The Dream Lover (46 page)

“Ah. I was beautiful then.”

I leaned closer. “You are more beautiful now than ever, because you are more revealed.”

I saw her close her eyes in peace; I saw her soul materialize like a thin white vapor, then rise. I saw myself closing my own eyes, and then opening them to a world that was forevermore without Marie Dorval. I saw myself kiss her forehead, her cheeks, her mouth, each knuckle on each hand. And then I left her to the heavens.

It was this fantasy, finally, that let me breathe.

I would have done anything, if it could have kept her. Then and now. But there was no holding on to her, any more than one can hold on to a setting sun. Yet in my imagination, at least, I was beside her as she left this life, the last thing she saw and touched.

I stood, lit a lamp, and made my way to the kitchen, because I was hungry. I did not want to be, but I was.

A few days later, I was delivered a letter Marie herself had written. She must have known her time was short. The note was brief, and the handwriting labored. It said, “In our time, I gave you all I could, and more than you know. Now the curtain closes. Live with the perfect memory of what we shared and be glad that we suffered no disappointments in each other, that we had only love. My darling, be happy!”

If we are pained by memories of what we have loved and lost, then we are also gifted by them. I think often of how, in the years that followed our night at Nohant, there were times when fire still passed between us. Her eyes beneath her bonnet, a deliberate swish of her skirt, a certain hesitation in her gait when she passed by me. And there is this: Whenever I stand before the Indre, it is not only the river I see. It is Marie Dorval, naked upon the bank, preparing herself to come to me.

Be happy!

I move toward the music and the lights in the house, toward those I love and who love me.

A stitch in my side, a sharp pain. I gasp and hold tightly to the branch of a tree, wait until the pain passes, and go on.

June 8, 1876

NOHANT

I
t is difficult to speak. For weeks now, something has raked at my insides; sometimes I cannot help but cry out. Last night I said to those gathered round my bedside, “Farewell, I am dying.” But here I still am.

It is early morning; outside, the sky is dark and the trees move dramatically in the wind. Soon a storm will come. I want to live to
see it. This is the way of nature: to persuade us around one more bend, to beckon us to behold one more vista.

I close my eyes and try to move my thoughts from my pain to the memory of the things I so loved witnessing here: the furrows of turned earth, the sun-shot clearings in the forest, the winding rivers, the canvas of the skies, the minute architecture of the wildflowers. And always the birds. And always the green. Green! It is the color of hope given by God to His children—all of them: the long dead, the living, those yet to be born.

The need to speak rises up so powerfully in me it is as though something has pushed hard against my spine. I feel my midsection rise; my shoulders press back against the pillows.

“It hurts her so!” I hear Solange say, weeping, and I open my eyes to look at her. It is not pain, I want to tell her. It is not pain; I am beyond pain now. I try to speak and fail; only my lips move. I try again, and she leans closer.
“Laissez verdure,”
I whisper.
Keep the greenery
. Incomplete, but all I can manage now.
Laissez verdure:
Let nature inspire and sustain you, and comfort you to the end. It is the truest sacrament, and—I see it now—the only perfect love.

I lean back, and a great peace comes to me. A widening. A settling. And then I am there.

It is Solange who closes my eyes, the bitterness between us at last departed, even as my soul has.

June 10, 1876

NOHANT

T
he peasant women have come to my grave site, and they kneel in the wet grass. I see their lips moving as they say the rosary, I hear their murmurs and their weeping, their cries of despair. If only I could lift their hearts as mine has been lifted, in my passing. My darling Flaubert, sobbing so he can scarcely breathe, his shoulders
hunched, rainwater running down his back. Now comes Paul Meurice, reading the words sent by Victor Hugo:

I weep for the dead and I salute the deathless. Can it be said that we have lost her? No. Great figures such as she may disappear—they do not vanish. Far from it. One might almost say that they take on a new reality. By becoming invisible in one form, they become visible in another. Sublime transfiguration. The human form eclipses what is within, masking the true, the divine visage, which is the “idea.” George Sand was an “idea.” She has been released from the flesh, and now is free. She is dead, and now is living.

A nightingale sings. I turn toward the heaven in its breast, and am gone.

And so, what of it all? What of me and my passions and personas, my great loves and failures of love, my writing, my politics? What of the clanging opinions, the endless queries as to the whys and wherefores of how I chose to conduct myself? In the end, there is but one answer to every question, whether it is spit at me or made as gentlest inquiry: I was I.

W
riters approach historical fiction in different ways. Many are like Dutch realist painters, exacting in conveying characters' features and personality traits, in detailing dates and sequences of events, and in attempting to paint things exactly as they were. My approach was more that of an Impressionist, someone wanting to get enough of a sense of one reality in order to create another.

When I began doing research for this book, I was struck by the number of inconsistencies I found about the life of George Sand. The image said to be her on more than one cover of a book about her is, in fact, that of her son, Maurice. Amid the many biographies I read I found disagreements about the date of her birth, when events occurred, how and why and when—and even if—she said or did or felt certain things, and when and where her books were written. One scholarly text gave her birthplace as Nohant, when in fact she did not arrive there until she was four years old. I found different orderings and spellings of her given name, which was Amantine-Lucile-Aurore, if you go by her own words and those inscribed on her tombstone. Some writers say it is obvious that George Sand and Marie Dorval were lovers; others categorically deny it. Even things in her autobiography are suspect: about certain facts she presented in
Histoire de Ma Vie
(
Story of My Life
) regarding
her grandmother's first marriage, one biographer wrote that there was not a word of truth in it.

Such discrepancies are the bane of the nonfiction writer and bliss for the novelist: they left me free to pick and choose among the delicious “facts” of Sand's life in order to imagine a story, to occasionally make minor modifications in the time line, and to use my own instincts in interpreting the meaning of certain events or statements.

I consulted and am particularly indebted to two excellent books:
Story of My Life: The Autobiography of George Sand
, edited by Thelma Jurgrau, which in 1991 was masterfully translated by a great number of people into a 1,184-page book so that George Sand's own words about her life could at last be available in English; and
Lélia: The Life of George Sand
, by André Maurois, translated by Gerard Hopkins. I am also indebted to George Sand herself, whose beautiful words are woven throughout the manuscript.

Most of the events in this novel are based on those I read about: some are my creation, but all of them serve to support my major premise, which is that George Sand was an extraordinary (in the truest sense of the word) human being whose raison d'être was love, and who loved most deeply—and tragically—another woman.

I suppose anyone who reads in depth about George Sand falls a little in love with her. I certainly did. I hope that in this fictional portrayal—my dream of her, in essence—I have left her her mystery and given her at least part of her due. Readers seeking further information about the “real” George Sand may be interested in reading one of the many biographies about her or, even better, her books.

I
t is old news by now to say that a book is not brought forth by just one person. Certainly that was the case for
The Dream Lover
, and there are a number of people to whom I would like to offer my heartfelt thanks. First and foremost among these is my editor, Kate Medina, who responded so enthusiastically when I first expressed my interest in writing a novel about George Sand. Many months later, when I was quite certain
—quite
certain—that I wanted to abandon the project, she said exactly the right thing to keep me going. Kate knows books, she knows authors, and she knows how to do her job in the most admirable and elegant way possible. She should wear a crown when she comes to work every day. In my mind, she does.

Kate's assistant Derrill Hagood is unfailingly kind, patient, and perceptive, and she has done me so many favors that were I to list them all, this book would be twice as long. Thank you, Derrill, for the way I can always count on you. Your kind of dependability is a rare and wonderful thing in today's world.

My agent, Suzanne Gluck, sent me emails letting me know exactly how far into the manuscript she was and how she was feeling about it the first time she read it, and she felt no compunction to tone down her positive response. Her energy, intelligence, creativity, and happy nature are appreciated, and I feel lucky indeed to
be represented by her. When people ask who my agent is, I lengthen the syllables in her name just to enjoy sharing the information longer.