We would not be understood as relaxing in any degree the rigor of
repudiation which such an act deserved. Yet it is imaginable, even to an
undepraved mind, that a woman might sometimes like to be on the other
side of the fence, to view the mad bull of publicity in its own pasture,
and feel that it cannot gore her. Poor George! running about in the
little boots, and wearing a great ugly coat and woollen choker,--it was
not through vanity that you did this. Strange sights you must have seen
in Paris!--none, perhaps, stranger than yourself! The would-be nun of
the English convent walking the streets in male attire, and even, as you
tell us, with your hands in your pockets! Yet when little Solange came
to live with you, as we understand, you put on your weeds of weakness
again;--your little daughter made you once more a woman!
For she was George Sand now. Aurore Dupin was civilly dead, Aurore
Dudevant was uncivilly effaced. She had taken half a name from Jules
Sandeau,--she had wrought the glory of that name herself. Yes, a glory,
say what you will. Elizabeth Browning's hands were not too pure to
soothe that forehead, chiding while they soothed; and these hands,
not illustrious as hers, shall soil themselves with no mud flung at a
sister's crowned head.
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