The Dream Lover (27 page)

He had said that even though he did not find me attractive, that I was not beautiful or even pretty, there was nonetheless something appealing about my matter-of-fact nature, my directness. He told me, “I was, of course, not serious when I first said you should be my
wife, but something happened when I said the words—a sudden thought that this really should be so. And then when I came to call on you and found such ease in your company, the idea that we should make a life together only grew stronger.”

I thought of how he teased me about what he called my exaggerated reactions to everything, how he said that he had never seen the use for such passion. It was true that my emotions brought me to the highest heights, but they also brought me to my knees in agony. Perhaps Casimir was right in saying that an easy friendship, and not passion, was the way to domestic happiness. James and Angèle seemed to enjoy that kind of friendship, and their marriage was far more harmonious than my parents' stormy relationship, which, while full of romance, had also been full of screaming matches that rattled the skull.

Marrying Casimir would not be the ideal of my girlish daydreams, but it would be better than returning to live with my mother, and I knew I could not stay with James and Angèle forever. And so the next morning, I told Casimir yes, have my mother meet with your father; let us see if she will agree to our marriage.

“
I
T'S TOO BAD IT'S NOT
the old colonel himself who is asking for your hand,” my mother said, after she came to Le Plessis and met privately with Casimir's father. “I am impressed by his gentleness and his reputation, and he is, as well, quite handsome. Very handsome, indeed. It's nothing to sneeze at, if your husband is good-looking. It makes a difference in ways you do not yet understand.” She and I were ensconced in my room, where she was going to deliver her verdict.

“You do not find Casimir handsome?”

“My dear. First of all, his nose is far too long; it slides down his face as if intent on escaping it. His ears are too womanish, and the flesh on his face has a kind of doughy quality. He will not hold on
to his hair. So no, I do not find him good-looking. Ah, Aurore, I had hoped for a handsome son-in-law to take my arm.”

“And so you refused him?”

“No, I did not. I accepted because I knew you wanted me to.” She looked coyly at me. “But! It was done very cleverly, in such a way as to give me room to change my mind.”

My mother stayed for a few days, testing Casimir in various ways, though she called it getting to know him. Finally, she agreed that in two weeks, after Casimir's stepmother, Baroness Dudevant, had returned home from where she had been visiting her family, a date for the wedding would be set. Until then, all of us were to spend more time together. All of us except my mother, who raced back to the noise and the hurry of the Paris streets.

But in a few days, she was back at Le Plessis, screaming at the top of her lungs that she had been deceived. She pointed a finger at Casimir. “You have misrepresented yourself! You are a waiter!”

Casimir was dumbfounded and could not speak. None of us could, at first, and then I finally said, “Maman, have you had a dream?” Her dreams sometimes remained so powerful and realistic that she could not separate them from reality.

She did not answer, only stood glaring at Casimir, awaiting an answer.

Finally he recovered enough to defend himself. “First of all, madame,” he said, in a calm voice that I knew would only anger her more, “there is no shame in being a waiter. But I have never been one. I would never have had time! I finished military school, went into the army, and then lived with my father while I got my law degree. I am sorry to disagree with you, but I was never a waiter.” He began to laugh, he couldn't help himself, and then we all did. I was relieved that he could laugh rather than be frightened away from me by such behavior.

My mother was enraged; her nostrils flared, and the color rose high on her face. She pulled me aside and spoke from between her
teeth: “This household is not what you think! Your precious James arranges marriages only so that he can collect a hefty fee! As for his wife, she has no morals; you see how her household is wild.”

There was nothing to do when my mother got like this; reason would not prevail. And so I said I would return to Paris with her, right now; I would go up and pack and we would leave immediately. Together, we would get all the information we could about Casimir.

This calmed her down considerably, and she said, “Oh, never mind—you stay here, since you like it so well. But do nothing until I have done more investigating.”

Eventually my mother gave in and designed a marriage contract. The terms stipulated that my husband would control my fortune, which was usual. What was unusual was that I would retain it; it would be legally recognized as mine. The contract also stipulated that I was to have an annual personal allowance of three thousand francs. Casimir agreed to it, and we were married.

Immediately afterward, we left for Nohant. Deschartres was overjoyed to see me, and I him.
Finally
, I thought,
my happiness begins
.

June 1833

LOINTIER'S RESTAURANT

104 RUE RICHELIEU

PARIS

L
élia was in proofs when Gustave Planche invited me to a dinner that François Buloz, the editor of the
Revue des Deux Mondes
, was giving for regular contributors. In an amusing turn of events, I was seated next to Alfred de Musset, the man Sainte-Beuve had wanted me to meet but whose introduction I had declined.

After we introduced ourselves to each other, he said, “Ah, George Sand! I know of you, of course, but I have not yet had the pleasure of reading your work.”

“Nor I yours,” I said and took a sip of wine.

He stared into his own glass, and I was glad for the opportunity to look closely at him. He was very handsome, possessed of a high forehead, thick and curly brown hair with hints of blond that made it seem lit from within, a well-formed nose and mouth, and light blue eyes that one had difficulty looking away from. He had a habit of lowering his lids when he looked at you, which made for a simultaneous disquieting and hypnotic effect. He wore a swallowtail coat with a high velvet collar and pearl-gray pants that did not require one to use any imagination to picture what lay beneath. He carried a swagger stick and wore his top hat at a rakish angle over one ear. A dandy, indeed. As for me, I had worn a black silk skirt and jacket, a plain outfit offset by a small jeweled dagger in a gold sheath, which I had tied at my waist and believed to be very stylish.

Alfred,
vicomte
de Musset, was charming. He was also polite, an interested listener who gave way for opinions beyond his own, and he had a great wit. He told me he called Sainte-Beuve “Madame Pernelle,” and in spite of my fondness for my old friend, I had to laugh, for when he wasn't looking like a child trapped in a man's
body, Sainte-Beuve did rather resemble the silly old lady in Molière's
Tartuffe
.

Mostly, though, Musset and I spoke seriously and most sincerely, and he refrained from the profanities he was known to lace his speech with. We discussed politics, various pieces that had lately appeared in the
Revue
, and then moved on to relationships, though in a largely superficial way. Each of us was asking, I suppose, if we were committed to anyone else. I told him I had gotten off on the wrong foot with men and preferred to live my life as an independent woman, offering only friendship to men; he told me that he had sought pleasure over love.

“If it would please you, I could send you a copy of
Contes d'Espagne et d'Italie
,” he said, in a shy way that endeared him to me. I had heard of his book, a collection of poems and sketches that had been very well reviewed.

“I would welcome the opportunity to read it,” I said, and it was true. I could never get enough of good poetry, and Sainte-Beuve was not the only one who thought Musset divine.

I gave him my address, and each line I wrote set my heart to beating faster.

“Perhaps I shall deliver it myself,” he said. “Tomorrow evening?”

“I work in the evenings.”

“In the morning, then.”

“I'm afraid I sleep quite late, as I often work through the night.”

“I see.” He was embarrassed now, and a silence fell between us.

Finally: “Come at one in the afternoon,” I said.

“There, you see? I knew you would let me come!”

I laughed. “How did you know?”

“Ah, George,” he said, leaning nearly imperceptibly toward me. “Your eyes are portals.”

T
HE NEXT DAY
, I awakened early: around noontime. After breakfast, I inspected my wardrobe to see what might be interesting to
wear. I settled on a pair of harem pants and a loose-fitting red silk robe that had a habit of falling open. With this I wore a pair of backless slippers that were considered very daring. Never mind that my heart was not fully repaired from the devastation I'd suffered at the hands of Marie; I was still a passionate woman whose soul thrived on a certain kind of stimulation. Besides, Marie and I had resumed enough of a friendship that I was not entirely without her; in fact, I had every intention of telling her every detail about this meeting with Musset.

He arrived promptly at one. He had wrapped his book in beautiful marbled paper and anchored upon it a single red rose.

I thanked him, then ushered him in. I could see that he was very much intrigued by my outfit—not to say stimulated, if his widened eyes and sudden nervousness were any indication. I saw, too, a fine trembling in his hands.

I asked if he would like to smoke some Egyptian tobacco with me. He declined but said he would be happy to sit with me while I enjoyed it. And so I gave him a chair, then sat at his feet with my hookah, drawing in smoke and blowing it up toward the ceiling.

I said nothing, nor did he, for long moments at a time. When we did talk, we spoke of last night's dinner, of the various people who had attended it with us. We talked, as well, about the beauty of the chestnut trees, which were flowering, and I told him that at Nohant I loved to lie beneath those trees and think. On the pretext of deciding that he would like to try the tobacco after all, he came to sit on the floor beside me. I offered him my pipe, he took a puff, and pronounced the tobacco very good indeed. Then, expressing keen interest in my Oriental slippers, he reached out a finger to trace the raised design on the fabric. Ever so slowly, with his eyes locked on mine, he slid a finger in to stroke the arch of my foot. I felt a rush of longing that, were I not seated, might have knocked me over.

And then: a rapping on the door. Surprised, I went to open it and found Gustave Planche, who had come to call on me, as he often did. We would sometimes lunch together in a café, fueling rumors
that we were lovers, though in all candor Planche's problems with hygiene would never have allowed me to be intimate with him. Still, one had to give him his due: he was a genius not only as a critic, but as a person with the perceptive skills of an artist. He had remarkable insight into a number of things, including the look on Musset's face when he came to the door behind me. “I was just leaving,” Musset said, and Planche stepped quickly aside, so that he might pass.

After he had gone, I glared at Planche.

“Come, now, you can't be serious,” he said.

I said nothing.

“You? He can even have
you
? George, I beg you, do not be so stupid as to join that bunch of vapid and immoral women who fall mewling at his feet.”

“I have work to do,” I told Planche, pushing him out the door.

Later that day, a note was delivered to me from Musset. He had read
Indiana
and said he must have more of me as soon as possible. I made arrangements for him to receive the proofs of
Lélia
, which would be published in a few days, though I knew full well that what he wanted more of was not just my words. But Planche's reaction had given me pause. I would wait awhile to see Musset again.

A week later, I received a note from Musset praising
Lélia
to the skies. He also added this:

You have nothing to offer but a chaste love, and that is something I can give to no one. But I can, if you think me worthy, be to you—perhaps not a friend, for even that sounds too chastely in my ears—but an inconsequent comrade, who makes no claims and will therefore be neither jealous nor quarrelsome, but will smoke your tobacco, crumple your négligées, and catch a cold in the head as a result of philosophizing with you under all the chestnut trees of contemporary Europe
.

I wrote back that I would receive him that evening at eight for dinner, so long as he departed by ten, when I would begin work.

That night, when he arrived, I escorted him to my table, where candles burned in spite of the still-light summer sky. We started to sit down, and then he cried out, “I cannot continue with…I must tell you all that is in my heart.”

He stood trembling while I stared at him, astonished but, it must be admitted, flattered as well.

I took him by the hand, led him to the living room, sat in a chair, and gestured for him to sit opposite me. But he remained standing before me, his hands clenched at his sides. “I cannot work. I think of nothing but you!” Then, startling me, he fell to his knees and began weeping. I reached out to touch his shoulder, and he put his head on my lap, his arms around my waist, and sobbed.

I thought about what I might say to him. I knew his father had died in last year's cholera epidemic and that he and his older brother were dependent on their mother for an income that had been substantially reduced. I was sympathetic to the kind of pressure he must be under to make his writing pay. I decided to tell him that the best thing to do was to try to not think about it, to make his writing a kind of chapel, a sacred place to which he did not admit anything but his imagination. I wanted to soothe him into a calmer state, to offer again to be his friend, even a kind of mother substitute who could give him comfort, advice, companionship, and the occasional roasted chicken. For as much as I enjoyed the eroticism I had felt with him so far, I thought it best to go no further.