and 
 a few others, who sought and deserved my
 
 196 Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 confidence, what Abbe Premord had said, 
 and they all approved of my conduct. 
 
 It happened just as the good confessor 
 had predicted, and I quickly regained moral 
 and physical health. 
 
 Six months thus flew by like a happy 
 dream ; and I can think of no greater felicity 
 in paradise. Angels seemed to bear me 
 up so that I might not hit my foot against 
 a stone. I did not pray as much as before, 
 because it was forbidden ; but when I prayed, 
 all the old ecstasy came back, though less 
 impetuous, perhaps, than formerly.
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 197 
 
 XIX. 
 
 TV/T Y return to gayety made a great 
 ***. change among the older girls. 
 Since my conversion, " les diables " had 
 languished and lost their spirit ; but now 
 they revived in the most unexpected way, 
 and became rosewater " diables," that is 
 to say, gay and frolicsome without disre- 
 gard of the rules or neglect of their duties. 
 They worked in school-hours, and played 
 in play-time with more alacrity than they 
 had ever shown before. There were no 
 more sharply drawn lines between good 
 girls, stupid girls, and " diables." These 
 last were less obstreperous, the good girls 
 gayer, and the stupid ones acquired readi- 
 ness and confidence because they were 
 called upon to contribute their share 
 toward the general enjoyment. This great 
 improvement was mainly brought about by 
 a new system of amusement in common. 
 Five or six of the older girls began by getting 
 up charades, really little plays arranged
 
 198 Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 beforehand in separate scenes, and acted on 
 the spur of the moment. Thanks to my 
 grandmother, I was more conversant with 
 literature than the others, and I had, more- 
 over, a certain knack in theatricals ; so I 
 came to the front and was made manager. 
 I chose actors, assigned parts, ordered 
 dresses, and discovered after a while a great 
 deal of latent talent among the girls. The 
 end of the schoolroom toward the garden 
 was our theatre. The first attempts were 
 lame enough, like the historical beginnings 
 of our national drama ; but the Countess 
 allowed us to go on ; then she became in- 
 terested, and asked Madame Eugenie and 
 Madame Franchise to come and see for 
 themselves if there was anything objection- 
 able in what we were doing, but these 
 ladies laughed and approved. 
 
 We made rapid progress, borrowed old 
 screens for side scenes, and accessories 
 began to shower upon us from all sides. 
 The girls procured at home materials for 
 their dresses, but the great trouble was to 
 get up the costumes for the men's parts. 
 Not to shock the sisters, we chose the 
 dress of the time of Louis XIII. Our pet- 
 ticoats, gathered below the knee, formed
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 199 
 
 trunk-hose ; and for doublets we slashed 
 the sleeves of our bodices and put them on 
 hind-part before, turning them back at the 
 neck over puckered-up handkerchiefs that 
 represented shirt-fronts. Two aprons sewed 
 together did duty as mantles ; and ribbons, 
 rings, and other gewgaws were not hard to 
 get. When we needed more feathers, we 
 improvised them out of paper cut and curled 
 for the purpose. (School-girls are quick 
 at contrivance, and know how to turn the 
 merest trifles to account.) Then we were 
 allowed to wear b.oots with spurs, rapiers, 
 and slouched hats, furnished by our parents ; 
 altogether our costumes did very well, and 
 we depended on imagination to supply de- 
 ficiencies in scenery. After all, it was not 
 very hard to accept a table for a bridge, or 
 a stool covered with green baize for a bank 
 of turf. The younger girls were allowed to 
 be present, and at last we enrolled all who 
 wished to act. 
 
 One day the Superior, who was very 
 fond of amusement, sent us word that she 
 had heard a great deal of our theatre, 
 and that she wanted to come with the 
 whole community and see a performance. 
 The Countess and Madame Eugenie had
 
 2OO Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 already allowed us to sit up till ten, or 
 even till eleven, when there was a play. 
 For this once the Superior announced 
 that we need not go to bed before mid- 
 night, as much as to say that she ex- 
 pected a fine entertainment. Her request 
 and permission were received with delight. 
 All the girls surrounded me, saying : 
 " Come, author ! come, life and soul of the 
 company (this was the last name they had 
 given me), we must go to work. Let us 
 have a superb performance, six acts, 
 two or three pieces! Only think! we are 
 to keep our audience on the qui vive from 
 eis;ht o'clock till midnight ! " 
 
 o o 
 
 It was a great undertaking to make ttie 
 Superior and the most serious nuns laugh, 
 and not a slight responsibility either; for 
 the slightest tinge of impropriety might 
 shock the sisters, and put a stop to our 
 theatricals. On the other hand, if the 
 plays proved tiresome, they might close 
 the theatre, giving as a reason that it took 
 too much time, caused too much excite- 
 ment, and interfered with our lessons, 
 which was undoubtedly true, especially for 
 the younger pupils. 
 
 Fortunately, I was very well versed in
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 201 
 
 Moliere ; and leaving out love-passages, I 
 thought I could arrange enough scenes 
 for an evening entertainment. Of " Le 
 Malade Imaginaire " I could make a com- 
 plete sketch, though I did not remember 
 perfectly the dialogue and scenic arrange- 
 ments. Moliere's works were prohibited in 
 the convent; and although I was a manager, 
 I virtuously refrained from sending for the 
 books, and merely tried to remember the 
 story, so as not to be very wide of the mark 
 in my libretto. I rehearsed some important 
 scenes, and gave all my actors a general 
 notion of the main idea of the piece, 
 endeavoring to preserve something of the 
 character of the original. Not one of the 
 pupils had ever read the play; and since 
 the nuns did not probably know a line of 
 Moliere, I was sure that it would be a nov- 
 elty. I have forgotten who took the differ- 
 ent parts, but I remember that they were 
 acted with intelligence and gayety. I was 
 M. Purgon ; and partly because I had for- 
 gotten, and partly on purpose, I left out a 
 great deal of the coarseness. 
 
 Every year, on the Superior's birthday, 
 we had been in the habit of acting pieces, 
 not very exciting, I must confess, gen-
 
 2O2 Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 erally taken from the sentimental plays of 
 Madame de Genlis. But the preparations 
 on such occasions were much more elabo- 
 rate than ours : we had a real theatre, stage 
 properties, footlights, thunder and lightning, 
 parts committed to memory and admirably 
 performed ; while now, with my old screens 
 and ends of candles, my actors without 
 previous preparation, a libretto imperfectly 
 remembered, an improvised dialogue, and 
 one partial rehearsal, it was to be feared 
 that I might make a complete failure. 
 But hardly had we begun, I had only said 
 a few words, when I saw the Superior 
 unbend, then laugh ; while even Madame 
 Eugenie wiped her eyes. It was evidently 
 amusing. Our gayety and animation, the 
 comic genius of Moliere, even so diluted 
 in scraps of recitation and incomplete frag- 
 ments, 'brought down the house. Never 
 in the memory of nuns had they laughed 
 so heartily. 
 
 The success of our first scenes encour- 
 aged us. I had prepared a sort of ballet 
 interlude, with a comic chase taken from 
 " M. de Pourceaugnac," only I had 
 charged my actresses to stay behind the 
 scenes (that is to say, the screens), and not to
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 203 
 
 shoulder their arms until I gave the signal 
 and set the example. As I saw the audi- 
 ence was so genial, I ventured, and began 
 the interlude by brandishing the classic 
 instrument above my head. I was wel- 
 comed by bursts of Homeric laughter; for 
 that sort of thing never seems to shock 
 devout persons. Immediately my black 
 regiment in white aprons rushed after me 
 upon the stage ; and this burlesque, for 
 which Poulette had lent us all the arsenal 
 of the infirmary, made our audience laugh 
 so that it seemed as if they might literally 
 bring down the house. The last thing was 
 the ceremony of reception ; and as I knew 
 all this part by heart, the girls had learned 
 some of the verses. The success was com- 
 plete, and the enthusiasm immense. 
 
 From repeating the service constantly, 
 these ladies knew enough Latin to appre- 
 ciate the farce of Moliere. The Superior 
 declared that she had never been so diverted 
 in her life ; and I was overwhelmed with 
 compliments for the wit and gayety of my 
 inventions. I kept whispering to the girls, 
 " It is not I, it is all Moliere; I have only 
 remembered a little." But no one listened 
 to me, and I was not believed. One of
 
 204 Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 my friends, who had read Moliere, it 
 seemed, in her last vacation, said in my 
 ear: 
 
 " Keep still! What is the use of telling 
 these ladies? Perhaps they would close 
 our theatre if they knew where you got all 
 that. Nothing has shocked them, and there 
 is no harm in keeping the secret, so long 
 as you are not questioned." 
 
 In fact, I was credited with Moliere's 
 genius. It troubled me a great deal to 
 accept all these compliments, but I ex- 
 amined myself to see if I felt flattered, and 
 perceived, on the contrary, that one must 
 be crazy to enjoy homage clearly due to 
 another; so I let the mistake pass, and con- 
 sidered it a penance for the sake of amus- 
 ing my companions. The theatre was not 
 closed, and continued to attract the Supe- 
 rior and the nuns every Sunday.
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 205 
 
 XX. 
 
 FT was not always easy to keep so much 
 -*- exuberant gayety within bounds, and 
 every day it mounted a peg higher. For 
 me, as well as for all the other girls, the 
 air seemed charged with electricity. For 
 instance, though I no longer led the van 
 in ridiculing the poor Countess, and some- 
 times did my best to prevent the other 
 girls from doing so, when for the hun- 
 dredth time, perhaps, she tried to light the 
 candle, cut out of an apple, that Pauline 
 had put in her lantern, or when she used 
 one word for another with the imperturb- 
 able absurdity of an absent-minded person, 
 and the whole school shouted with laugh- 
 ter, I could not refrain from chiming in. 
 Then she would look at me with a dis- 
 tressed expression, and hitching up her 
 great green shawl on her shoulders, ejac- 
 ulate like Caesar : 
 
 " And you too, Aurore ! "
 
 206 Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 I wanted to be sorry for what I had 
 done, but she had a way of pronouncing 
 final e like o ; and when Anna, who was 
 an excellent mimic, turned toward me and 
 said reproachfully, " Auroro ! Auroro ! " I 
 could not help it, my laughter became 
 spasmodic: I should have laughed "through 
 fire and flame," as they say. 
 
 Our gayety was so rampant at last that 
 some of the most excitable girls were all 
 ready for open rebellion. At this time 
 during the Restoration there was an 
 epidemic of revolt in convent and board- 
 ing-schools, for girls as well as boys. When 
 we heard of these occurrences, sometimes 
 serious and sometimes amusing, the live- 
 liest pupils would say : " It is time we had 
 our own little rebellion ; we shall be out of 
 fashion. Why should we not have a notice 
 in the newspapers, as well as anybody else?" 
 The Countess became nervous, and her 
 seventy increased with her alarm. Some 
 of our good nuns had very long faces, and 
 for three or four days (I believe that our 
 Scotch neighbors had their insurrection at 
 that time) they were evidently in a state of 
 tremulous excitement, which amused us very 
 much. Then the girls took it into their
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 207 
 
 heads to pretend to revolt, just to see if 
 they could frighten all these ladies, espe- 
 cially the Countess. They did not take 
 me into their confidence, but hoped that 
 I should be lured on when they had once 
 begun. 
 
 One evening in the schoolroom, as we 
 were all seated around a long table, the 
 Countess at one end busy with her mending, 
 her back turned to a candle, I heard the 
 girl next me say to her neighbor, " Lift 
 up!" The word was passed round the 
 table, which, lifted immediately by thirty 
 pairs of little hands, rose higher than the 
 top of the Countess's head. Very absent- 
 minded as usual, she turned, surprised at the 
 sudden disappearance of her light; but in- 
 stantly the table and candles fell back to the 
 old level. This trick was repeated several 
 times before she understood what we were 
 about. I was so much amused that I passed 
 on the watchword and " lifted up " with the 
 others. The Countess rose from her seat, 
 trembling with indignation, It had been 
 
 O O 
 
 arranged beforehand that when she did this, 
 each girl should put on a reckless and riot- 
 ous expression, to frighten her still more. 
 We all folded our arms and scowled like
 
 208 Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 conspirators, and there were murmurs 
 of " Revolt." Quite incapable of assert- 
 ing herself, sure that the fatal hour had 
 come, she turned and fled like a sea-gull 
 before the storm, her old green shawl 
 streaming out behind her, and losing all 
 presence of mind, ran across the garden 
 to take refuge and barricade herself in her 
 own room. As she passed under the win- 
 dows, we threw out the footstools and can- 
 dlesticks, without any intention of hitting 
 her; but the flying missiles, and our cries 
 of " Revolt ! revolt ! " must have seemed to 
 her fiendish. 
 
 For a while we were left to our own 
 devices, and we indulged in the wildest 
 merriment ; but at last, hearing in the dis- 
 tance the deep voice of the Superior, we 
 knew that the alarm had been given, and 
 that she was coming with some of the older 
 nuns to quell the tumult. Now it was our 
 turn to be frightened ; for we had no quar- 
 rel with Madame Canning, and since the 
 rebellion was a mere pretence, we did not 
 care to be punished as if we had been in 
 earnest. So we hastily bolted the two doors, 
 recovered the footstools and candlesticks, 
 arranged and relighted our candles ; and
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 209 
 
 when order was completely restored, we 
 all knelt down and began reciting the 
 evening prayer, all but one, who was 
 sent to open the door, at which the Supe- 
 rior had knocked in rather a hesitating way. 
 In the end, the Countess was mercilessly 
 laughed at as a silly visionary ; and Maria 
 Josepha, a good-natured servant who at- 
 tended to the schoolroom, was careful to 
 say nothing of the breakage of some arti- 
 cles of furniture and the demolishing of 
 a few candles. She faithfully kept our 
 secret, and this was the end of the revo- 
 lution in the convent. 
 
 All was quiet, the Carnival was close at 
 hand, and we were getting ready for a finer 
 theatrical representation than we had ever 
 had before. Some play of Moliere or Reg- 
 nard had been chosen for the framework. 
 The costumes were prepared, the parts 
 distributed, and the violinist engaged, 
 for on that evening we were promised a 
 ball and a supper after the play, with the 
 privilege of sitting up as late as we liked. 
 But a political event, regarded in the 
 convent as a public calamity, put a stop 
 to everything like gayety for the time 
 being.
 
 2io Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 The news of the assassination of the 
 Duke de Berry was told us by the nuns the 
 morning after the murder, with the most 
 sensational comments. Nothing else was 
 talked of for a week. All the details of the 
 Christian, edifying death of the prince, the 
 despair of his young wife, who was said 
 to have cut off her beautiful hair to lay it 
 in his tomb, every circumstance of this 
 royal and domestic tragedy, reported, exag- 
 gerated, amplified, and poetized by royalist 
 newspapers and private correspondence, was 
 talked and cried over every day at re- 
 cess. Almost all the French girls belonged 
 to noble royalist or renegade Bonapartist 
 families. The English pupils of whom 
 there were a great many mourned and 
 sympathized on general principles with the 
 Legitimists ; and to all of us the story of 
 such a tragic death and the woe of an il- 
 lustrious family became as exciting as a 
 tragedy by Corneille or Racine. We did 
 not know that the Duke de Berry had 
 been a brutal and dissipated man ; he was 
 described to us as a second Henry IV., 
 his wife as a saint, and everything else in 
 accordance.
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 2 1 1 
 
 A whole week of grief is a long time for 
 convent school-skirls. One evening some 
 
 O O 
 
 one made a face, another smiled, a third 
 perpetrated a joke, and then we all laughed, 
 rather nervously at first, after so much 
 crying.
 
 212 Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 "DUT gradually we resumed our old 
 *^ habits, and the spring wore away. 
 My grandmother had come to Paris, not in 
 a scolding mood after the good reports she 
 had received of my conduct and improve- 
 ment, and she acknowledged that my simple, 
 natural manners were well suited to a girl 
 of sixteen. She treated me with the great- 
 est kindness; but after a while she seemed 
 troubled. She had been told of my secret 
 wish to become a nun ; and a year before, 
 some friends had written to her to say that I 
 looked miserable, and that I was gloomy and 
 fanatical. These reports did not disturb 
 her much, for she said to herself that such a 
 state of mind was too unnatural to last long ; 
 but now, when she saw me in excellent 
 health and high spirits, putting on no sanc- 
 timonious airs, and yet unaffectedly eager 
 to get back to the convent as soon as pos- 
 sible, she became alarmed, and determined 
 that I should return with her to Nohant.
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 213 
 
 This announcement fell like a thunder- 
 bolt out of a clear sky into my happy life, 
 the most perfect happiness I have ever 
 known. The convent was for me an earthly 
 paradise. I was neither a pupil nor a nun, 
 but something between the two, with abso- 
 lute freedom in a place which I never left, 
 even for a day, without deep regret. No 
 one could have been happier. I was sur- 
 rounded by friends, a recognized leader in 
 all pleasures, and the idol of the little girls. 
 The sisters, seeing me so cheerfully per- 
 sistent in my vocation, began to believe in 
 it themselves, and forbore all opposition. 
 Eliza, the only one who had understood my 
 recent gayety, was convinced that I was 
 thoroughly in earnest, and Sister Helen 
 abated no jot of her enthusiasm. I was 
 sure myself of not being mistaken, and re- 
 mained so long after leaving the convent. 
 
 Madame Alicia and Abbe Premord were 
 the only persons wlio still doubted, prob- 
 ably because they knew me better than 
 any one else. " Entertain this idea, if it 
 makes you happy," each said separately, in 
 almost the same words, " but make no im- 
 prudent vows or secret promises to God ; 
 above all, do not lisp a word to your rela-
 
 214 Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 tives of your determination till you are per- 
 fectly certain that it is irrevocable, till you 
 know positively that it is a permanent and 
 not a transient longing. Your grandmother 
 has set her heart on your marriage. If that 
 does not take place, however, in two or three 
 years, and you still feel as you do now, we 
 can then talk it all over." 
 
 The good Abbe had made it very easy 
 for me to be amiable. At first I had been 
 alarmed at the idea that it would be my 
 bounden duty to use any influence I had 
 with my companions to try and convert 
 them. 
 
 " I hope you will do nothing of the kind," 
 he said one day when I told him what 
 I dreaded. " Never be a bore ; preaching 
 to your companions would be in very bad 
 taste at your age. Be pious and cheerful ; 
 that is all I ask of you. Your example 
 will preach better than any injunctions." 
 
 My excellent old friend was right to a 
 certain extent. It is true that my influ- 
 ence was not bad ; but religion so gayly in- 
 culcated had made the girls very lively, and 
 I am not at all sure that it is an infallible 
 recipe for turning out good Catholics. I 
 myself, however, remained a fervent be-
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 215 
 
 liever, and should always have been so, I 
 think, if I had stayed in the convent; but I 
 was obliged to go away, and forced, more- 
 over, to hide my grief from my grand- 
 mother, who would have been deeply dis- 
 tressed if she had known what pain it 
 caused me to part from all these beloved 
 objects. It nearly -broke my heart. But 
 when the dreaded moment came, I did not 
 shed a single tear. I had had a month 
 to prepare for the separation, and I was 
 so resolved to submit without a murmur, 
 that to my grandmother I seemed calm 
 and contented. But my wretchedness was 
 great, not only then, but for a long time 
 afterwards.
 
 216 Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 T MUST not close this account of my 
 * convent life without recording that I 
 left behind me grief and consternation on 
 account of the death of Madame Canning. 
 Since my conversion I had felt it my duty 
 to show her proper respect, but she never 
 attracted me ; yet I was told that I was one 
 of the last persons she mentioned affection- 
 ately before she died. 
 
 This powerfully organized woman was 
 admirably fitted, in many respects, for the 
 position she held in the convent, over which 
 she had reigned supreme since the time of 
 the Revolution. She left the community 
 in a very prosperous condition, with a large 
 number of pupils, and with social relations 
 that seemed to insure the most desirable 
 kind of patronage. However, from the day 
 of her death there was a decline of pros- 
 perity. Madame Eugenie was immediately 
 chosen as her successor, and if I had re- 
 mained in the convent I should have been
 
 Convent Life of George Sand, 217 
 
 more indulged than ever ; but she had no 
 administrative ability like Madame Can- 
 ning's. I do not know whether it was her 
 fault, or that of her coadjutors; but after 
 a few years she asked permission to retire, 
 and it was gladly granted, for she had 
 either mismanaged, or had been unable to 
 prevent mismanagement. 
 
 There is a fashion in everything in this 
 world, even in convent schools. Ours 
 had been in vogue under the Empire and 
 during the Restoration. The greatest fam- 
 ilies in France were represented there, 
 the Mortimers and Montmorencies, for in- 
 stance, sending their daughters as pupils. 
 Later, the children of those imperial gen- 
 erals who had made their peace at the 
 Restoration were admitted, their parents 
 hoping, doubtless, that they might form 
 aristocratic friendships and alliances. Now, 
 however, had come the turn of " la bour- 
 geoisie ; " and although I heard afterwards 
 some of my grandmother's old friends ac- 
 cuse Madame Eugenie of vulgarizing her 
 convent, I remember perfectly that when 
 I left, shortly after the Superior's death, 
 " le tiers etat " was already represented, 
 greatly to the pecuniary advantage of
 
 218 Convent Life of George Sand. 
 
 the community. In fact, this move was 
 considered at the time the crowning glory 
 of Madame Canning's prosperous rule. 
 
 I had seen our ranks rapidly filled up 
 with a number of charming girls, daugh- 
 ters of merchants and manufacturers, 
 quite as well-bred as the scions of noble 
 houses ; and it was a generally recognized 
 fact that some of them were more intelli- 
 gent than their aristocratic companions. 
 
 It proved to be, however, a short-lived 
 prosperity; the heads of noble families 
 thought that the convent was becoming 
 plebeian, and took away their children. The 
 fashion veered, and the prestige of great 
 names now belonged to the " Sacre Cceur " 
 and the " Abbaye-aux-Bois." Several of 
 my companions were transferred to those 
 convents; and little by little the aristocratic 
 element was eliminated, the old retreat 
 of the Stuarts deserted by the Legitimists. 
 Then, of course, the bourgeois, who had 
 flattered themselves that their children 
 might become intimate with the daugh- 
 ters of the nobility, were chagrined and 
 disappointed ; or perhaps the Voltairean 
 spirit of the reign of Louis Philippe, which 
 had been smouldering ever since the begin-
 
 Convent Life of George Sand. 219 
 
 ning of his predecessor's rule, rendered con- 
 vent education more unpopular. 
 
 However that may be, after a few years 
 I found our convent depopulated, seven 
 or eight little girls only, instead of seventy 
 or eighty pupils; and the empty house 
 seemed given over to silence, instead of the 
 constant stir and occasional tumult of old 
 times. 
 
 Poulette was still at her post, complain- 
 ing loudly of the new Superior, and be- 
 moaning the downfall of their ancient 
 grandeur. 
 
 Later, I think in 1847, some one 
 told me that there were more pupils ; but 
 after this decadence the convent never re- 
 covered its former prestige. 
 
 The change can be accounted for only 
 by supposing that it was one of Fashion's 
 unjust caprices ; for after all, these English 
 nuns were "wise virgins," and in the course 
 of a quarter of a century they could scarcely 
 have lost all that charm which belonged to 
 their kind, gentle, reasonable ways. 
 
 THE END.
 
 Messrs. Roberts Brothers' Publications. 
 
 FAMOUS WOMEN SERIES. 
 
 GEORGE SAND. 
 
 BY BERTHA THOMAS. 
 One volume. 16010. Cloth. Price, $1.00. 
 
 " Miss Thomas has accomplished a difficult task with as much good sense as 
 good feeling. She presents the main facts of George Sand's life, extenuating 
 nothing, and setting naught down in malice, but wisely leaving her reader* to 
 form their own conclusions. Everybody knows that it was not such a life as the 
 women of England and America are accustomed to live, and as the worst of men 
 are glad to have them live. . . . Whatever may be said against it, its result on 
 George Sand was not what it would have been upon an English or American 
 woman of genius." New York Mail and Express. 
 
 " This is a volume of the ' Famous Women Series,' which was begun so well 
 with George Eliot and Emily Bronte. The book is a review and critical analysis 
 of George Sand's life and work, by no means a detailed biography. Amantine 
 Lucile Aurore Dupin, the maiden, or Mme. Dudevant, the married woman, is 
 forgotten in the renown of the pseudonym George Sand. 
 
 " Altogether, George Sand, with all her excesses and defects, is a representative 
 woman, one of the names of the nineteenth century. She was great among the 
 greatest, the friend and compeer of the finest intellects, and Miss Thomas's essay 
 will be a useful and agreeable introduction to a more extended study of her life 
 ind works." Knickerbocker. 
 
 " The biography of this famous woman, by Miss Thomas, is the only one in 
 existence. Those who have awaited it with pleasurable anticipation, but with 
 
 .7CUIC kJAUU Ulal lld.3 TCI UCCll |WUUaUCU* AI1C AUlllUI IIIUUC9I.1V IC1CI3 IU Ik <I3 d 
 
 ketch, which it undoubtedly is, but a sketch that gives a just and discriminating 
 
 itch, which it undoubtedly is, but a sketch that gives a just and discriminating 
 ilysis of George Sand's life, tastes, occupations, and of the motives and impulses 
 ich prompted her unconventional actions, that were misunderstood by a narrow 
 
 UILII prtnupteu Jicr tUHAnivcuiKJWU duuuub, maineie uiiMiuueisiuuu uy A uauuw 
 ublic. The difficulties encountered by the writer in describing this remarkable 
 haracter are shown in the first line of the opening chapter, which says, ' In nam- 
 
 nize the matchless genius of these two extraordinary women, each widely different 
 in her character and method of thought and writing. . .. She has told much that 
 is good which has been untold, and just what will interest the reader, and no more, 
 in the same easy, entertaining style that characterizes all of these unpretentious 
 biographies." Hartford Times. 
 
 Sold everywhere. Mailed, post-paid, on receipt <]f price, by the publishers, 
 
 ROBERTS BROTHERS, Boston.
 
 Messrs. Roberts Brothers' Publications. 
 
 GEORGE SAND IN ENGLISH. 
 
 N A N O N. 
 
 Translated by ELIZABETH WORMELEY LATIMER. 
 
 It is, I think, one of the prettiest and most carefully constructed of her later 
 Aiorks, and the best view of the French Revolution from a rural point of view that 
 I know. Translator. 
 
 " Nanon " is a pure romance, chaste in style and with a charm of sen'iment 
 well calculated to appeal to the most thoughtful reader. George Sand has chosen 
 the epoch of the French Revolution as the scene of this last theme from her pro- 
 lific pen, and she invests the time with all the terrible significance that belongs to 
 it. To the literary world nothing that comes from her pen is unwelcome, the more 
 so as in this instance there is not the least trace of that risky freedom of speech 
 that too often disfigures the best work of the French school of fiction. Nanon 
 will be read with an appreciation of the gifled novelist that is by no means new, 
 and her claim to recognition is made stronger and better by this masterly work. 
 Her admirers and they will be sure not to miss Nanon will feel a debt of 
 gratitude to Elizabeth Wormeley Latimer for a translation that preserves so well 
 the clear, flowing style and the lofty thoughts of the original ; and the publishers, 
 no less than the reading public, ought to consider themselves fortunate in the 
 choice of so competent a translator. The American Hebrew. 
 
 This is among the finest of George Sand's romances, and one who has not 
 made acquaintance wivh her works would do well to choose it as the introductory 
 volume. It belongs; in the list of the best works of that remarkable author, and 
 contains nothing that is objectionable or at all questionable in its moral tone. The 
 scenes are laid among the peasantry of France simple-hearted, plodding, honest 
 people, who know little or nothing of the causes which are fomenting to bring 
 about the French Revolution. She portrays in clear and forcible language the 
 destitute condition of the rural districts, whose people were ignorant, priest-ridden, 
 and oppressed ; and she shows the wretchedness and misery that these poor people 
 were compelled to endure during the progress of the Revolution. The book is one 
 of her masterpieces, by reason of the exquisite delineations of character, the keen 
 and philosophical thought, the purity of inspiration, and the delicacy and refine- 
 ment of style Throughout the story there is a freshness and vigor which only 
 one can feel who has lived at some time in close intimacy with fields and woods, 
 and become familiar with the forms, the colors, and the sounds of Nature. The 
 book has been translated by Elizabeth Wormeley I.atimer, who has performed her 
 task admirably. Public Opinion. 
 
 Mrs. Latimer has achieved marked success in the translation of this charming 
 tale, preserving its purity, its simplicity, and its pastoral beauty. Christian 
 Union. 
 
 One volume, izmo, half Russia, uniform with our edition of " Balzac" 
 and "Sand" novels. Price, $1.50. 
 
 ROBERTS BROTHERS, BOSTON.
 
 GEORGE SAND IN ENGLISH. 
 
 THE BAGPIPERS. 
 
 Translated by Katharine Prescott Wormeley. 
 
 Messrs. Roberts Brothers have begun the publication of a series of 
 novels by George Sand, translated by Katharine Prescott Wornieley, whose 
 versions of Balzac's novels, published by the same enterprising house, have 
 won for her so much deserved repute. The first volume is a translation of 
 ' Les Maitres Sonneurs," under the title " The Bagpipers." The other 
 stories of the series are : " Mauprat," " Antonia," " Monsieur Sylvestre," 
 " The Snow Man," and " The Miller of Angibault." The list includes the 
 best novels of their famous author, and those least reprehensible for their 
 moral tone ; though, even at her very worst, George Sand is mildness itself 
 compared with some who have followed after, beginning where she left off. 
 It is too late to cavil at George Sand as a literary artist. Her rank among 
 the great writers of fiction is assured and permanent. At her best, she 
 towers immeasurably above most of her French contemporaries, and in her 
 special quality of art, is only rivalled abroad by George Eliot, widely 
 diverging though the two writers may be in their views of life. " The 
 Bagpipers " is a charming book, masterly in its delineation of character, and 
 keenly interesting in its philosophy. Grace, delicacy, and refinement of 
 style are mingled in it with power, thought, and world-knowledge, and the 
 passions are depicted with the hand of a master. The translator has done 
 her work with exceptional skill, with perhaps, even closer fidelity to the 
 spirit of her original than she achieved in her Balzac translations. The 
 volumes are printed and bound uniform in size and style with "Balzac's 
 Works," and can scarcely fail to win as large favor as attended the latter. 
 Saturday Evening Gazette. 
 
 It is a spirited story and full of incident, rich in its graphic delineations 
 of positive and interesting personality, and having a lofty moral tone. 
 The charming narratives of fhe loves of these simple, worthy souls, and 
 the sterling manhood and noble womanhood of the principal people in the 
 story, are enough to render the book alike popular and useful. Congre- 
 gation alist. 
 
 One volume, 12mo, half Russia, uniform with Bal- 
 zac's Works. Price, $1.50. 
 
 ROBERTS BROTHERS, Publishers, 
 
 BOSTON, MASS.
 
 GEORGE SAND'S NOVELS. 
 
 The excellence of George Sand, as we understand it, lies in her compr* 
 hension of the primitive elements of mankind. She has conquered her 
 way into the human heart ; and whether it is at peace or at war is the same 
 to her, for she is mistress of all its moods. No woman before ever painted 
 the passions and the emotions with such force and fidelity, and with such 
 consummate art. Whatever else she may be, she is always an artist. 
 Putnam's Magazine. 
 
 Roberts Brothers propose to publish a series of translations of George 
 Sand's better novels. We can hardly say that all are worth appearing in 
 English ; but it is certain that the " better " list will comprise a good many 
 which are worth translating, and among these is " Mauprat,'' though by 
 o means the best of them. Written to show the possibility of constancy 
 in man, a love inspired before and continuing through marriage, it is itself 
 a contradiction to a good many of the popular notions respecting the 
 author, who is generally supposed to be as indifferent to the sanctities 
 of the marriage relation as was her celebrated ancestor, Augustus of 
 Saxony. . . . The translation is admirable. It is seldom that one reads 
 'Such good English in a work translated from any language. Old and. 
 New. 
 
 MAUPRAT. 
 
 ANTONIA. 
 
 MONSIEUR SYLVESTRE. 
 
 THE SNOW MAN. 
 
 THE MILLER OF ANG-IBAULT. 
 
 THE BAGPIPERS. 
 
 NANON. 
 
 7 volumes, i2mo. Half Russia. Uniform in size and style 
 with " Balzac's Works." 
 
 Price, &1.5O per Volume. 
 
 Sold everywhere. Mailed, post-paid, on receipt of the advertised price, 
 by the Publishers, 
 
 ROBERTS BROTHERS, Boston.
 
 Messrs. Roberts Brothers Publications. 
 
 f&omcn g>ttit$. 
 
 MADAME DE STAEL. 
 
 BY BELLA DUFFY. 
 
 One Volume. i6mo. Cloth. Price, $1.00. 
 
 It is a brilliant subject, and handled in a brilliant as well as an intelligent 
 manner. The Independent. 
 
 The biography of this remarkable woman is written in a spirit of candor and 
 fairness that will at once commend it to the attention of those who are seeking 
 the truth. The author is not so much in love with her subject as to lose sight of 
 her faults; nor is she so blind to Madame de Stae'Ps merits as to place confi- 
 dence in the many cruel things that have been said of her by her enemies. 
 The review of Madame de Stael's works, which closes this volume, exhibits 
 rare critical insight ; and the abstract of " Corinne " here given will be wel- 
 comed by those who have never had the patience to wade through this long 
 but celebrated classic, which combines somewhat incongruously the qualities of a 
 novel and an Italian guide-book. In answering the question, Why was not Ma- 
 dime de Stael a greater writer? her biographer admirably condenses a great deal 
 of analytical comment into a very brief space. Madame de Stael was undoubtedly 
 the most celebrated woman of her time, and this fact is never lost sight of in (his 
 carefully written record of her life. Saturday Evening Gazette. 
 
 1 1 treats of one of the most fascinating and remarkable women of history. The 
 name of Madame de Stael is invested with every charm that brilliance of intellect, 
 romance, and magnetic power to fascinate and compel the admiration of men can 
 bestow. Not beautiful herself, she wielded a power which the most beautiful 
 women envied her and could not rival. The story of her life should read like a 
 novel, and is one of the best in this series of interesting books published by 
 Roberts Brothers, Boston. Chicago Journal. 
 
 We have Messrs. Roberts Brothers to thank for issuing a series of biographies 
 upon which entire dependence may be placed, the volumes in the " Famous Wom- 
 en Series" being thus far invariably trustworthy and enjoyable. Certainly the 
 life of Madame de Stael, which Miss Bella Duffy has just written for it, is as good 
 as the best of its predecessors; of each of which, according to our reasoning, the 
 same thing might appropriately be said. Miss Duffy has little to tell of her sub- 
 ject that has not already been told in longer biographies, it is true ; but from a 
 great variety of sources she has extracted enough material to make an excellent 
 study of the great Frenchwoman in a small space, which has never been done 
 before successfully, so far as we know. Considering the size of the book, one 
 marvels at the completeness of the picture the author presents, not only of Ma- 
 dame de Stae'l herself, but of her friends, and of the stirring times in which she 
 lived and which so deeply colored her whole life. Miss Duffy, though disposed 
 to look at her faults rather leniently, is by no means forgetful of them ; she simply 
 does her all the justice that the facts in the case warrant, which is perhaps more 
 than readers of the longer biographies before referred to expect. At the end of 
 the volume is a chapter devoted to the writings of Madame de Stae'l, which is so 
 admirable a bit of literary criticism that we advise the purchase of the book if only 
 for its sake. Ttie Capital, Washington. 
 
 Sold by all booksellers. Mailed, post-paid, on receipt of 
 price, by the publishers, 
 
 ROBERTS BROTHERS, BOSTON.
 
 Messrs. Roberts Brothers' Publications. 
 
 jfamoug f^omen crie0* 
 
 MRS. SIDDONS. 
 
 BY NINA H. KENNARD. 
 One Volume. i6mo. Cloth. Price, $1.00. 
 
 The latest contribution to the " Famous Women Series " gives the life of Mrs. 
 Siddons, carefully and appreciatively compiled by Nina H. Kennard. Previous 
 lives of Mrs. Siddons have failed to present the many-sided character of the great 
 tragic queen, representing her more exclusively in her dramatic capacity. Mrs. 
 Kennard presents the main facts in the lives previously written by Campbell and 
 Bpaden, as well as the portion of the great actress's history appearing in Percy 
 Fitzgerald's " Lives of the Kembles ; " and beyond any other biographer gives the 
 more tender and domestic side of her nature, particularly as shown in her hitherto 
 unpublished letters. The story of the early dramatic endeavors of the little Sarah 
 Kemble proves not (he least interesting part of the narrative, and it is with a dis- 
 tinct human interest that her varying progress is followed until she gains the sum- 
 mit of popular favor and success. The picture of her greatest public triumphs 
 receives tender and artistic touches in the view we are given of the idol of brilliant 
 and intellectual London sitting down with her husband and father to a frugal 
 home supper on retiring from the glare of the footlights. Commonwealth. 
 
 We think the author shows good judgment in devoting comparatively little 
 space to criticism of Mrs. Siddons's dramatic methods, and giving special at- 
 tention to her personal traits and history. Hers was an extremely interesting 
 life, remarkable no less for its private virtues than for its public triumphs. Her 
 struggle to gain the place her genius deserved was heroic in its persistence and 
 dignity Her relations with the authors, wits, and notables of her day give 
 occasion for much entertaining and interesting anecdotical literature. Herself free 
 from humor, she w-as herself often the occasion of fun in others. The stories of 
 her tragic manner in private life are many and ludicrous. . . . The book abounds 
 in anecdotes, bits of criticism, and pictures of the stage and of society in a very 
 interesting transitional period. Christian Union. 
 
 A fitting addition to this so well and so favorably known series is the life of the 
 wonderful actress, Sarah Siddons, by Mrs. Nina Kennard. To most of the pres- 
 ent generation the great woman is only a name, though she lived until 1831 ; but 
 the present volume, with its vivid account of her life, its struggles, triumphs, and 
 closing years, will give to such a picture that is most lifelike. A particularly 
 
 Eleasant feature of the book is the way in which the author quotes so copiously 
 pm Mrs. Siddons's correspondence. These extracts from letters written to 
 friends, and with no thought of their ever appearing in print, give the most 
 spontaneous expressions of feeling on the part of the writer, as well as her own 
 account of many events of her life. They furnish, therefore, better data upon 
 which to base an opinion of her real personality and character than anything 
 else could possibly give. The volume is interesting from beginning to end, 
 and one rises from its perusal with the warmest admiration for Sarah Siddons 
 because of her great genius, her real goodness, and her true womanliness, shown 
 in the relations of daughter, wife, and mother. Modern actresses, amateur or 
 professional, with avowed intentions of "elevating the stage," should study 
 this noble woman's example; for in this direction she accomplished more, prob- 
 ably, than any other one person has ever done, and at greater odds. ^V. E. 
 Journal of Education.. 
 
 Sold by all booksellers. Mailed, post-paid, on receipt of 
 price, by the publishers. 
 
 ROBERTS BROTHERS, BOSTON.
 
 Messrs, Roberts Brothers Publications. 
 FAMOUS WOMEN SERIES. 
 
 THE COUNTESS OF ALBANY. 
 
 BY VERNON LEE. 
 One volume. 16mo. Cloth. Price 81.00. 
 
 "It is no disparagement to the many excellent previous sketches to say that 
 : The Countess of Albany,' by Vernon Lee, is decidedly the cleverest of the series 
 of biographies of ' Famous Women,' published in this country by Roberts Brothers 
 Boston. In the present instance there is a freer subject, a little farther removed 
 from contemporary events, and sufficiently out of the way of prejudice to admit of 
 a lucid handling. Moreover, there is a trained hand at the work, and a mind 
 not only familiar with and in sympathy with the character under discussion, but 
 also at home with the ruling forces of the eighteenth century, which were the forces 
 that made the Countess of Albany what she was. The biography is really dual, trac- 
 ing the life of Alfieri, for twenty-five years the heart and soul companion of the 
 Countess, quite as carefully as it traces that of the fixed subject of the sketch." 
 Philadelphia Times. 
 
 " To be unable altogether to acquiesce in Vernon Lee's portrait of Louise of 
 Stolberg does not militate against our sense of the excellence of her work. Her 
 pictures of eighteenth-century Italy are definite and brilliant. They are instinct 
 with a quality that is akin to magic." London Academy. 
 
 "In the records of famous women preserved in the interesting series which 
 has been devoted to such noble characters as Margaret Fuller, Elizabeth Fry, and 
 George Eliot, the life of the Countess of Albany holds a unique place. Louise of 
 Albany, or Louise R., as she liked to sign herself, possessed a character famed, 
 not for domestic virtues, nor even for peculiar wisdom and creative power, but 
 rather notorious for an easy-going indifference to conventionality and a worldly 
 wisdom and cynicism. Her life, which is a singular exponent of the false ideas 
 prevalent upon the subject of love and marriage in the eighteenth century, is told 
 by Vernon Lee in a vivid and discriminating manner. The biography is one of 
 the most fascinating, if the most sorrowful, of the series." Boston Journal. 
 
 " She is the first really historical character who has appeared on the literary 
 horizon of this particular series, her predecessors having been limited to purely 
 literary women. This brilliant little biography is strongly written. Unlike pre- 
 ceding writers German, French, and English on the same subject, the author 
 does not hastily pass over the details of the Platonic relations that existed between 
 the Countess and the celebrated Italian poet ' Alfieri.' In this biography the 
 details of that passionate friendship are given with a fidelity to truth, anda knowl- 
 edge of its nature, that is based upon the strictest and most conscientious inves- 
 tigation, and access to means heretofore unattainable to other biographers. The 
 history of this friendship is not only exceedingly interesting, but it presents a 
 Fascinating psychological study to those who are interested in the metaphysical 
 aspect of human nature. The book is almost as much of a biography of Alfieri' 
 as it is of the wife of the Pretender, who expected to become the Queen of Eng- 
 land." Hartford Times. 
 
 Sold by all booksellers. Mailed, postpaid, on receipt of 
 the price, by the publishers, 
 
 ROBERTS BROTHERS, BOSTON.
 
 Messrs. Roberts Brothers' Publications. 
 
 jTamous SEomen 
 
 RACHEL. 
 
 By Mrs. NINA H. KENNABD. 
 One Volume. 16mo. Cloth. Price, $1.00. 
 
 "Rachel, by Nina H. Kennard, is an interesting sketch of the famous 
 woman whose passion and genius won for her an almost unrivalled fame as 
 an actress. The story of Rachel's career is of the most brilliant success in 
 art and of the most pathetic failure in character. Her faults, many and 
 grievous, are overlooked in this volume, and the better aspects of her nature 
 and history are recorded." Hartford Coitrant. 
 
 " The book is well planned, has been carefully constructed, and is 
 pleasantly written." The Critic. 
 
 " The life of Mile. FJisa Rachel Felix has never been adequately told, 
 and the appearance of her biography in the ' Famous Women Series ' of 
 Messrs. Roberts Brothers will be welcomed. . . . Vet we must be glad the 
 book is written, and welcome it to a place among the minor biographies ; 
 and because there is nothing else so good, the volume is indispensable to 
 library and study." Boston Evening Traveller. 
 
 "Another life of the great actress Rachel has been written. It forms 
 part of the ' Famous Women Series,' which that firm is now bringing out, 
 and which already includes eleven volumes. Mrs. Kennard deals with her 
 subject much more amiably than one or two of the other biographers have 
 done. She has none of those vindictive feelings which are so obvious in 
 Madame B.'s narrative of the great tragedienne. On the contrary, she 
 wants to be fair, and she probably is as fair as the materials which came into 
 her possession enabled her to be. The endeavor has been made to show us 
 Rachel as she really was, by relying to a great extent upon her letters. . . . 
 A good many stories that we are familiar with are repeated, and some are 
 contradicted. From first to last, however, the sympathy of the author is 
 ardent, whether she recounts the misery of Rachel's childhood, or the splen- 
 did altitude to which she climbed when her name echoed through the world 
 and the great ones of the earth vied in doing her homage. On this account 
 Mrs. Kennard's book is a welcome addition to the pre-existing biographies 
 of one of the greatest actresses the world ever saw." N. Y. Evening 
 Telegram. 
 
 
 
 Sold everywhere. Mailed postpaid, by the Publishers, 
 
 ROBERTS BROTHERS, BOSTON
 
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