George Sand - Wikipedia
I dream music but I cannot make any because here there are not any pianos in this . Marc-André Hamelin, "Famous Pianists on Frédéric Chopin and Robert . printed in George Sand, Story of My Life: The Autobiography of George Sand, . French novelist George Sand is celebrated in Elizabeth Berg's novel. The Dream Lover (**** out of four), Elizabeth Berg's exquisitely captivating She took among her many lovers composers Frédéric Chopin and Franz. ENTITY reports on famous george sand quotes for every situation. But she's also famous for her love affair with Frédéric Chopin, her cross.
Even the prince took notice of her; and to please him she wore the green uniform of a hussar. But all this soon passed, and she was presently sent to live with her grandmother at the estate now intimately associated with her name—Nohant, in the valley of the Indre, in the midst of a rich country, a love for which she then drank in so deeply that nothing in her later life could lessen it.
She was always the friend of the peasant and of the country-folk in general. At Nohant she was given over to her grand-mother, to be reared in a strangely desultory sort of fashion, doing and reading and studying those things which could best develop her native gifts.
Her father had great influence over her, teaching her a thousand things without seeming to teach her anything. Of him George Sand herself has written: Character is a matter of heredity.
If any one desires to know me, he must know my father. Her father, however, was killed by a fall from a horse; and then the child grew up almost without any formal education. A tutor, who also managed the estate; believed with Rousseau that the young should be reared according to their own preferences.
Therefore, Aurore read poems and childish stories; she gained a smattering of Latin, and she was devoted to music and the elements of natural science. For the rest of the time she rambled with the country children, learned their games, and became a sort of leader in everything they did.
Her only sorrow was the fact that her mother was excluded from Nohant. The girl showed a wonderful degree of sensibility. This life was adapted to her nature. She fed her imagination in a perfectly healthy fashion; and, living so much out of doors, she acquired that sound physique which she retained all through her life. When she was thirteen, her grandmother sent the girl to a convent school in Paris. One might suppose that the sudden change from the open woods and fields to the primness of a religious home would have been a great shock to her, and that with her disposition she might have broken out into wild ways that would have shocked the nuns.
But, here, as elsewhere, she showed her wonderful adaptability. It even seemed as if she were likely to become what the French call a devote.
She gave herself up to mythical thoughts, and expressed a desire of taking the veil. Her confessor, however, was a keen student of human nature, and he perceived that she was too young to decide upon the renunciation of earthly things. Moreover, her grandmother, who had no intention that Aurore should become a nun, hastened to Paris and carried her back to Nohant.
The girl was now sixteen, and her complicated nature began to make itself apparent. There was no one to control her, because her grandmother was confined to her own room. And so Aurore Dupin, now in superb health, rushed into every sort of diversion with all the zest of youth. She read voraciously—religion, poetry, philosophy. She was an excellent musician, playing the piano and the harp. Once, in a spirit of unconscious egotism, she wrote to her confessor: Do you think that my philosophical studies are compatible with Christian humility?
The shrewd ecclesiastic answered, with a touch of wholesome irony: I doubt, my daughter, whether your philosophical studies are profound enough to warrant intellectual pride. This stung the girl, and led her to think a little less of her own abilities; but perhaps it made her books distasteful to her. For a while she seems to have almost forgotten her sex. She began to dress as a boy, and took to smoking large quantities of tobacco.
Her natural brother, who was an officer in the army, came down to Nohant and taught her to ride—to ride like a boy, seated astride. She went about without any chaperon, and flirted with the young men of the neighborhood. The prim manners of the place made her subject to a certain amount of scandal, and the village priest chided her in language that was far from tactful.
In return she refused any longer to attend his church. Thus she was living when her grandmother died, inleaving to Aurore her entire fortune of five hundred thousand francs. If she turned toward her uncle, she would be forever classed among the aristocracy. If she chose her mother, who, though married, was essentially a grisette, then she must live with grisettes, and find her friends among the friends who visited her mother.
She could not belong to both worlds. One must respect the girl for making the choice she did. Understanding the situation absolutely, she chose her mother; and perhaps one would not have had her do otherwise.
Yet in the long run it was bound to be a mistake. Aurore was clever, refined, well read, and had had the training of a fashionable convent school. The mother was ignorant and coarse, as was inevitable, with one who before her marriage had been half shop-girl and half courtesan. The two could not live long together, and hence it was not unnatural that Aurore Dupin should marry, to enter upon a new career.
Her fortune was a fairly large one for the times, and yet not large enough to attract men who were quite her equals. Presently, however, it brought to her a sort of country squire, named Casimir Dudevant. He was the illegitimate son of the Baron Dudevant.
Frédéric Chopin - Wikiquote
He had been in the army, and had studied law; but he possessed no intellectual tastes. He was outwardly eligible; but he was of a coarse type—a man who, with passing years, would be likely to take to drink and vicious amusements, and in serious life cared only for his cattle, his horses, and his hunting.
He had, however, a sort of jollity about him which appealed to this girl of eighteen; and so a marriage was arranged. Aurore Dupin became his wife inand he secured the control of her fortune. The first few years after her marriage were not unhappy. She had a son, Maurice Dudevant, and a daughter, Solange, and she loved them both.
But it was impossible that she should continue vegetating mentally upon a farm with a husband who was a fool, a drunkard, and a miser. He deteriorated; his wife grew more and more clever. It made him uncomfortable. Other persons spoke of her talk as brilliant. He bluntly told her that it was silly, and that she must stop it.
When she did not stop it, he boxed her ears. This caused a breach between the pair which was never healed. Dudevant, on her side, would have nothing more to do with this rustic rake. She formed what she called a platonic friendship—and it was really so—with a certain M. With him this clever woman could talk without being called silly, and he took sincere pleasure in her company. He might, in fact, have gone much further, had not both of them been in an impossible situation.
Aurore Dudevant really believed that she was swayed by a pure and mystic passion. De Seze, on the other hand, believed this mystic passion to be genuine love.
11 George Sand Quotes to Remind You to Live Everyday Like It’s Your Last
Coming to visit her at Nohant, he was revolted by the clownish husband with whom she lived. It gave him an esthetic shock to see that she had borne children to this boor. Therefore he shrank back from her, and in time their relation faded into nothingness. I had not the patience to wait till widowhood. No one can be sure of surviving anybody. I assumed that my husband had died, and I was very glad to learn what he thought of me while he was alive.
Since the package was addressed to me, it was not dishonorable for me to open it. And so she opened it. It proved to be his will, but containing, as a preamble, his curses on her, expressions of contempt, and all the vulgar outpouring of an evil temper and angry passion. She went to her husband as he was opening a bottle, and flung the document upon the table. He cowered at her glance, at her firmness, and at her cold hatred. He grumbled and argued and entreated; but all that his wife would say in answer was: I am going to Paris, and my children are to remain here.
In Paris she developed into a thorough-paced Bohemian. She tried to make a living in sundry hopeless ways, and at last she took to literature. She was living in a garret, with little to eat, and sometimes without a fire in winter.
She had some friends who helped her as well as they could, but though she was attached to the Figaro, her earnings for the first month amounted to only fifteen francs.
Nevertheless, she would not despair. The editors and publishers might turn the cold shoulder to her, but she would not give up her ambitions. She went down into the Latin Quarter, and there shook off the proprieties of life. She assumed the garb of a man, and with her quick perception she came to know the left bank of the Seine just as she had known the country-side at Nohant or the little world at her convent school. She never expected again to see any woman of her own rank in life.
The proprieties are the guiding principle of people without soul and virtue. The good opinion of the world is a prostitute who gives herself to the highest bidder. One of her companions in this sort of hand-to-mouth journalism was a young student and writer named Jules Sandeau, a man seven years younger than his comrade. He was at that time as indigent as she, and their hardships, shared in common, brought them very close together.
He was clever, boyish, and sensitive, and it was not long before he had fallen at her feet and kissed her knees, begging that she would requite the love he felt for her.
According to herself, she resisted him for six months, and then at last she yielded. The two made their home together, and for a while were wonderfully happy.
Their work and their diversions they enjoyed in common, and now for the first time she experienced emotions which in all probability she had never known before. Probably not very much importance is to be given to the earlier flirtations of George Sand, though she herself never tried to stop the mouth of scandal. Even before she left her husband, she was credited with having four lovers; but all she said, when the report was brought to her, was this: But if she only played at love-making then, she now gave herself up to it with entire abandonment, intoxicated, fascinated, satisfied.
How I wish I could impart to you this sense of the intensity and joyousness of life that I have in my veins.
How sweet it is, and how good, in spite of annoyances, husbands, debts, relations, scandal-mongers, sufferings, and irritations! To love, and to be loved! In collaboration with Jules Sandeau, she wrote a novel called Rose et Blanche. The two lovers were uncertain what name to place upon the title-page, but finally they hit upon the pseudonym of Jules Sand. The book succeeded; but thereafter each of them wrote separately, Jules Sandeau using his own name, and Mme.
Dudevant styling herself George Sand, a name by which she was to be illustrious ever after. As a novelist, she had found her real vocation. She was not yet well known, but she was on the verge of fame. As soon as she had written Indiana and Valentine, George Sand had secured a place in the world of letters. The magazine which still exists as the Revue des Deux Mondes gave her a retaining fee of four thousand francs a year, and many other publications begged her to write serial stories for them.
The vein which ran through all her stories was new and piquant. As was said of her: In George Sand, whenever a lady wishes to change her lover, God is always there to make the transfer easy. In other words, she preached free love in the name of religion. This was not a new doctrine with her. After the first break with her husband, she had made up her mind about certain matters, and wrote: One is no more justified in claiming the ownership of a soul than in claiming the ownership of a slave.
According to her, the ties between a man and a woman are sacred only when they are sanctified by love; and she distinguished between love and passion in this epigram: Love seeks to give, while passion seeks to take. At this time, George Sand was in her twenty-seventh year. She was not beautiful, though there was something about her which attracted observation. Of middle height, she was fairly slender. Her eyes were somewhat projecting, and her mouth was almost sullen when in repose.
Her manners were peculiar, combining boldness with timidity. When she was deeply stirred, however, she burst forth into an extraordinary vivacity, showing a nature richly endowed and eager to yield its treasures. The existence which she now led was a curious one.
She still visited her husband at Nohant, so that she might see her son, and sometimes, when M. Dudevant came to town, he called upon her in the apartments which she shared with Jules Sandeau.
He had accepted the situation, and with his crudeness and lack of feeling he seemed to think it, if not natural, at least diverting. Meanwhile, there began to be perceptible the very slightest rift within the lute of her romance. Was her love for Sandeau really love, or was it only passion? In his absence, at any rate, the old obsession still continued. Here we see, first of all, intense pleasure shading off into a sort of maternal fondness.
She sends Sandeau adoring letters. She is afraid that his delicate appetite is not properly satisfied. Yet, again, there are times when she feels that he is irritating and ill. Those who knew them said that her nature was too passionate and her love was too exacting for him. One of her letters seems to make this plain. It is an appalling thought, and Jules will not understand it.
He laughs at it; and when, in the midst of his transports of delight, the idea comes to me and makes my blood run cold, he tells me that here is the death that he would like to die. At such moments he promises whatever I make him promise. It will be found all through her career, not only that she sought to inspire passion, but that she strove to gratify it after fashions of her own.
One little passage from a description of her written by the younger Dumas will perhaps make this phase of her character more intelligible, without going further than is strictly necessary: Sand has little hands without any bones, soft and plump. She is by destiny a woman of excessive curiosity, always disappointed, always deceived in her incessant investigation, but she is not fundamentally ardent.
In vain would she like to be so, but she does not find it possible. Her physical nature utterly refuses. The reader will find in all that has now been said the true explanation of George Sand. His letter to Tytus Woyciechowski in Poturzyn. Paris, 12 December I astonished Kalkbrenner, who at once asked me, was I not a pupil of Field, because I have Cramer's method and Field's touch. Play Mozart in memory of me— and I will hear you. Murmured by Chopin on his death-bed. Said to one of his students, according to "Chopin: I can't breathe, I can't work; I feel alone, alone, alone, although I am surrounded.
There are a whole lot of ladies, 70 to 80 year-old lords, but no young folk: One can't get out of doors because it has been raining and blowing for several days. He found it without searching for it, without foreseeing it. Henle Verlag Chopin did not need to append words to music to make it songful; in fact it seems to me that he does better without them!
Incidentally, their lack of popularity must largely be due to their being set to Polish words, and as far as I know, translating them would lessen their effect. It enters their hearts. Henle Verlag Chopin is played much more than Schumann in China, both in concert halls and music schools. The reason, if I put it in a most simple and direct way, Chopin is more universal, appeals more to the masses.
Schumann is more personal, appeals more to the elites. Henle Verlag Being Chopin a pianist himself, his works are mainly conceived for the piano. This is true for Liszt and Debussy too. Henle Verlag Music was his language, the divine tongue through which he expressed a whole realm of sentiments that only the select few can appreciate The muse of his homeland dictates his songs, and the anguished cries of Poland lend to his art a mysterious, indefinable poetry which, for all those who have truly experienced it, cannot be compared to anything else The piano alone was not sufficient to reveal all that lies within him.
In short he is a most remarkable individual who commands our highest degree of devotion. The effect of these notions could not be otherwise than very prejudicial to the interpretation of his works, even by the most able artists—in their very striving after truthfulness; besides, they are easily accounted for.
Carl Mikuli, Introductory Note of his edition of Chopin's works In keeping time Chopin was inflexible, and many will be surprised to learn that the metronome never left his piano. Even in his oft-decried tempo rubato one hand—that having the accompaniment—always played on in strict time, while the other, singing the melody, either hesitating as if undecided, or, with increased animation, anticipating with a kind of impatient vehemence as if in passionate utterances, maintained the freedom of musical expression from the fetters of strict regularity.
Carl Mikuli, Introductory Note of his edition of Chopin's works His creation was spontaneous, miraculous. It came to his piano suddenly, complete, sublime, or it sang in his head during a walk, and he would hasten to hear it again by, tossing it off on his instrument.
But then would begin the most heartbreaking labor I have ever witnessed. It was a series of efforts, indecision, and impatience to recapture certain details of the theme he had heard: He would shut himself up in his room for days at a time, weeping, pacing, breaking his pens, repeating and changing a single measure a hundred times, writing it and effacing it with equal frequency, and beginning again the next day with a meticulous and desperate perseverance.
He would spend six weeks on one page, only to end up writing it just as he had traced it in his first outpouring. George Sand  There is no weak piece by Chopin. Still, his music is played so poorly so often, and that does not do him any good.
The Sonata in B flat minor and the ballad in G minor are played much very often. Henle Verlag It was Chopin who properly set romantic pianism on its rails and gave it the impetus that shows no signs of deceleration. He did this all by himself, evolving from nowhere the most beautiful and original piano style of the century. Schonberg, The Great Pianists 2nd ed. Tubercular, Romantic, Poetic Chopin was a romantic who hated romanticism. This is the paradox. It was Chopin who, of all the early romantics, has turned out the most popular.
Virtually everything he composed has remained in the repertoire, and a piano recital without some Chopin on it is still the exception. To many his music was exotic, inexplicable, perhaps insane. Tubercular, Romantic, Poetic Fortunately the picture as it stands is quite complete, and the figure of Chopin clearly emerges: Tubercular, Romantic, Poetic Hats off, gentlemen — a genius! Chopin's works are canons buried in flowers. Oscar Wilde Chopin was the first piano composer who knew exactly how to make piano sound reach fullness, radiance and grandness.
What to regard and what, by all means, to avoid.