She preferred the ups and downs of the writer's profession to the measured life of the mistress of the estate. Her works were dominated by the ideas of freedom and humanism, and passions raged in her soul. While readers idolized the novelist, advocates of morality considered Sand the personification of universal evil. Throughout her life, Georges defended herself and her work, shattering ossified ideas about how a woman should look like.

Childhood and youth

Amandine Aurora Lucile Dupin was born on July 1, 1804 in Paris, France. The father of the writer - Maurice Dupin - comes from a noble family, who preferred an idle existence military career. The novelist's mother, Antoinette-Sophie-Victoria Delaborde, the bird-catcher's daughter, had a bad reputation and made a living by dancing. Due to the origin of the mother, aristocratic relatives did not recognize Amandine for a long time. The death of the head of the family turned Sand's life upside down.

Madame Dupin (the grandmother of the writer), who had previously refused to meet with her granddaughter, recognized Aurora after the death of her beloved son, but common language I found it with my fiancee. There were often conflicts between women. Sophie Victoria was afraid that after another quarrel, the elderly countess, to spite her, would deprive Amandine of her inheritance. In order not to tempt fate, she left the estate, leaving her daughter in the care of her mother-in-law.

Sand's childhood cannot be called happy: she rarely communicated with her peers, and her grandmother's maids showed her disrespect at every opportunity. The writer's social circle was limited to the elderly countess and teacher Monsieur Deschartres. The girl wanted a friend so badly that she invented him. Faithful companion The Aurors were named Corambe. This magical creature was both an adviser, a listener, and a guardian angel.

Amandine was very upset by the separation from her mother. The girl saw her only occasionally, coming with her grandmother to Paris. Dupin sought to keep Sophie-Victoria's influence to a minimum. Tired of overprotection, Aurora decided to escape. The countess found out about Sand's intention and sent her granddaughter out of hand to the Augustinian Catholic monastery (1818-1820).

There the writer got acquainted with religious literature. Misinterpreting the text Holy Scripture, an impressionable person for several months led an ascetic lifestyle. Identification with Saint Teresa led to the fact that Aurora lost sleep and appetite.

Portrait of George Sand in his youth

It is not known how this experience could have ended if the abbe Premor had not brought her to her senses in time. Due to decadent moods and constant illnesses, Georges could no longer continue her studies. With the blessing of the abbess, the grandmother took her granddaughter home. The fresh air did Sand good. After a couple of months, there was no trace of religious fanaticism.

Despite the fact that Aurora was rich, smart and pretty, in society she was considered a completely unsuitable candidate for the role of a wife. The base origin of the mother made her not quite equal in rights among aristocratic youth. Countess Dupin did not have time to find a groom for her granddaughter: she died when Georges was 17 years old. Having read the works of Mably, Leibniz and Locke, the girl was left in the care of an illiterate mother.

The gulf formed during the separation between Sophie Victoria and Sand was unreasonably large: Aurora loved to read, and her mother considered this activity a waste of time and constantly took away books from her; the girl aspired to a spacious house in Nohant - Sophie-Victoria kept her in a small apartment in Paris; Georges grieved for her grandmother - the former dancer now and then showered the deceased mother-in-law with dirty curses.

After Antoinette failed to force her daughter to marry a man who aroused extreme disgust in Aurora, the enraged widow dragged Sand to the monastery and threatened her with imprisonment in a dungeon cell. At that moment, the young writer realized that marriage would help her free herself from the oppression of a despotic mother.

Personal life

Even during his lifetime, Sand's amorous adventures were legendary. Spiteful critics attributed to her novels with the entire literary beau monde of France, arguing that because of the unrealized maternal instinct, the woman subconsciously chose men much younger than her. There were also rumors about the writer's love affair with her friend, actress Marie Dorval.

A woman who had a huge number of admirers was married only once. Her husband (from 1822 to 1836) was Baron Casimir Dudevant. In this union, the writer gave birth to a son, Maurice (1823) and a daughter, Solange (1828). For the sake of the children, the spouses who were disappointed in each other tried to save the marriage to the last. But intransigence in outlook on life turned out to be stronger than the desire to raise a son and daughter in a complete family.

Aurora did not hide her loving nature. She was in an open relationship with the poet Alfred de Musset, a composer and virtuoso pianist. Relations with the latter left a deep wound in the soul of Aurora and are reflected in the works of Sand "Lucrezia Floriani" and "Winter in Mallorca".

Real name

The debut novel Rose and Blanche (1831) is the result of Aurora's collaboration with Jules Sandeau, a close friend of the writer. Collaboration, like most of the feuilletons published in the Le Figaro magazine, was signed by their common pseudonym - Jules Sand. The writers also planned to write the second novel "Indiana" (1832) in co-authorship, but due to illness, the novelist did not take part in creating the masterpiece, and Dudevant personally wrote the work from cover to cover.

Sando categorically refused to publish a book under a common pseudonym, in the creation of which he had nothing to do. The publisher, in turn, insisted on preserving the cryptonym with which readers were already familiar. Due to the fact that the novelist's family was against putting their names on public display, the writer could not be published under her real name. On the advice of a friend, Aurora replaced Jules with Georges, and left her surname unchanged.

Literature

The novels published after Indiana (Valentina, Lelia, Jacques) placed George Sand in the ranks of democratic romantics. In the mid-1930s, Aurora was fascinated by the ideas of the Saint-Simonists. The works of the representative of social utopianism Pierre Leroux (“Individualism and Socialism”, 1834; “On Equality”, 1838; “Refutation of Eclecticism”, 1839; “On Humanity”, 1840) inspired the writer to write a number of works.

Maupra (1837) denounced romantic rebellion, while Horace (1842) debunked individualism. belief creative possibilities ordinary people, the pathos of the national liberation struggle, the dream of art serving the people, permeate Sand's dilogy - "Consuelo" (1843) and "Countess Rudolstadt" (1843).

In the 1940s, Dudevant's literary and social activities reached their peak. The writer participated in the publication of left-republican magazines and supported working poets, promoting their work (“Dialogues on the Poetry of the Proletarians”, 1842). In her novels, she created a whole gallery of sharply negative images of representatives of the bourgeoisie (Bricolin - "The Miller from Anzhibo", Cardonnet - "The Sin of Monsieur Antoine").

During the years of the Second Empire, anti-clerical sentiments appeared in Sand's work (a reaction to the policies of Louis Napoleon). Her novel Daniella (1857), which attacked the Catholic religion, caused a scandal, and the newspaper La Presse, in which it was published, was closed. After that, Sand moved away from social activities and wrote novels in the spirit of early works: The Snowman (1858), Jean de la Roche (1859) and The Marquis de Vilmer (1861).

The work of George Sand was admired by both, and, and, and Herzen, and even.

Death

Aurora Dudevant spent the last years of her life on her estate in France. She took care of children and grandchildren who loved to listen to her fairy tales (“What the Flowers Talk About”, “The Talking Oak”, “Pink Cloud”). Toward the end of her life, Georges even earned the nickname "the good lady of Nohant."

The legend of French literature passed into oblivion on June 8, 1876 (at age 72). Sand's cause of death was intestinal obstruction. The eminent writer was buried in the family vault in Nohant. Dudevant's friends - Flaubert and Dumas son - were present at her burial. Upon learning of the death of the writer, the genius of the poetic arabesque wrote:

“I mourn the dead, I salute the immortal!”

The literary heritage of the writer is preserved in collections of poems, dramas and novels.

Among other things, in Italy, director Giorgio Albertazzi based on Sand's autobiographical novel "The Story of My Life" made a TV movie, and in France, the works "Beautiful gentlemen from Bois Doré" (1976) and "Maupra" (1926 and 1972) were filmed. .

Bibliography

"Melchior" (1832)
"Leone Leoni" (1835)
"Younger Sister" (1843)
"Koroglu" (1843)
"Karl" (1843)
"Joan" (1844)
"Isidora" (1846)
"Teverino" (1846)
"Mopra" (1837)
Mosaic Masters (1838)
"Orko" (1838)
Spiridion (1839)
"The sin of Monsieur Antoine" (1847)
Lucrezia Floriani (1847)
Mont Reves (1853)
"Marquis de Wilmer" (1861)
"Confessions of a Young Girl" (1865)
Nanon (1872)
"Grandma's Tales" (1876)

When I was little, I was very tormented that I could not make out what the flowers were talking about. My botany teacher assured me they didn't talk about anything. I don't know if he was deaf or hiding the truth from me, but he swore that flowers don't talk at all.

Meanwhile, I knew it wasn't. I myself heard their indistinct babble, especially in the evenings, when the dew was already setting. But they spoke so quietly that I couldn't make out the words. In addition, they were very distrustful, and if I walked through the garden between the flower beds or across the field, they whispered to each other: “Shh!” Anxiety seemed to be conveyed throughout the row: "Shut up, otherwise a curious girl is eavesdropping on you."

But I got my way. I learned to step so carefully so as not to touch a single blade of grass, and the flowers did not hear how I came close to them. And then, hiding under the trees so that they would not see my shadow, I finally understood their speech.

I had to exert all my attention. The flowers had such thin, gentle voices that the breath of a breeze or the buzzing of some nocturnal moth completely drowned them out.

I don't know what language they spoke. It was neither French nor Latin, which I was taught at the time, but I understood it perfectly. It even seems to me that I understood it better than other languages I know.

One evening, lying on the sand, I managed not to utter a word of what was said in the corner of the flower garden. I tried not to move and heard one of the field poppies speak:

Gentlemen, it's time to put an end to these prejudices. All plants are equally noble. Our family is second to none. Let anyone recognize the rose as a queen, but I declare that I have had enough, and I do not consider anyone entitled to call himself more noble than I.

I don't understand what the rose family is so proud of. Tell me, please, is the rose more beautiful and slimmer than me? Nature and art combined to increase the number of our petals and make our colors especially bright. We are undoubtedly richer, since the most luxurious rose has many, many two hundred petals, while ours has up to five hundred. And such shades of purple and even almost of blue color, like ours, a rose will never achieve.

- I'll tell myself, - intervened a brisk bindweed, - I'm Prince Delphinium.

Sky blue is reflected in my aureole, and my numerous relatives own all pink overflows. As you can see, the notorious queen can envy us in many ways, and as for her vaunted aroma, then ...

Oh, don’t talk about it, - the field poppy interrupted with fervor. - I'm just annoyed by the eternal rumors about some kind of aroma. Well, what is the aroma, please tell me? A conventional concept coined by gardeners and butterflies. I find that roses have an unpleasant smell, but I have a pleasant one.

We do not smell of anything, - said the astra, - and by this we prove our decency and good manners. The smell indicates indiscretion or boastfulness. A self-respecting flower will not hit you in the nose. It's enough that he's handsome.

- I disagree with you! - exclaimed the terry poppy, which was distinguished by a strong aroma.

Smell is a reflection of mind and health.

But, not paying attention to them, he began to criticize the shape and color of the rose, which could not answer - all the rose bushes had been pruned shortly before, and on the young shoots only small buds appeared, tightly tied together with green twine.

Richly dressed pansies spoke out against double flowers, and since double flowers prevailed in the flower garden, general displeasure began.

However, everyone was so envious of the rose that they soon made up with each other and began to vied with each other to ridicule her. It was even compared with a head of cabbage, and they said that a head of cabbage, in any case, is both thicker and more useful. The nonsense I listened to made me impatient, and stamping my foot, I suddenly spoke in the language of flowers:

There was a deep silence, and I ran out of the garden.

I'll see, I thought, maybe wild flowers are smarter than these swaggering garden plants, which receive artificial beauty from us and at the same time seem to be infected by our prejudices and mistakes.

Under the shade of the hedge, I made my way to the field. I wanted to know if the spirits, who are called the queens of the field, are just as proud and envious.

On the way, I stopped near a large wild rose, on which all the flowers were talking.

I must tell you that during my childhood there were not yet numerous varieties of roses, which were subsequently obtained by skillful gardeners through coloring. Nevertheless, nature did not deprive our area, where a variety of roses grew wild. And in the garden we had a centifolia - a rose with a hundred petals; her homeland is unknown, but her origin is usually attributed to culture.

For me, as for everyone then, this centifolia represented the ideal of the rose, and I was not at all sure, like my teacher, that it was only the product of skillful gardening. From books, I knew that even in ancient times, the rose delighted people with its beauty and its aroma. Of course, at that time they did not know the tea rose, which no longer smells like a rose, and all these lovely breeds, which now diversify to infinity, but, in essence, distort the true type of rose. They began to teach me botany, but I understood it in my own way. I had a delicate sense of smell, and I certainly wanted the aroma to be considered one of the main signs of a flower. My teacher, who snuffed tobacco, did not share my hobby. He was sensitive only to the smell of tobacco, and if he sniffed any plant, then he assured me later that it tickled his nose.

I listened with all my ears to what the wild rose was talking about above my head, since from the very first words I understood that it was about the origin of the rose.

Stay with us, dear breeze, - the rosehip flowers said. - We have blossomed, and the beautiful roses in the flowerbeds are still sleeping in their green shells. Look how fresh and cheerful we are, and if you shake us a little, then we will have the same delicate aroma as our glorious queen.

Shut up, you are only children of the north. I'll chat with you for a minute, but don't think of being equal to the queen of flowers.

Dear breeze, we respect and adore her, - rosehip flowers answered. - We know how other flowers envy her. They assure us that the rose is no better than us, that it is the daughter of the wild rose and owes its beauty only to tinting and care. We ourselves are uneducated and do not know how to object. You are older and more experienced than us. Tell me, do you know anything about the origin of the rose?

As same, with it connected and my own history. Listen and never forget it!

That's what the breeze said.

In those days, when earthly creatures still spoke the language of the gods, I was the eldest son of the king of storms. With the tips of my black wings I touched the opposite points of the horizon. My huge hair was intertwined with clouds. My appearance was majestic and formidable. It was in my power to collect all the clouds from the west and spread them in an impenetrable veil between the Earth and the Sun.

For a long time, with my father and brothers, I reigned over a barren planet. Our task was to destroy and destroy everything. When my brothers and I rushed from all sides to this helpless and small world, it seemed that life could never appear on the formless block, now called the Earth. If my father felt tired, he lay down to rest on the clouds, leaving me to continue his destructive work. But inside the Earth, which still retained immobility, there was hidden a mighty divine spirit - the spirit of life, which aspired outward and one day, breaking mountains, pushing seas apart, collecting a heap of dust, made its way. We redoubled our efforts, but only contributed to the growth of innumerable creatures, which, due to their small size, eluded us or resisted us by their very weakness. On the still warm surface of the earth's crust, in crevices, in the waters, flexible plants, floating shells appeared. In vain we drove furious waves at these tiny creatures. Life constantly appeared in new forms, as if a patient and inventive genius of creativity decided to adapt all the organs and needs of beings to the environment we are overwhelmed with.

We began to get fed up with this resistance, seemingly so weak, but in fact insurmountable. We destroyed entire families of living creatures, but in their place others appeared, more adapted to the struggle, which they successfully withstood. Then we decided to gather with the clouds to discuss the situation and ask our father for new reinforcements.

While he was giving us his orders, the Earth, briefly rested from our persecution, managed to be covered with many plants, among which myriads of animals of the most diverse breeds moved, looking for shelter and food in huge forests, on the slopes of mighty mountains or in clear waters. huge lakes.

Go, - said the king of storms, my father. “Look, the Earth has dressed up like a bride about to marry the Sun. Separate them. Collect huge clouds, blow with all your might. Let your breath uproot the trees, flatten the mountains, stir up the seas. Go and don't come back until at least one living being, at least one plant remains on this accursed Earth, where life wants to settle in defiance of us.

We went to sow death in both hemispheres. Splitting the cloudy veil like an eagle, I rushed to the countries Far East, where, on the sloping lowlands, descending to the sea under a sultry sky, gigantic plants and fierce animals are found among strong moisture. I had a rest from my former fatigue and now I felt an unusual rise in strength. I was proud to bring destruction to weak creatures who dared not succumb to me the first time. With one flap of my wing I swept an entire area clean, with one breath I dug out an entire forest and madly, blindly rejoiced that I was stronger than all the mighty forces of nature.

Suddenly I smelled an unfamiliar aroma and, surprised at this new sensation, I stopped to figure out where it came from. Then for the first time I saw a creature that appeared during my absence, a gentle, graceful, lovely creature - a rose!

I rushed to crush her. She bent down, lay down on the ground and said to me:

Have pity on me! After all, I'm so beautiful and meek! Breathe in my fragrance, then you will spare me.

I inhaled her fragrance - and a sudden intoxication softened my rage. Dropping to the ground beside her, I fell asleep.

When I woke up, the rose had already straightened up and stood, swaying slightly from my calm breathing.

with myself. I want to look closely at the sun and clouds. I put the rose on my chest and flew. But soon it seemed to me that she was dying. From exhaustion, she was no longer able to talk to me, but her scent continued to delight me. Fearing to destroy her, I flew quietly over the tops of the trees, avoiding the slightest jolt. Thus, with precautions, I reached the palace of dark clouds, where my father was waiting for me.

What do you need? - he asked. - Why did you leave the forest on the shores of India? I can see him from here. Come back and destroy him quickly.

All right, - I answered, showing him a rose. - But let me leave

you are a treasure that I want to save.

“Stay with the flowers under the shadow of the forests,” the spirit told me. - Now these green vaults will shelter and protect you. Subsequently, when I manage to defeat the fury of the elements, you will be able to fly around the whole Earth, where you will be blessed and sung. And you, beautiful rose, you were the first to disarm anger with your beauty! Be a symbol of the coming reconciliation of the now hostile forces of nature. Teach also future generations. Civilized peoples will want to use everything for their own purposes. My precious gifts - meekness, beauty, grace - will seem to them almost inferior to wealth and strength. Show them, dear rose, that there is no higher power than the ability to enchant and reconcile. I give you a title that no one will dare to take away from you forever and ever. I proclaim you the queen of flowers. The kingdom I establish is divine and works only by charm.

From that day on, I lived peacefully, and people, animals and plants fell in love with me passionately. Due to my divine origin, I can choose my place of residence anywhere, but I am a devoted servant of life, which I promote with my beneficent breath, and do not want to leave the dear Earth where I am kept by my first and eternal love. Yes, dear flowers, I am a true admirer of the rose, and therefore your brother and friend.

In that case, give us a ball! - exclaimed the wild rose flowers. - We will have fun and sing the praises of our queen, the rose of the east with a hundred petals. The breeze stirred its pretty wings, and lively dances began over my head, accompanied by the rustle of branches and the rustle of leaves, which replaced tambourines and castanets. Some of the wild roses tore their ball gowns out of infatuation and showered their petals on my hair. But this did not stop them from dancing further, singing:

Long live the beautiful rose, who defeated the son of the king of storms with her meekness! Long live the good breeze, the remaining friend of flowers!

When I told my teacher everything I heard, he said that I was sick and that I should be given a laxative. However, my grandmother helped me out and told him:

I am very sorry for you if you yourself have never heard what flowers are talking about. I would like to go back to the times when I understood them. This is the property of children. Do not mix properties with ailments!

Perhaps more than in other European countries, her works were read, reveled in and inspired by them in Russia. "George Sand is, undoubtedly, the first poetic glory modern world”, - wrote V. G. Belinsky in 1842. “George Sand is one of our saints,” said I. S. Turgenev in the year of her death.

She was born on July 1, 1804, a month after the wedding of her parents, an adjutant to a Napoleonic general and an actress. Grandmother of Aurora, daughter of Moritz of Saxony - illegitimate son Polish king, for almost four years she did not want to recognize this unequal marriage and the granddaughter born from him. She softened only when the baby managed to accidentally put her on her knees. Suddenly she recognized the beautiful eyes of her son and was subdued ...

Unfortunately, the family idyll did not last long. When the girl was four years old, her father died after falling from an unbroken horse. And his widow, leaving her little daughter in the care of her grandmother, went to Paris. Aurora loved both her mother and grandmother equally, and the gap between them caused her the first serious pain.

Grandmother made an excellent musician out of her granddaughter and instilled in her a love of literature. At the age of fourteen, Aurora was sent to the boarding school of the Augustinian monastery, where girls from the most noble families of France were educated. All the teachers were English, and for the rest of her life Aurora retained the habit of drinking tea, speaking and even thinking in English.

George Sand as a child

She returned home to Noan an educated, deeply religious girl, and a wealthy heiress. Outwardly, Aurora looked like a Creole: swarthy, with large black eyes and thick hair. Large teeth and a slightly protruding chin did not spoil her face at all.

“As a child,” she said, “I promised to be very beautiful. I didn’t keep my promise, perhaps because at that age when beauty blooms, I already spent my nights reading and writing.”

Contemporaries portray her as a woman of short stature, of a dense build, with a gloomy expression on her face, an absent-minded look, yellow skin and premature wrinkles on her neck...

Unlike most of her peers, Aurora enjoyed almost unlimited freedom. She went hunting and rode in a man's costume, learned from her tutor the secrets of managing the estate, freely met with young people. Old Madame Dupin died when her granddaughter was only seventeen.

A year later, with her friends in Paris, the young owner Noana met artillery lieutenant Casimir Dudevant. Being ten years older than her, he did not differ in particular beauty, but was considered, as they say, "a kind fellow." Aurora fell in love with him as the embodiment of masculinity. In September 1822, Aurore Dupin de Franquenay became Baroness Dudevant.

Her husband treated women in a very simplistic way, especially since he was used to dealing with maids and milliners. The feelings of his beloved were of little interest to him. So for the young baroness, six months after the wedding, nothing mattered except the unborn child. At nineteen she gave birth to a son, Maurice.

And having recovered from childbirth, she realized with amazement that she was unlikely to find peace and peace of mind in marriage, which she had counted on so much. Her husband did not disregard any maid in the house. And once Casimir hit his wife ... The marriage of two people gave a serious crack.

There is evidence that it was Aurora's studies in literature (due to a constant lack of funds, she took up translations and began to write a novel, which was subsequently thrown into the fire) that contributed to family quarrels. Casimir's stepmother, having learned that Aurora intended to publish her writings, was furious and insisted that the name Dudevant never appear on any of the books. And she didn't really show up...

At one of the picnics, Aurora met a fragile, with an aristocratic appearance, blond Jules Sando, who fell madly in love with a young woman. "Kid" Sando fully personified her dreams of Prince Charming- a child and a lover at the same time.

The province turned a blind eye to the connection between the owner of Noan and the young Parisian. But the fact that Baroness Dudevant rushed after her lover to the capital was unheard of! According to one version, her husband gave her several hundred francs from her own state- an amount that was barely enough for the first days of his stay in Paris.

In order to get rid of the cost of women's outfits, Aurora began to wear a men's suit ... She herself washed and ironed linen, she herself took her daughter, little Solange, born, as they said, from one of her lovers. The husband, coming to Paris, certainly visited Aurora and appeared with her in the theater. In the summer, she returned to Noan for several months, mainly to see her beloved son ...

Aurora brought to the capital the novel "Aime", written back in Nohant, but the manuscript was rejected by the publishers. Then she managed to penetrate the journalistic world of Paris in order to earn some pennies. A little later, she dragged Jules along with her - their articles were signed like this: J. Sando. The novel Rose and Blanche was also published under the same name.

After another trip to Nohant, Aurora returned with a new manuscript - it was "Indiana". Shocked Jules (the beloved clearly surpassed his talent!) refused to sign the work, the creation of which he had nothing to do with. So the pseudonym of Aurora was born: George Sand.

The novel was a resounding success. And its author had already prepared the next one - "Valentina" - and several stories. Communication with Sando continued, although it obviously weighed on both. First of all, the writer, who began to be annoyed by the constantly tired, whimpering, sickly Jules. And here, at one of the parties, she met the famous actress Marie Dorval and her friend Alfred de Vigny, who opened the world of bohemian circles in Paris for yesterday's provincial. She was noticed. Chateaubriand predicted to her that she would become the "Byron of France".

In the personal life of George Sand, everything was not easy. Prosper Merime, a writer of great talent and no less cynicism, courted her for about two years. Subsequently, he claimed that Aurora's lack of modesty killed all desire in him. She cried after his departure - from grief, disgust, hopelessness.

And then a man entered her life, equal to her in talent: Alfred de Musset - a child spoiled by women and fame, a man fed up with champagne, opium and prostitutes.

“When I saw her for the first time,” he later recalled, “she was in a woman’s dress, and not in an elegant man’s suit, with which she so often disgraced herself. And she also behaved with a truly feminine grace, inherited from her noble grandmother. Traces of youth still lay on her cheeks, her magnificent eyes shone brightly, and this brilliance under the shadow of thick dark hair made a truly enchanting impression, striking me to the very heart. On the forehead lay the seal of infinity thoughts. She spoke little, but firmly.

Musset recalled that he was, as it were, reborn under the influence of this woman, that neither before nor after she had ever experienced such an enthusiastic state, such outbursts of love and happiness ...

First, the lovers went on a romantic trip to Italy. The Aurora regime remained the same: eight hours of work a day. Day or night, she invariably covered twenty sheets of paper with her large handwriting. Her tormented lover was getting rough. “Dreamer, fool, nun” - these are his most innocent attacks on his girlfriend.

The weeks spent in Venice became a nightmare for George Sand. The disease chained her to bed, while Musset was clearly weary of her. He left the hotel for a long time in search of entertainment in the city. When she felt better and got up, Musset suddenly fell ill. Doctors suspected brain inflammation or typhus.

Aurora fussed around the patient day and night, without undressing and hardly touching her food. Then the third character of the drama appeared on the stage - Pietro Pagello, a twenty-six-year-old doctor. It was he who became the next chosen one of the writer ...

After some time, Aurora decided to divorce her husband in order to gain the long-awaited freedom. Friends introduced her to the lawyer Louis Michel. For the first time in her life, George Sand was dealing with a more strong-willed person than herself. Curiosity soon grew into passion.

But when Michel achieved a favorable outcome of the divorce proceedings, the relationship between the lovers began to cool rapidly. Georges had to beg for every date... Finally her patience ran out.

... At the end of the 1820s, when Aurora Dudevant had not yet thought about literary activity, she was dominated by the sentimental tradition of Jean-Jacques Rousseau and women's novels. She spoke of "sensitive hearts", considered love to be the highest occupation and happiness of a person.

Then, in the 1830s, she was attracted to the psychological novel, which at that time was intensely preached by Stendhal. Hundreds of works were written by her in forty-five years of continuous work - novels, short stories, journalistic and critical articles, memoirs ...

In her work, George Sand gave the main place to the female fate. Indiana, Valentina, Lelia, Lavinia, Consuelo, the heroines of "Leone Leoni" or "André" - they are all better and higher than their spouses or lovers, despite the fact that they are humiliated and insulted and suffer from selfishness, cowardice or villainy of men.

Relatively early world recognition came to her. Letters flew from all over Europe ... Russian, Italian, Polish, Hungarian writers, public figures thanked, expressed their admiration.

Almost inhuman intensity creative work required extreme mental and physical exertion. After a short sleep - a desk, household chores, activities with children, viewing manuscripts sent from all over the country with requests to read, correct, print. There was always not enough money: it was necessary to help everyone - friends, acquaintances and strangers, novice writers, peasants of the district.

“You ask if I work,” she wrote to one of her correspondents. “Of course, yes, because I still exist in the world.”

Secretaries sometimes helped in the household and in correspondence, teachers were hired for children and grandchildren, but excessive work caused insomnia, from which neither cigarettes nor medicines helped. And there were all sorts of personal troubles, ranging from verbal and printed slander to tactless interference in her domestic affairs by her daughter Solange, who turned into a beautiful woman and an inventive intriguer.

... Many books have been written about George Sand's last great love. The subject of her passion and adoration was the young Polish pianist, brilliant composer Fryderyk Chopin. He was only seven years younger than her, but Aurora treated him with almost motherly tenderness. Chopin showed himself not too sophisticated in love affairs, although the "child" was already twenty-eight years old.

George Sand and Frederic Chopin

And the "aging" seductress - thirty-four! Their relationship lasted seven years. During the "Chopin" period, she wrote one of her best works - the novel "Consuelo", imbued with a great passion for music and art.

For all his angelic appearance, the blue-eyed Fryderyk had by no means an easy character. George Sand had to maneuver between his suspiciousness, Maurice's filial jealousy and Solange's evil whims. The latter went so far that, to the great delight of provincial gossipers, she openly flirted with Chopin and deftly pitted Fryderyk against her frivolous brother.

A suffocating atmosphere of quarrels firmly reigned in Nohant. As a result, the composer left for Paris. But even there, Solange, who married a famous sculptor, stubbornly turned Chopin against her mother, attributing countless lovers to her.

Last meeting- completely random - happened in the living room of mutual friends. The writer, full of remorse, approached her former lover and held out her hand to him. Chopin's handsome face turned pale. He recoiled and left the room without saying a word. Fryderyk died a year and a half later...

It is authentically known: after him, George Sand did not love anyone. True, there were other attachments in her life. For fifteen years, from forty-five to sixty, she lived quietly and peacefully with Alexander Manso, who was thirteen years younger than her and also (again!) in poor health.

With age, Mrs. Sand from a "lark" turned into an "owl" and got up no earlier than four in the afternoon. Close friends, former lovers, even a beloved grandson left forever. Gone to another world and Alexander Manso. For five months, Georges did not leave the dying man for a single day - he died in her arms ... Manso was replaced by the artist Charles Marshal, whom Georges called "my fat child."

George Sand

What do the flowers say

When I was a child, my dear Aurora, I was very worried that I could not catch the conversation of flowers. My botany professor assured me they didn't say anything, whether he was deaf or didn't want to tell me the truth, but he insisted that the flowers didn't say anything. I was sure otherwise. I could hear them whispering shyly, especially when the evening dew fell on them, but, unfortunately, they spoke too softly for me to make out their words, and then they were incredulous. When I walked through the garden near the flower beds or along the path past the hayfield, some kind of sh-sh-i was heard in the air throughout the space, this sound ran from one flower to another and seemed to want to say: “Let's take care, we'll shut up! Beside us is a child who listens to us.” But I insisted on my own: I tried to walk so quietly that not a single grass stirred under my steps. They calmed down, and I moved closer and closer. Then, so that they would not notice me, I bent down and went under the shade of the trees. Finally, I managed to overhear a lively conversation. It was necessary to concentrate all your attention, because they were such gentle voices, so pleasant and subtle that the slightest fresh breeze, the buzzing of large butterflies or the flight of moths, completely hid them.

I don't know what language they spoke. It was neither French nor Latin, which I was then taught, but somehow I understood it well. It even seemed to me that I understood this language much better than any other that I had hitherto heard. One evening, in a hidden corner, I lay down on the sand, and I managed to listen very clearly to the whole conversation going on around me. A hum was heard throughout the garden, all the flowers spoke at once, and it did not take much curiosity to learn more than one secret at a time. I remained motionless - and this is how the conversation went among the field red poppies.

Gracious sovereigns and sovereigns! It's time to end this nonsense. All plants are equally noble, our family is not inferior to any other - and therefore let whoever wants to recognize the primacy of the rose, as for me, I repeat to you that I am terribly bored with all this, and I do not recognize the right of anyone else be considered better than me in their origin and title.

To this the daisies all answered at once that the orator, the field red poppy, was absolutely right. One of the daisies, which was bigger and more beautiful than the others, asked to speak.

I never understood, she said, why the Rose Society assumes such an important air. Why exactly, I ask you, is the rose better and more beautiful than me? Nature and art alike took care to multiply our petals and enhance the brightness of our colors. On the contrary, we are much richer, because the best rose will have no more than two hundred petals, while we have up to five hundred. As for the color, we have purple and pure blue - exactly the kind that the rose does not have.

And I, - said the big Cavalier Spur with fervor, - I am Princess Delphinia, I have the azure of heaven on my corolla, and my numerous relatives have all pinkish shades. The imaginary queen of flowers can envy us a lot, but as for her vaunted smell ...

I beg you, do not tell me about this, - the field red poppy interrupted her. “Smelling bragging gets on my nerves. What is smell? Explain to me please. You may, for example, think that a rose smells bad, but I smell sweet...

We don’t smell of anything,” said the daisy, “and by this, I hope, we set an example of good tone and taste. Perfume is a sign of indiscretion and vanity. A plant that respects itself does not make itself felt by smell: its beauty is enough for it.

I do not share your opinion! - exclaimed poppy, from which it smelled strongly, - perfume is a sign of health and mind.

The fat poppy's words were covered in laughter. The carnation held on to its sides, and the mignonette even fainted. But instead of getting angry, he began to criticize the shape and colors of the rose, which could not defend itself, because all its bushes were pruned, and on new shoots there were only small buds tightly wrapped in their green diapers. Luxuriously dressed Pansies terribly attacked double flowers, but since they made up the majority in the flower garden, they began to get angry. The jealousy that the rose aroused in everyone was so great that everyone decided to ridicule and humiliate her. Pansies had the most success - they compared the rose to a large head of cabbage and preferred the latter for its size and usefulness. The stupid things I had to hear drove me to despair, and I, grumbling, spoke in their language:

Shut up! I screamed, pushing those stupid flowers with my foot. - For all the time you did not say anything smart. I thought to hear among you the wonders of poetry, oh, how cruelly deceived I am! You disappoint me with your rivalry, vanity and petty jealousies.

There was a deep silence, and I withdrew from the flower garden. "Let's see," I said to myself, "perhaps wild plants have more sublime feelings than these educated talkers who, having received beauty from us, also borrowed our prejudices and our falsity." I slipped through the shady hedge and headed for the meadow, I wanted to know if the meadowsweet, which was called the queen of the meadows, was just as envious and proud. But I stopped beside a large wild rose, on which all the flowers spoke together.

“I’ll try to find out,” I thought, “whether the wild rose blackens the capital rose and whether it despises the terry rose.”

I must tell you that when I was a child, then there were no such diverse breeds of roses that scientific gardeners have since bred by grafting and transplanting, but nature was not poorer for this. Our bushes were full of various kinds of roses in the wild, these were: rose hips, which was considered a good remedy for the bite of rabid dogs, cinnamon rose, musk rose, rubiginous, which was considered one of the beautiful roses, blue-headed rose, felt, alpine and so on and other. In addition to these, we had other beautiful varieties of roses in our gardens, which are now almost lost; they were: striped - red and white, which had few petals, but had a bright yellow stamen with the smell of bergamot; this rose is very hardy and was not afraid of either a dry summer or a harsh winter; small and large double roses, now rare; and the little May rose, the earliest and most fragrant, is now almost never sold; the Damascus or Provence rose, which has been very useful to us and which we can now only find in the south of France; finally, the capital rose, or, rather, a rose with a hundred petals, whose homeland is unknown and which is usually referred to as grafted. This capital rose was for me, as for many others, the ideal rose, and I was not sure, as my professor was sure, that this monstrous rose owed its origin to the art of gardeners. I read from my poets that the rose was a model of beauty and fragrance in ancient times. In all likelihood, they did not then know about the existence of our tea rose, which does not smell at all, and about those lovely varieties of our day that have so changed the rose that it completely lost its true type. Then I was taught botany, but I understood it in my own way. I had a keen sense of smell, and I wanted the smell to be the hallmark of the flower. My professor, who snuffed tobacco, didn't want to take my word for it. He felt only the smell of tobacco, and when he sniffed some other plant, he began to sneeze endlessly.

And so, sitting by the hedge, I heard very distinctly the wild roses talking over my head. From their first words, I understood that they were talking about the origin of the rose.

Stay here, meek marshmallow! Look how we have blossomed! The lovely roses of the flower beds are still sleeping, wrapped in their green buds. Look how fresh and cheerful we are, and if you shake us a little, we will spread the same fragrance everywhere as our famous queen.

I heard the Zephyr answer them:

Shut up, you children of the north; I will gladly talk to you a little, but you do not even think to be equal to the queen of flowers.

Sweet Zephyr! We respect and love her, - answered the wild rose flowers in one voice, - and we know how other flowers of the garden envy her. They regard her as no higher than we are, and say that she is the daughter of a wild rose, and owes her beauty to the gardener's care and grafting. We are ignorant and do not know how to speak. You, who came to earth before us, tell us real story roses.

I will tell it to you, - answered the marshmallow, - because it is my own story. Listen and never forget.

And Zephyr said the following.

What do the flowers say

I had to exert all my attention. The flowers had such thin, gentle voices that the breath of a breeze or the buzzing of some nocturnal moth completely drowned them out.

One evening, lying on the sand, I managed not to utter a word of what was said in the corner of the flower garden. I tried not to move and heard one of the field poppies speak:

I don't understand what the rose family is so proud of. Tell me, please, is the rose more beautiful and slimmer than me? Nature and art combined to increase the number of our petals and make our colors especially bright. We are undoubtedly richer, since the most luxurious rose has many, many two hundred petals, while ours has up to five hundred. And such shades of lilac and even almost blue, like ours, a rose will never achieve.

I'll tell myself, - the brisk bindweed intervened, - I am Prince Delphinium. Sky blue is reflected in my aureole, and my numerous relatives own all pink overflows. As you can see, the notorious queen can envy us in many ways, and as for her vaunted aroma, then ...

I don't agree with you! - exclaimed the terry poppy, which was distinguished by a strong aroma. - The smell is a reflection of the mind and health.

The voice of the terry poppy was drowned out by friendly laughter. The carnations held on to their sides, and the mignonette swayed from side to side. But, not paying attention to them, he began to criticize the shape and color of the rose, which could not answer - all the rose bushes had been pruned shortly before, and on the young shoots only small buds appeared, tightly tied together with green twine.

Richly dressed pansies spoke out against double flowers, and since double flowers prevailed in the flower garden, general displeasure began. However, everyone was so envious of the rose that they soon made up with each other and began to vied with each other to ridicule her. It was even compared with a head of cabbage, and they said that a head of cabbage, in any case, is both thicker and more useful. The nonsense I listened to made me impatient, and stamping my foot, I suddenly spoke in the language of flowers:

Shut up! You are all talking nonsense! I thought to hear the wonders of poetry here, but, to my extreme disappointment, I found in you only rivalry, vanity, envy!

There was a deep silence, and I ran out of the garden.

Under the shade of the hedge, I made my way to the field. I wanted to know if the spirits, who are called the queens of the field, are just as proud and envious. On the way, I stopped near a large wild rose, on which all the flowers were talking.

I listened with all my ears to what the wild rose was talking about above my head, since from the very first words I understood that it was about the origin of the rose.

Shut up, you are only children of the north. I'll chat with you for a minute, but don't think of being equal to the queen of flowers.

As same, with it connected and my own history. Listen and never forget it!

That's what the breeze said.

For a long time, with my father and brothers, I reigned over a barren planet. Our task was to destroy and destroy everything. When my brothers and I rushed from all sides to this helpless and small world, it seemed that life could never appear on the formless block, now called the Earth. If my father felt tired, he lay down to rest on the clouds, leaving me to continue his destructive work. But inside the Earth, which still retained immobility, there was hidden a mighty divine spirit - the spirit of life, which aspired outward and one day, breaking mountains, pushing seas apart, collecting a heap of dust, made its way. We redoubled our efforts, but only contributed to the growth of innumerable creatures, which, due to their small size, eluded us or resisted us by their very weakness. On a still warm surface earth's crust, in crevices, in the waters, flexible plants, floating shells appeared. In vain we drove furious waves at these tiny creatures. Life constantly appeared in new forms, as if a patient and inventive genius of creativity decided to adapt all the organs and needs of beings to the environment we are overwhelmed with.