George Sand what they are talking about. What do flowers say?

Perhaps more than in other European countries, her works were read, reveled and inspired by them in Russia. “George Sand is, undoubtedly, the first poetic glory of the 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 aide-de-camp to a Napoleonic general and an actress. Aurora’s grandmother, the daughter of Moritz of Saxony, the illegitimate son of the Polish king, did not want to recognize this unequal marriage and the granddaughter born from it for almost four years. She softened only when the baby was accidentally placed on her lap. Suddenly she recognized the beautiful eyes of her son and was captivated...

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 her mother and grandmother equally, and the gap between them caused her her first serious pain.

The grandmother made her granddaughter an excellent musician and instilled in her a love of literature. At the age of fourteen, Aurora was sent to a boarding school in an 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 in childhood

She returned home to Nohant as an educated, deeply religious girl, and also a rich heiress. Outwardly, Aurora looked like a Creole: dark-skinned, 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 blossoms, I already spent my nights reading and writing.”

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

Unlike most of her peers, Aurora enjoyed almost unlimited freedom. She went hunting and rode horses in a man's suit, learned from her teacher the secrets of managing the estate, and 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 of Noana met the artillery lieutenant Casimir Dudevant. Being ten years older than her, he was not particularly handsome, but was considered what is called a “kind fellow.” Aurora fell in love with him as the embodiment of masculinity. In September 1822, Aurore Dupin de Frankeneuil became Baroness Dudevant.

Her husband had a very simplistic attitude towards women, especially since he was used to dealing with maids and milliners. The feelings of his beloved mattered little to him. So for the young baroness, already 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, I realized with amazement that I was unlikely to find the calm and peace of mind in marriage that I had so counted on. Her husband did not ignore any maid in the house. And one day Kazimir hit his wife... The marriage of two people suffered 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 writing a novel, which was later thrown into the fire) that contributed to family quarrels. Casimir's stepmother, having learned that Aurora intended to publish her works, was furious and insisted that the name Dudevant never appear on any of the books. And she really didn’t show up...

At one of the picnics, Aurora met the fragile, aristocratic-looking, blond Jules Sando, who fell madly in love with a young woman. “Baby” Sando completely personified her dreams of Prince Charming - a child and a lover at the same time.

The province turned a blind eye to the relationship between Nohan's owner 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 fortune for the trip - an amount that was barely enough for the first days of her stay in Paris.

In order to get rid of the costs of women's clothes, Aurora began to wear a men's suit... She washed and ironed the clothes herself, and she took her daughter, little Solange, who was born, as they said, from one of her lovers, for walks. The husband, when visiting Paris, would certainly visit Aurora and appear with her at the theater. In the summer she returned to Nohant for several months, mainly to see her beloved son...

Aurora brought the novel “Aimé,” written in Nohant, to the capital, 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. Sandot. 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 (his beloved clearly surpassed him in talent!) refused to sign the work, to the creation of which he had not the slightest connection. This is how Aurora’s pseudonym was born: Georges Sand.

The novel was a dizzying success. And its author already had the next one ready - “Valentine” - and several stories. The connection with Sando continued, although it was clearly painful for both. First of all, the writer, who began to be annoyed by the constantly tired, whining, sickly Jules. And then, at one of the dinner parties, she met the famous actress Marie Dorval and her friend Alfred de Vigny, who opened the world of bohemian circles in Paris to yesterday’s provincial girl. She was noticed. Chateaubriand predicted that she would become the “Byron of France.”

In the personal life of George Sand, everything was not easy. She was courted for about two years by Prosper Merimee, a writer of great talent and no less cynicism. Subsequently, he claimed that Aurora’s lack of modesty killed all desire in him. After he left, she cried - from grief, disgust, hopelessness.

And then a man came into 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 men’s suit, with which she so often disgraced herself. And she also behaved with truly feminine grace, inherited from her noble grandmother. Traces of youth still lay on her cheeks, her magnificent eyes sparkled brightly, and this shine under the shadow of dark thick hair produced a truly enchanting impression, striking me to the very heart. The stamp of infinity of thoughts lay on his forehead. She spoke little, but firmly.”

Musset recalled that he seemed to be reborn under the influence of this woman, that neither before nor after her had he ever experienced such an enthusiastic state, such outbursts of love and happiness...

First, the lovers went on a romantic trip to Italy. Aurora's hours remained the same: eight hours of work per day. Day or night, she would certainly cover twenty sheets of paper with her large handwriting. Her exhausted lover was becoming rude. “Dreamer, fool, nun” - these are his most innocent attacks against his friend.

The weeks spent in Venice became a nightmare for George Sand. The illness confined her to bed, but Musset was clearly burdened by it. 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 almost without touching food. Then the third character of the drama appeared on the stage - Pietro Pagelo, a twenty-six-year-old doctor. It was he who became the writer’s next chosen one...

After some time, Aurora decided to divorce her husband in order to gain the long-awaited freedom. Friends introduced her to 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 in the divorce proceedings, the relationship between the lovers began to rapidly cool down. 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 at the mercy of the sentimental tradition of Jean-Jacques Rousseau and women's novels. She spoke about “sensitive hearts” and considered love to be the highest occupation and happiness of a person.

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

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

World recognition came to her relatively early. Letters flew from all over Europe... Russian, Italian, Polish, Hungarian writers, public figures thanked us and expressed their delight.

The almost inhuman intensity of creative work required extreme mental and physical stress. After a short sleep - a desk, household chores, activities with children, looking at 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, aspiring writers, peasants of the area.

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

Secretaries sometimes helped with housekeeping and correspondence, and teachers were hired for children and grandchildren, but excessive work caused insomnia, for which neither cigarettes nor medications helped. And there were any number of personal troubles, from oral and printed slander to the tactless interference in her household affairs by her daughter Solange, who had 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, the brilliant composer Fryderyk Chopin. He was only seven years younger than her, but Aurora treated him with almost maternal tenderness. Chopin showed himself not to be very experienced in love affairs, although the “child” was already twenty-eight years old.

George Sand and Frederic Chopin

And the “aging” seductress is 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, blue-eyed Fryderyk had by no means an easy character. George Sand had to maneuver between his suspiciousness, the filial jealousy of Maurice and the evil whims of Solange. The latter went so far as to openly flirt with Chopin, to the great delight of provincial gossips, and deftly pit Fryderyk against his frivolous brother.

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

The last meeting - completely random - took place in the living room of mutual friends. The writer, full of remorse, approached her former lover and extended her hand to him. Chopin's handsome face became pale. He recoiled and left the hall without saying a word. A year and a half later, Fryderyk died...

It is reliably 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 turned from a “lark” into a “night owl” and did not get up until four o’clock in the afternoon. Close friends, former lovers, even a beloved grandson left forever. Alexander Manso also passed away. 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 Marshall, whom Georges called “my fat child.”

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What do flowers say?

When I was little, it really bothered me that I couldn’t make out what the flowers were saying. My botany teacher insisted that they weren't talking about anything. I don’t know if he was deaf or hiding the truth from me, but he swore that flowers didn’t talk at all.

Meanwhile, I knew that this was not so. I myself heard their vague babbling, especially in the evenings, when the dew had already set. But they spoke so quietly that I could not distinguish 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 transmitted throughout the entire row: “Shut up, otherwise a curious girl will overhear you.”

But I got my way. I learned to step so carefully 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 focus all my attention. The flowers' voices were so thin and tender that the blow of a breeze or the buzz of some night butterfly completely drowned them out.

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

One evening I managed, lying on the sand, not to utter a word of what was being said in the corner of the flower bed. 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 will not yield to any other. Let anyone recognize the rose as a queen, but I declare that enough is enough for me, I do not consider anyone the right to call himself more noble than me.

“I don’t understand why the rose family is so proud.” Tell me, please, is the rose more beautiful and slimmer than me? Nature and art have jointly increased the number of our petals and made our colors especially bright. We are undoubtedly richer, since the most luxurious rose has many, many two hundred petals, and we have up to five hundred. And roses will never achieve such shades of lilac and even almost blue as ours.

“I’ll tell you about myself,” the lively bindweed intervened, “I’m Prince Delphinium.” My crown reflects the azure of the sky, and my many relatives possess all the pink tints. As you can see, the notorious queen can envy us in many ways, and as for her vaunted aroma, then...

“Oh, don’t even talk about it,” interrupted the field poppy heatedly. – I’m just annoyed by the constant talk about some kind of fragrance. Well, what is aroma, please tell me? A conventional concept invented by gardeners and butterflies. I find that roses have an unpleasant smell, but I have a pleasant one.

“We don’t smell of anything,” said the astra, “and by this we prove our decency and good manners.” The smell indicates immodesty or boasting. A flower that respects itself will not hit you in the nose. It's enough that he's handsome.

– I don’t agree with you! - exclaimed the terry poppy, which had a strong aroma. – Smell is a reflection of mind and health.

The voice of the terry poppy was drowned out by friendly laughter. The carnations were held by the 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 respond - all the rose bushes had been pruned shortly before, and small buds only appeared on the young shoots, tightly tied together with green tufts.

Richly dressed pansies spoke out against double flowers, and since double flowers predominated in the flower garden, general displeasure began. However, everyone was so jealous of the rose that they soon made peace with each other and began vying with each other to ridicule it. It was even compared to a head of cabbage, and they said that the head, in any case, was thicker and healthier. The nonsense that I listened to brought me out of patience, and, stamping my foot, I suddenly spoke in the language of flowers:

- Shut up! You're all talking nonsense! I thought I would hear miracles of poetry here, but, to my extreme disappointment, I found only rivalry, vanity, and envy in you!

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

Let’s see, I thought, maybe wildflowers are more intelligent than these arrogant garden plants that 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 whether the spiria, who are called queens of the field, are also proud and envious. On the way, I stopped near a large rose hip, 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 skilled gardeners through coloring. Nevertheless, nature did not deprive our area, where a variety of roses grew wild. And in our garden there was a centifolia - a rose with a hundred petals; its homeland is unknown, but its 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 does not smell like a rose at all, and all these lovely species that now diversify endlessly, but essentially distort the true type of rose. They began to teach me botany, but I understood it in my own way. I had a keen sense of smell, and I definitely wanted the aroma to be considered one of the main characteristics of a flower. My teacher, who took snuff, did not share my hobby. He was sensitive only to the smell of tobacco, and if he sniffed some plant, he would later claim that it tickled his nose.

I listened with all my ears to what the rosehip above my head was talking about, because from the first words I understood that we were talking about the origin of the rose.

“Stay with us, dear breeze,” said the rosehip flowers. “We have blossomed, and the beautiful roses in the flower beds are still sleeping in their green shells.” Look how fresh and cheerful we are, and if you rock us a little, 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 about equaling the queen of flowers.

“Dear breeze, we respect and adore her,” answered the rosehip flowers. “We know how jealous other flowers are of her.” They assure that the rose is no better than us, that she is the daughter of the rose hip and owes her beauty only to coloring 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?

- Of course, my own story is connected with it. Listen and never forget this!

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 ends of my black wings I touched opposite points of the horizon. My huge hair was intertwined with the clouds. I looked majestic and menacing. It was in my power to gather all the clouds from the west and spread them as an impenetrable veil between the Earth and the Sun.

For a long time I, with my father and brothers, reigned over a barren planet. Our task was to destroy and destroy everything. As my brothers and I rushed from all sides towards this helpless and small world, it seemed that life could never appear on the shapeless lump now called Earth. If my father felt tired, he would lie down to rest on the clouds, leaving me to continue his destructive work. But inside the Earth, which still remained motionless, was hidden a powerful divine spirit - the spirit of life, which strived out and one day, breaking mountains, parting seas, collecting a heap of dust, paved its way. We redoubled our efforts, but only contributed to the growth of countless creatures who, 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 and in the waters, flexible plants and floating shells appeared. In vain we drove furious waves against these tiny creatures. Life continually appeared in new forms, as if a patient and inventive creative genius had decided to adapt all the organs and needs of creatures to the environment we inhabit.

We began to get tired of this resistance, so weak in appearance, 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, having briefly rested from our persecutions, managed to be covered with a multitude of plants, among which moved myriads of animals of the most diverse breeds, 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 is dressed up like a bride about to marry the Sun. Separate them. Gather huge clouds, blow with all your might. Let your breath upend trees, flatten mountains, and stir up seas. Go and don’t come back until there is at least one living creature, at least one plant left on this damned Earth, where life wants to establish itself in defiance of us.

We set out to spread death in both hemispheres. Cutting through the cloud curtain like an eagle, I rushed to the countries of the Far East, to where, on the sloping lowlands going down to the sea under a sultry sky, gigantic plants and fierce animals are found among the intense moisture. I had rested from my previous fatigue and now felt an extraordinary increase in strength. I was proud that I was bringing destruction to the weak creatures who dared not give in to me the first time. With one flap of my wing I swept away an entire area, with one breath I tore down an entire forest and madly, blindly rejoiced in the fact that I was stronger than all the mighty forces of nature.

Suddenly I smelled an unfamiliar aroma and, surprised by this new sensation, I stopped to figure out where it came from. Then for the first time I saw the 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 am so beautiful and meek! Inhale my scent, then you will spare me.

I inhaled her scent - and the sudden intoxication softened my rage. I sank to the ground next to her and fell asleep.

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

“Be my friend,” she said, “don’t leave me.” When your terrible wings are folded, I like you. How beautiful you are! That's right, you are the king of the forests! In your gentle breath I hear a wonderful song. Stay here or take me

with myself. I want to look close at the Sun and the clouds. I put the rose on my chest and flew away. But soon it seemed to me that she was dying. She was no longer able to speak to me from exhaustion, but her scent continued to delight me. Fearing that she would be killed, I flew quietly over the treetops, avoiding the slightest shock. 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. Go back and destroy it quickly.

“Okay,” I answered, showing him the rose. “But let me leave it with you.”

you are the treasure that I want to save.

- Save! – he exclaimed and growled with anger. – Do you want to save something?

With one breath he knocked the rose out of my hands, which disappeared into space, scattering its faded petals all around.

I rushed after her to grab at least one petal. But the king, menacing and inexorable, in turn, grabbed me, threw me down, pressed my chest with his knee and forcibly tore off my wings, so that the feathers from them flew into space after the rose petals.

- Unhappy! - he said. “You have gained compassion, now you are no longer my son.” Go to Earth to the ill-fated spirit of life, which resists me. Let us see whether he will make something out of you, now that, by my grace, you are no longer good for anything.

Having pushed me into a bottomless abyss, he renounced me forever.

I rolled to the lawn and, broken, destroyed, found myself next to the rose. And she was cheerful and fragrant more than before.

-What kind of miracle? I thought you were dead and mourned you. Are you gifted with the ability to be reborn after death?

“Of course,” she answered, “just like all creatures supported by the spirit of life.” Look at the buds surrounding me. Tonight I will already lose my shine and will have to take care of my revival, and my sisters will captivate you with their beauty and fragrance. Stay with us. Aren't you our friend and comrade?

I was so humiliated by my fall that I shed tears on the ground to which I now felt chained. My sobs moved the spirit of life. He appeared to me in the form of a radiant angel and said:

“You have known compassion, you have had pity on the rose, for this I will pity you.” Your father is strong, but I am stronger than him, because he destroys, and I create. With these words he touched me, and I turned into a pretty, rosy-cheeked child. Wings suddenly grew behind my shoulders like butterflies, and I began to fly with admiration.

“Stay with the flowers under the canopy of the forests,” the spirit told me. – Now these green vaults will cover and protect you. Subsequently, when I manage to defeat the rage of the elements, you will be able to fly around the entire 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 future reconciliation of the currently hostile forces of nature. Teach also to future generations. Civilized peoples will want to use everything for their own purposes. My precious gifts - meekness, beauty, grace - will seem to them almost lower than wealth and strength. Show them, dear rose, that there is no greater power than the ability to charm and reconcile. I give you a title that no one will dare take away from you forever and ever. I proclaim you the queen of flowers. The kingdom I am establishing is divine and works only by charm.

From that day on, I lived peacefully, and people, animals and plants fell in love with me dearly. Thanks to my divine origin, I can choose to live anywhere, but I am a devoted servant of life, which I promote with my beneficial breath, and I do not want to leave the dear Earth where my first and eternal love holds me. Yes, dear flowers, I am a faithful admirer of the rose, and therefore your brother and friend.

- In that case, give us a ball! - exclaimed the rosehip flowers. “We will have fun and sing the praises of our queen, the rose of the east with a hundred petals.” The breeze moved its pretty wings, and lively dancing began above my head, accompanied by the rustling of branches and the rustling of leaves, which replaced tambourines and castanets. Out of enthusiasm, some wild roses tore their ball gowns and showered their petals on my hair. But this did not stop them from dancing further, chanting:

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

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

“I’m very sorry for you if you yourself have never heard what the flowers are talking about.” I wish I could go back to the times when I understood them. This is the property of children. Don't mix properties with ailments!

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

Childhood and youth

Amandine Aurora Lucille Dupin was born on July 1, 1804 in the capital of France - Paris. The writer's father, Maurice Dupin, comes from a noble family who preferred a military career to an idle existence. The novelist's mother, Antoinette-Sophie-Victoria Delaborde, the daughter of a bird catcher, had a bad reputation and earned her living by dancing. Due to her mother’s origins, Amandine’s 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 writer's grandmother), who had previously refused to meet with her granddaughter, recognized Aurora after the death of her beloved son, but never found a common language with her daughter-in-law. Conflicts often arose between women. Sophie Victoria was afraid that after another quarrel, the elderly countess would deprive Amandine of her inheritance to spite her. In order not to tempt fate, she left the estate, leaving her daughter in the care of her mother-in-law.

Sand's childhood could not 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 to have a friend so badly that she invented one. Aurora's faithful companion was named Corambe. This magical creature was both an adviser, a listener, and a guardian angel.

Amandina had a hard time being separated from her mother. The girl saw her only occasionally, when she came to Paris with her grandmother. Madame Dupin sought to reduce Sophie-Victoria's influence to a minimum. Tired of being overprotective, Aurora decided to escape. The Countess found out about Sand's intentions and sent her granddaughter, who had gotten away from her hands, to the Augustinian Catholic monastery (1818-1820).

There the writer became acquainted with religious literature. Having misinterpreted the text of the Holy Scriptures, the impressionable person led an ascetic lifestyle for several months. Identification with Saint Teresa caused Aurora to lose sleep and appetite.

It is unknown how this experience could have ended if Abbot Premor had not brought some sense into her 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, not a trace of religious fanaticism remained.

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. Her mother's lowly origins made her not quite equal among aristocratic youth. Countess Dupin did not have time to find a groom for her granddaughter: she died when Georges was 17 years old. The girl, who had read the works of Mably, Leibniz and Locke, was left in the care of her illiterate mother.

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

After Antoinette failed to force her daughter to marry a man who caused 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 her oppressive mother.

Personal life

Even during his lifetime, legends were made about Sand's amorous adventures. Spiteful critics attributed to her affairs with the entire literary beau monde of France, claiming that due to her maternal instinct not being fully realized, 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.

The 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, disappointed in each other, tried to save the marriage to the last. But irreconcilable views 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. The relationship with the latter left a deep wound in Aurora’s soul and was reflected in Sand’s works “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. The joint work, like most of the feuilletons published in the magazine "Figaro", was signed by their common pseudonym - Jules Sand. The writers also planned to co-write the second novel “Indiana” (1832), but due to illness the writer did not take part in the creation of the masterpiece, and Dudevant personally wrote the work from cover to cover.

Sando flatly refused to publish a book under a common pseudonym, the creation of which he had nothing to do with. 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 last name on public display, the writer could not publish under her real name. On the advice of a friend, Aurora replaced Jules with Georges, and left her last name unchanged.

Literature

The novels published after Indiana (Valentine, Lélia, Jacques) placed George Sand in the ranks of democratic romantics. In the mid-30s, Aurora became interested in 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.

The novel “Mauprat” (1837) condemned romantic rebellion, and “Horace” (1842) debunked individualism. Faith in the creative potential of ordinary people, the pathos of the national liberation struggle, the dream of art serving the people permeate Sand’s duology – “Consuelo” (1843) and “Countess Rudolstadt” (1843).

In the 40s, Dudevant's literary and social activities reached their apogee. The writer participated in the publication of left-wing republican magazines and supported worker poets, promoting their work (“Dialogues on the Poetry of Proletarians,” 1842). In her novels, she created a whole gallery of sharply negative images of representatives of the bourgeoisie (Bricolin - “The Miller of Angibeau”, Cardonnay - “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 this, Sand withdrew from public activities and wrote novels in the spirit of her earlier works: “The Snowman” (1858), “Jean de la Roche” (1859) and “Marquis de Vilmer” (1861).

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

Death

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

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

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

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

Among other things, in Italy, director Giorgio Albertazzi made a television film based on Sand’s autobiographical novel “The Story of My Life,” and in France the works “Les Belles Gentlemen of Bois Doré” (1976) and “Mauprat” (1926 and 1972) were filmed. .

Bibliography

• "Melchior" (1832)
• "Leone Leoni" (1835)
• "Younger Sister" (1843)
• "Koroglu" (1843)
• "Karl" (1843)
• "Jeanne" (1844)
• "Isidora" (1846)
• "Teverino" (1846)
• "Mopra" (1837)
• "Masters of the Mosaic" (1838)
• "Orko" (1838)
• "Spyridion" (1839)
• "The Sin of Monsieur Antoine" (1847)
• "Lucrezia Floriani" (1847)
• "Mont Reves" (1853)
• "Marquis de Vilmer" (1861)
• “Confession of a Young Girl” (1865)
• "Nanon" (1872)
• "Grandmother's Tales" (1876)

What do flowers say?

When I was little, it really bothered me that I couldn’t make out what the flowers were saying. My botany teacher insisted that they weren't talking about anything. I don’t know if he was deaf or hiding the truth from me, but he swore that flowers didn’t talk at all.

Meanwhile, I knew that this was not so. I myself heard their vague babbling, especially in the evenings, when the dew had already set. But they spoke so quietly that I could not distinguish 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 transmitted throughout the entire row: “Shut up, otherwise a curious girl will overhear you.”

But I got my way. I learned to step so carefully 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 focus all my attention. The flowers' voices were so thin and tender that the blow of a breeze or the buzz of some night butterfly completely drowned them out.

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

One evening I managed, lying on the sand, not to utter a word of what was being said in the corner of the flower bed. 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 will not yield to any other. Let anyone recognize the rose as a queen, but I declare that enough is enough for me, I do not consider anyone the right to call himself more noble than me.

I don't understand why the rose family is so proud. Tell me, please, is the rose more beautiful and slimmer than me? Nature and art have jointly increased the number of our petals and made our colors especially bright. We are undoubtedly richer, since the most luxurious rose has many, many two hundred petals, and we have up to five hundred. And roses will never achieve such shades of lilac and even almost blue as ours.

“I’ll tell you about myself,” the lively bindweed intervened, “I’m Prince Delphinium.” My crown reflects the azure of the sky, and my many relatives possess all the pink tints. As you can see, the notorious queen can envy us in many ways, and as for her vaunted aroma, then...

“Oh, don’t even talk about it,” the field poppy interrupted passionately. - I’m just annoyed by the constant talk about some kind of fragrance. Well, what is aroma, please tell me? A conventional concept invented by gardeners and butterflies. I find that roses have an unpleasant smell, but I have a pleasant one.

“We don’t smell of anything,” said the astra, “and by this we prove our decency and good manners.” The smell indicates immodesty or boasting. A flower that respects itself will not hit you in the nose. It's enough that he's handsome.

I don't agree with you! - exclaimed the terry poppy, which had a strong aroma. - Smell is a reflection of mind and health.

The voice of the terry poppy was drowned out by friendly laughter. The carnations were held by the 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 respond - all the rose bushes had been pruned shortly before, and small buds only appeared on the young shoots, tightly tied together with green tufts.

Richly dressed pansies spoke out against double flowers, and since double flowers predominated in the flower garden, general displeasure began. However, everyone was so jealous of the rose that they soon made peace with each other and began vying with each other to ridicule it. It was even compared to a head of cabbage, and they said that the head, in any case, was thicker and healthier. The nonsense that I listened to brought me out of patience, and, stamping my foot, I suddenly spoke in the language of flowers:

Shut up! You're all talking nonsense! I thought I would hear miracles of poetry here, but, to my extreme disappointment, I found only rivalry, vanity, and envy in you!

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

Let’s see, I thought, maybe wildflowers are more intelligent than these arrogant garden plants that 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 whether the spiria, who are called queens of the field, are also proud and envious. On the way, I stopped near a large rose hip, 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 skilled gardeners through coloring. Nevertheless, nature did not deprive our area, where a variety of roses grew wild. And in our garden there was a centifolia - a rose with a hundred petals; its homeland is unknown, but its 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 does not smell like a rose at all, and all these lovely species that now diversify endlessly, but essentially distort the true type of rose. They began to teach me botany, but I understood it in my own way. I had a keen sense of smell, and I definitely wanted the aroma to be considered one of the main characteristics of a flower. My teacher, who took snuff, did not share my hobby. He was sensitive only to the smell of tobacco, and if he sniffed some plant, he would later claim that it tickled his nose.

I listened with all my ears to what the rosehip above my head was talking about, because from the first words I understood that we were talking about the origin of the rose.

Stay with us, dear breeze, said the rosehip flowers. - We have blossomed, and the beautiful roses in the flower beds are still sleeping in their green shells. Look how fresh and cheerful we are, and if you rock us a little, 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 about equaling the queen of flowers.

“Dear breeze, we respect and adore her,” answered the rosehip flowers. - We know how jealous other flowers are of her. They assure that the rose is no better than us, that she is the daughter of the rose hip and owes her beauty only to coloring 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?

Well, my own story is connected with it. Listen and never forget this!

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 ends of my black wings I touched opposite points of the horizon. My huge hair was intertwined with the clouds. I looked majestic and menacing. It was in my power to gather all the clouds from the west and spread them as an impenetrable veil between the Earth and the Sun.

For a long time I, with my father and brothers, reigned over a barren planet. Our task was to destroy and destroy everything. As my brothers and I rushed from all sides towards this helpless and small world, it seemed that life could never appear on the shapeless lump now called Earth. If my father felt tired, he would lie down to rest on the clouds, leaving me to continue his destructive work. But inside the Earth, which still remained motionless, was hidden a powerful divine spirit - the spirit of life, which strived out and one day, breaking mountains, parting seas, collecting a heap of dust, paved its way. We redoubled our efforts, but only contributed to the growth of countless creatures who, 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 and in the waters, flexible plants and floating shells appeared. In vain we drove furious waves against these tiny creatures. Life continually appeared in new forms, as if a patient and inventive creative genius had decided to adapt all the organs and needs of creatures to the environment we inhabit.