Saturday, 9 October 1880

Berthe to dinner.
I have not worked this week, and inaction makes me stupid. I reread my journey to Russia and it interested me greatly. It was in Russia, after reading about an ovation given to Cassagnac, that I began to get ideas into my head. Also in Russia I had partly read Mademoiselle de Maupin, and as I had not liked it I have just reread it. For after all, M. Gautier is acknowledged to have an enormous talent, and Mademoiselle de Maupin is acknowledged to be a masterpiece, especially the preface. So I reread it today. The preface is very fine, that is true, but the book... Despite all... its nudities, the book is not entertaining; certain pages are simply tedious. written across the page finished, finished
I hear people crying out: and the language, and the style, etc.
Eh! By heavens! Yes, it is in good French, it is the work of a man who is master of his craft, but it is not a congenial talent. Later perhaps I shall understand why it is a masterpiece; I am quite willing even now to understand that it is very fine, but... it is uncongenial and it bores me. It is like George Sand... another writer with whom I do not sympathise, and George Sand lacks that vigour, that swagger of Gautier’s that gives you respect if not affection for him. George Sand... well, it is very fine.
I prefer Daudet among the moderns; he writes novels but strewn with accurate observations, with things that are true, felt. One lives in them.
As for Zola, we are on bad terms; he has taken to attacking, in the Figaro, Rane and... other republican figures with a relentlessness in bad taste that befits neither his great talent nor his great literary standing.
But what does one see in George Sand? A prettily written novel? Yes, and then? Well, her novels bore me. Whereas Balzac, the two Dumas, Zola, Daudet, Musset never bore me. Victor Hugo in his most romantically wild prose, in Hans of Iceland, is never tiresome. One feels the genius. But George Sand! How can one read three hundred pages of Valentine and Bénédict accompanied by an uncle, a gardener, and heaven knows what else!
Always social levelling through love, which is base.
Let equality be established — that is admirable — but let it not be due to caprices of sex... The countess in love with her footman, and dissertations on the subject! That is George Sand’s talent. Obviously they are very pretty novels, pretty descriptions of the countryside... but I should like something more... I cannot quite explain myself... I cannot quite explain myself... These are things one ought not to say; I always think I am addressing beings who are my superiors, before whom I fear to speak presumptuously, whereas in general there are only mediocrities, inferiors, and those never know how to appreciate modesty or a confession of weakness.
Well, Valentine — I am reading it now, and it irritates me because the book interests me enough for me to finish it, and at the same time I know that nothing will remain of it but perhaps a vague unpleasant impression; it seems to me that this reading demeans me; I rebel and I continue, for it would have to be as tedious as Le Dernier Amour by the same author for me not to see it through... And yet Valentine is the best thing I have read of George Sand’s. The Marquis of Villemer, which I know only from the theatre, must be good too; I believe there is no groom who is the countess’s lover.

Notes

Victor Hugo’s first novel (1823). ↩
Le Dernier Amour: “The Last Love”, a novel by George Sand. ↩