An Uncertain Reception

Margaret Fuller suffers mauvaise honte before visiting

George Sand

NAPLES, March 17, 1847

T last, however, she [George Sand] came; and

AT

I went to see her at her house, Place d'Orleans. I found it a handsome modern residence. She had not answered my letter, written about a week before, and I felt a little anxious lest she should not receive me; for she is too much the mark of impertinent curiosity, as well as too busy, to be easily accessible to strangers. I am by no means timid, but I have suffered, for the first time in France, some of the torments of mauvaise honte, enough to see what they must be to many.

It is the custom to go and call on those to whom you bring letters, and push yourself upon their notice; thus you must go quite ignorant whether they are disposed to be cordial. My name is always murdered by the foreign servants who announce me. I speak very bad French; only lately have I had sufficient command of it to infuse some of my natural spirit in my discourse. This has been a great trial to me, who am eloquent and free in my own tongue, to be forced to feel my thoughts struggling in vain. for utterance.

The servant who admitted me was in the picturesque costume of a peasant, and, as Madame Sand afterward told me, her god-daughter, whom she had brought from her province. She announced me as "Madame Salere," and returned into the ante-room to tell me, "Madame says she does not know you.” I began to think I was doomed to a rebuff, among the crowd who deserve it. However, to make assurance sure, I said, "Ask if she has not received a letter from me." As I spoke, Madame S. opened the door, and stood looking at me an instant.

Our eyes met. I never shall forget her look at that moment. The doorway made a frame for her figure; she is large, but well-formed. She was dressed in a robe of dark violet silk, with a black mantle on her shoulders, her beautiful hair dressed with the greatest taste, her whole appearance and attitude, in its simple and ladylike dignity, presenting an almost ludicrous contrast to the vulgar caricature idea of George Sand. Her face is a very little like the portraits, but much finer; the upper part of the forehead and eyes are beautiful, the lower, strong and masculine, expressive of a hardy temperament and strong passions, but not in the least coarse; the complexion olive, and the air of the whole head Spanish, (as, indeed, she was born at Madrid, and is only on one side of French blood.) All these details I saw at a glance; but what fixed my attention was the expression of goodness, nobleness, and power, that pervaded the whole, - the truly human heart and nature that shone in the eyes. As our eyes met, she said, "C'est vous," and held out her hand. I took it, and went into her little study; we sat down a moment, then I said, "Il me fait de bien de vous voir," and I am sure I said it with my whole heart, for it made me very happy to see such a woman, so large and so developed a character, and everything that is good in it so really good. I loved, shall always love her.

She looked away, and said, "Ah! vous m'avez écrit une lettre charmante." This was all the preliminary of our talk, which then went on as if we had always known one another. . .

Her way of talking is just like her writing, — lively, picturesque, with an undertone of deep feeling, and the same skill in striking the nail on the head every now and then with a blow.

We did not talk at all of personal or private matters I

Cigarette Smoking

saw, as one sees in her writings, the want of an independent, interior life, but I did not feel it as a fault, there is so much in her of her kind. I heartily enjoyed the sense of so rich, so prolific, so ardent a genius.

I liked the woman in her, too, very much; I never liked a woman better.

I forgot to mention, that, while talking, she does smoke all the time her little cigarette. This is now a common practice among ladies abroad, but I believe originated with her.

George Bancroft holds familiar intercourse with General Moltke

I1

I

(To C. E. Detmold)

BERLIN, 29 December, 1868

HAVE just come in from my ride; the sun bright, the earth free from frost, the temperature at 45 or more of Fahrenheit, and so it has been for the last fortnight. This too in the latitude of the Southern part of Labrador, with the night 16 h. 25' long and the sun during the short day stealing along the southern edge of the horizon. My companion is often General Moltke, who is very nearly the same age as myself. Three weeks ago I was riding with him, we passed a Count who looked older than either of us. "He looks," said Moltke, " much older than he is; he has used his body more than his mind." We fell upon the question whether men as they come near their end would like to begin the battle of life anew. "Who," said the General, "would live his life over again? I would not mine. The old story of the Hindoo philosopher is true, when he said this life is a punishment for

transgressions committed under an earlier form of being." All this he spoke deliberately and emphatically, and this man is one of the two most honoured men in Germany. As we passed along, every one took off his hat and bowed to him; as we passed a restaurant a crowd filled the window to greet him as he rode by. It seemed as if every eye that saw him gave him a blessing, and every voice was raised to bear witness to him; and yet life had for him no attractions; and the thought of renewing it on earth was one from which he shrunk with horror.

...

II

(To Mrs. J. C. Bancroft Davis)

January 2, 1869 TODAY in my ride I came in sight of General

Moltke with whom I have formed habits of friendship. The day before Christmas his wife "After twenty-seven years of happiest married life," as he himself said, died after a short and terribly painful illness. To have forced myself on him might have been an intrusion, to turn away from him my heart forbade. So I rode up to him, turned my horse and accompanied. He is called the silent; with me he talks much and with openness. A moment or two we walked our horses in silence: I only have expressed my grief in the fewest but very sincere words. Presently he observed: "The attack was severe; the best physicians, the most careful treatment were of no avail; it was not possible to save her life." We went on and again he spoke: "I have taken her to Creisau (his place in Silesia) and have placed her in the church (which was on his estate) buried under the palms and wreaths of flowers that were heaped upon her. I have selected a spot on high ground, commanding a beautiful view: and then in the spring I shall build a vault to receive her" (and the

A Happy Married Life

thought not uttered was, to receive himself too when he should come to die); "She was so much younger than I," said he, "she should have outlived me; but when that was spoken of, she used to say, that she had no desire to survive me long." I said repeating his words: "Twentyseven years of happiest married life are a great blessing." "Thank God for all that," he answered and then spoke of her illness. She had charged him if danger of life came, he should tell her of it, that they might once more partake of the Abendmahl (the Lord's supper) together. "After all," said he, "perhaps she died opportunely to escape terrible trials. Happy in the moment of her death, in so far as she left her country in repose and happiness. Who knows what disaster may arise? Who knows what mad scheme Beust may conjure up? Thank God you Americans at least are truly our friends." Moltke holds the post which throws upon him all the anxiety and responsibility of keeping the Prussian Army ready to take the field at an instant, if Napoleon should suddenly engage in carrying out his ambitious plans of aggrandisement for France.

Moltke held out his hand, and pressed mine cordially, as he left the park for home. I prolonged my ride and presently Count Bismarck trotted past me; just as he had gone by me he recognized me and turned to speak with me. He was looking for his daughter and presently she came in sight, well mounted, attended by another young lady and by her brother and a large group of gay companions. We turned to go home, as it was now late; just then the King in a light open carriage drove past, and as he greeted us most smilingly, looked amazed to see a crowd of riders together. Bismarck began and talked on the branches of the great German family, and proved us all to be Saxons. .