This was the Man E-Book

Louise Colet

• Herausgeber: Dedalus
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Serie: Dedalus European Classics
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 594

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

The middle-aged and dissolute poet Albert de Lincel pursues Stéphanie, marquise de Rostan who, although attracted, continually rebuffs him. What is the problem? Is it Albert's notorious affair twenty years previously with the celebrated writer Antonia Black? Set as a story within a story, the desperate Albert recounts the true tale of his stormy relationship with Antonia, hoping to set the record straight. But Stéphanie's reluctance, moved though she is, has another cause. She has given her heart to a man far away, toiling at the great novel which will make his name.

Leseprobe

Dedalus European Classics

General Editor: Timothy Lane

THIS WAS THE MAN

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First published in France in 1859

First published by Dedalus in 2022

The right of Graham Anderson to be identified as the translator of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

Translation, Introduction & Notes copyright © Graham Anderson 2022

Printed and bound in the UK by Clays Elcograf S.p.A.

Typeset by Marie Lane

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A C.I.P. listing for this book is available on request.

THE AUTHOR

Louise Colet (1810–1876), a successful poet in her own right, was the mistress of Gustave Flaubert when he was writing Madame Bovary.

Her brilliantly complex roman à clé, This was the Man sets the impassioned affair between Alfred de Musset (Albert) and George Sand (Antonia) against her own experience of loving two men of towering but contrasting literary reputations.

THE TRANSLATOR

Graham Anderson was born in London. After reading French and Italian at Cambridge, he worked on the book pages of City Limits and reviewed fiction for The Independent and The Sunday Telegraph. As a translator, he has developed versions of French plays, both classic and contemporary, for the NT and the Gate Theatre, with performances both here and in the USA. Publications include The Figaro Plays by Beaumarchais and A Flea in her Ear by Feydeau.

His translations for Dedalus include Sappho by Alphonse Daudet, Chasing the Dream and A Woman’s Affair by Liane de Pougy, This was the Man (Lui) by Louise Colet and This Woman, This Man (Elle et Lui) by George Sand. His translations of Grazia Deledda’s short story collections The Queen of Darkness and The Christmas Present will be published by Dedalus in 2023. He is currently translating Marianna Sirca by Grazie Deledda for Dedalus.

His own short fiction has won or been shortlisted for three literary prizes. He is married and lives in Oxfordshire.

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIV

CHAPTER XV

CHAPTER XVI

CHAPTER XVII

CHAPTER XVIII

CHAPTER XIX

CHAPTER XX

CHAPTER XXI

CHAPTER XXII

CHAPTER XXIII

CHAPTER XXIV

CHAPTER XXV

CHAPTER XXVI

CHAPTER XXVII

CHAPTER XXVIII

Notes and References

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INTRODUCTION

Louise Colet

I am indebted in this brief summary of Louise Colet’s career to the work of Francine Du Plessix Gray, whose biography, Rage and Fire: A Life of Louise Colet – Pioneer Feminist, Literary Star and Flaubert’s Muse (Simon & Schuster, 1994/Hamish Hamilton 1994), has brought a largely forgotten woman vividly to life.

Louise Colet was born in Aix-en-Provence on 15th August 1810. She was the sixth and youngest child of Henri-Antoine Révoil, a solid bourgeois and director of the Aix postal system, and of Henriette Le Blanc de Servanes. The Le Blanc de Servanes family were local gentry. Their manor house at Servanes had been built by Henriette’s grandfather, a member of the Parlement de Provence. Louise’s maternal grandfather, Jean-Baptiste Le Blanc, who inspired her youthful literary and political impulses, was a friend and near neighbour of Mirabeau and like him a dedicated revolutionary.

The family lived in a government apartment in Aix in the winter and at Servanes in the summer. After Henri-Antoine Révoil’s death in 1826, the apartment had to be surrendered and the family lived at Servanes all year round, trying to make a success of its modest resources as an agricultural estate producing olive oil. Louise’s three elder brothers, conservative and reactionary like their father, mocked their youngest sister, who from an early age had eagerly devoured the books in grandfather Jean-Baptiste’s library and begun to write poems and stories of her own. At sixteen, she was sent to live for a year with her paternal grandmother, a liberal-minded woman who allowed her to read the frowned-upon writers Hugo and Constant, and even the English fictions of Scott and Richardson. Her mind was to be permanently coloured by their graphic tales and settings.

From the late 1820s to the early 1830s, a key period in the headstrong and bookish Louise’s transition from girl to grown woman, she grew increasingly frustrated at the repressive and small-minded views of her siblings, who now included the husband of her eldest sister, the new head of the household. Only her mother, Henriette, and her nearest sister in age, Marie, had any degree of sympathy for her impassioned outbursts in praise of radical thinkers and writers such as l’abbé Lammenais and the emerging George Sand. Louise longed to escape a stifling situation, to the only possible destination for a person of her tastes and education – Paris. The situation worsened with the death of Henriette, Louise’s mother, in 1834.

A way out eventually emerged in the form of a young musician, Hippolyte Colet, whom she had met the previous year in Nîmes. Although a less strong character than Louise, he shared her desire to make a mark on the world. He had already studied at the Paris Conservatoire and now, at 26, had been offered a post as a teacher at the same institution. If Louise, admired in the area as a great beauty and poetic spirit, would marry him, Hippolyte said, she too could go to Paris. Against violent opposition from her older siblings, Louise Révoil married Hippolyte Colet in December 1834, and the couple set off without delay for the capital.

Hippolyte’s job was poorly paid: he worked as a répétiteur and gave private lessons to supplement his income. Louise spent most of her time trudging the Paris streets trying to sell her poems to the editors of an assortment of papers and periodicals. Letters of introduction helped her through a handful of doors into literary society, notably the salon of the Bibliothèque de l’Arsenal hosted by its director Charles Nodier. It was at one of these evenings, in 1836, that she first glimpsed and had a brief exchange with Alfred de Musset. Apart from the publication of a few pieces in l’Artiste however, she had little success. But she was a bold and determined woman. She collected all the poems she had written in Aix into a single volume, entitled it Fleurs du Midi, and sent it off to the leading critic of the day, Charles-Augustin Sainte-Beuve. His response was little better than lukewarm, but she had the volume published by Dumont, in 1836, with some of the critic’s kinder comments attached. She distributed the book widely, at her own cost, to many of the highest people in the land, not excluding the king, Louis-Philippe himself, and his daughter, who liked the poems greatly and secured for the new writer a modest state pension.

Her real breakthrough however, came when at the suggestion of an old acquaintance from Aix, the historian François Mignet, she entered the biennial poetry competition held by the Académie Française, of which he was a member. Her entry, on the subject of the Musée de Versailles, won. It was while paying the customary visits to the Academicians who had supported her that Louise Colet met Victor Cousin, perhaps the most influential cultural scholar and lecturer of his time. Although a confirmed bachelor in his mid-forties, Cousin fell for Louise Colet’s mixture of fair-haired beauty, energetic determination to succeed (his own origins had been very humble) and rather florid talent. A degree of sneering backlash from the male elite only encouraged the new mistress of the famous Cousin. The 1841 collection, Penserosa, attracted warm reviews, even from the previously tepid Sainte-Beuve. With Cousin as her adviser and protector, her career advanced, to the jealous dismay of the sadly insipid Hippolyte, her husband. Her child, a daughter, born in 1840 and whom she named Henriette in honour of her mother, became a source of happiness and pride to Louise, and of cruel speculation concerning its paternity among those who saw the poetess’ forceful manner and growing success as an affront to the natural order of things. Her book on the Aix-born revolutionary, La Jeunesse de Mirabeau, further enhanced her reputation. Her next work, studies of two women activists, Charlotte Corday and Madame Roland, brought her into contact for the first time with George Sand. Sand, by this time, was an established figure in the literary world and an increasingly voluble contributor to socialist causes. Her reaction when Colet sent her the new volume came as a disappointment. Although the two women were fundamentally on the same side, Sand considered Colet’s approach to the true meaning of the Revolution insufficiently rooted in the sufferings of the poor. And for the rest of their careers, these two forceful and successful women writers circled each other warily, Sand remaining aloof and distant whilst appreciating Colet’s drive and talent, and Colet, while continuing to admire Sand, remaining disappointed by her unapproachableness.

As her public recognition grew Colet made firmer friends with a number of other prominent figures, among them the society sculptor James Pradier and the philosopher-poet Pierre-Jean Béranger, whose homespun verses and humble character earned him the title of ‘Papa Béranger’. She also became the protégée of the famous salon hostess Madame Récamier, by then well into her sixties and settled in a long relationship with the near-mythical figure of René de Chateaubriand.

All the indications of professional advancement need to be off-set against a series of personal misfortunes which made life for the impetuous and outspoken Colet a conflict of powerful emotions. Her second child, a boy, died in infancy; and at the same time her husband, by now living apart, was becoming worried about his own declining health (she was to nurse him devotedly in her own home during his final illness, in 1848).

It was at about this time that Louise Colet became acquainted, and in a matter of days infatuated, with a man completely unknown outside his own small circle of mainly male friends, who had published nothing and who lived with his widowed mother outside Rouen, far enough from Paris to be another country. This was Gustave Flaubert, aged 24 at the time of their chance meeting at Pradier’s studio in July 1846 (Colet was approaching 36).

The young Flaubert was tall, broad-shouldered, jovial and extraordinarily well-read. Colet, who was attracted to men of strong character, fell for him at once, as he did for her. They were in some respects well-suited: both had powerful sexual appetites and intellects. What Colet could not know, but was soon to discover, was that while for her the two driving needs of her life went hand in hand, for Flaubert they belonged in entirely separate compartments of life. After their first impassioned encounter, which lasted just a week or two, he withdrew to Croisset, the house outside Rouen, exchanged with Colet a highly-charged and almost non-stop correspondence, but withheld his physical presence for long intervals. Baffled by his behaviour, she did not appreciate being held at arm’s length and her letters soon contained as much anger and recrimination as loving admiration. She was the romantic, impetuous, demanding hot-head from the Mediterranean south of France; he the intellectually proud, heartlessly pleasure-taking and essentially self-serving product of the north. But their contrasting situations and beliefs ran deeper. While Colet needed to keep producing work in order to earn a living, she also held the belief that the writer’s ultimate aim was for glory, to make herself a fixed star in France’s cultural firmament, to enhance and celebrate its historical magnificence. The seemingly lusty Flaubert lived a sequestered life at the side of his querulous, difficult mother, surviving on family money (his father had been head surgeon at Rouen’s principal hospital), but living in fear of the fits and seizures which had ended his unhappy years as a law student in Paris. His purpose in writing was to pursue not glory or money but the cause of writing itself, the highest and most demanding of arts. Both of them were sensitive and opinionated, and alongside the storms of their amours, both of them relished the clash of ideas: he could criticise her over-abundant facility while she could lament his laboriousness (and consequent monastic absenteeism).

In early 1847, after a particularly vehement row, inspired by her jealousy over Flaubert’s relationship with Pradier’s estranged wife, they parted company, yet carried on writing to each other for a further year. The events of 1848 had already brought Colet much misery. As well as the slow death from tuberculosis of the luckless Hippolyte, a third child, fathered by a Polish lover, also died in infancy. Madame Récamier died in a cholera outbreak the following year. Colet immediately published the correspondence between Madame Récamier and Benjamin Constant which her friend had entrusted to her and brought down much opprobrium on her own head. Her first and most important lover, Victor Cousin, withdrawn from public life since the 1848 uprisings, was still a supporter and protector, but increasingly distant. Flaubert meanwhile, had departed on a long-planned tour of the Near East in the company of Maxime du Camp, writer and journalist, and at times a mischievous and unreliable go-between for the two lovers.

In June 1851, shortly after his return, the affair resumed. Flaubert had abandoned the overblown style of his La Tentation de Saint-Antoine and was now preparing a new idea, a novel set in ordinary life, on a smaller scale, but which he regarded as a huge challenge to his powers. It was suggested by his friends du Camp and Louis Bouilhet and followed a newspaper story concerning a country doctor’s wife, who after conducting an adulterous affair and running up ruinous debts, had committed suicide. Initially resistant to Colet’s renewed approach in the summer of that year, Flaubert was writing to her in September that he had begun the new novel, whose heroine’s name he had already chosen on his Near East travels: Emma Bovary.

Six years had passed since their first meeting. They were able to understand each other better. Colet controlled her tempestuous nature, Flaubert learned to appreciate her talents as a literary friend and advisor. The relationship flourished in a profitable way: Flaubert allowed himself to be drawn into Colet’s campaign to support the exiled Victor Hugo, who had fled to the Channel Islands after Louis Napoleon’s coup in December 1851. He was able to find genuine praise for La Paysanne, one of her series of long poems, Le poème de la femme. In 1852, she won the Académie Française poetry prize yet again (she was to win it four times in all, an unprecedented feat for a woman writer). Her life at this period was far from easy, torn as she was between the desire to maintain her personal and financial independence and her growing interest in exploring feminist issues, a subject which was hard to sell in the increasingly bourgeois and material climate of the times. She had to turn to writing for children: her Enfances célèbres, chronicling the early years of future geniuses, became a great success; and her articles and reviews of women’s fashions, published in La gazettes des femmes, earned her just enough to get by on – whilst also demonstrating her resourcefulness and adaptability as a writer.

Nevertheless, it is the abundant correspondence between Colet and Flaubert during the writing of Madame Bovary over this same period (he destroyed her letters; happily she preserved his) which, as a major resource for Flaubert scholars, has remained the major source of Colet’s enduring reputation.

A profitable period on both sides – if always one of struggle also – came to an end over the winter of 1853 and spring of 1854. Deprived of Flaubert’s presence, Colet had not been idle. In 1852, she met Alfred de Musset again, at the time of his induction as a member of the Académie Française and the reading of her own poem for the Academy prize. He was a wasted version of the twenty-five-year-old she had first seen at the Arsenal in 1836. Nevertheless, Musset embarked on an assiduous pursuit of the still beautiful and by now eminent poetess. She resisted his advances at first, finding his constant drunkenness a discouraging counter to his undoubted charm and wit. When she eventually yielded to his pleadings, Musset proved impotent. This affair took place while her relationship with Flaubert was still in its golden period, though Flaubert remained largely in ignorance. Colet’s letters merely mentioned her new friendship with the famous Musset and her concern at his irresponsible behaviour. After the initially passionate phase, Colet continued to see Musset as a friend until well into 1853.

It nevertheless irked Colet that Flaubert thought fit to make visits to his male associates in Paris without seeing his supposed mistress and muse. A further affair with the distinguished, aristocratic and much older Alfred de Vigny (in his mid-fifties to her early-forties) seemed to express Colet’s rising impatience with Flaubert’s unchanging patterns of life. His visits to the capital were rare, their meetings rarer still; there was still no end in sight to the great book he was working on; and he still resolutely blocked her long-standing desire to be allowed to come to Croisset and to meet his mother, whom she had come to view as some kind of mythical and hostile gatekeeper (although this may have been more Gustave Flaubert’s doing than Madame Flaubert’s). And while Colet may have begun to harass and criticise him again, it was Flaubert who allowed the relationship to cool, until by the early months of 1854, he was almost encouraging her connection with de Vigny. After a particularly acrimonious dispute in Colet’s Paris apartment in May of that year, he never visited or wrote to her again; and although she continued to hope and sometimes to plead, a curt note from Flaubert in 1855 put a final end to Louise Colet’s longest-lasting and most significant love affair.

The publication of Madame Bovary, in serial form in du Camp’s journal Revue de Paris in the autumn of 1856 and in book form in 1857, after unsuccessful efforts to suppress it on moral grounds, brought Colet no comfort. She identified many episodes in her former lover’s novel with incidents from their own liaison and was appalled to find herself so exploited. Having been ill with bronchitis through much of that winter, it was a further blow when the two men whose admiration she returned, Alfred de Musset and Pierre-Jean Béranger, died in the spring. Her relationship with de Vigny came to a gentler end in the same year, and Colet fell into something of a depression of spirit as well as body.

She found few subjects to engage her mind or pen until, in 1859, George Sand unexpectedly produced (at a troubled period in her own life) Elle et Lui, a fictionalised account of the famous affair between herself and Musset twenty-five years earlier. Sand’s novel transposed the central figures from writers to artists, radically altered the details of their unhappy visit to Italy in 1833–34, but left it perfectly clear who was who in the roman à clef, and more importantly, who was right and who was wrong. Musset’s older brother Paul, anxious to preserve the reputation of the recently deceased poet, responded with an equally speedily composed novel, Lui et Elle. Louise Colet at once saw her new subject and set about writing her own account of the old scandal, calling it Lui. Hers became the bestselling and most highly-regarded of these three works, and it is certainly the most complex and true to life. Literary Paris greatly enjoyed this sudden revival of the old war between the pro-Sand and pro-Musset camps, and a number of more or less jocular or scathing articles appeared off the presses: Gaston Lavalley, a hack journalist, produced a mocking version of the story entitled Eux, whilst many shorter pieces appeared under the general heading Eux (et Elles) brouillés.

The good reception of Lui marked a new point in Colet’s life. Now in her late forties, she chose to seek less gratification in pursuing her personal amours and began instead to direct her still abundant energy towards broader issues. Already a convinced defender – and exemplar – of a woman’s right to lead an independent life, she became interested in the renewed upsurge of political feeling in Italy, a country her father, Henri-Antoine Révoil, had lived in for many years, transmitting to Louise his love of its history and culture.

A long tour of Italy, from late 1859 to spring 1861, resulted in the first of a four-volume series, L’Italie des Italiens (1861–64), a detailed account of the country, its art, architecture, its history, its struggles and her part in them. She made several more trips to Italy, feeding off the tumultuous times there to re-launch her career in France as a political and social commentator. She reopened her salon, she opened her mind to the new generation of poets who attended it, amongst them Leconte de Lisle and Théodore Gautier, who wished to remove the Romantic ego from their works and produce something more lofty and pure, art for its own sake. She published poems alongside theirs in the new journal Le Parnasse contemporain. She produced two virulently critical books in the late 1860s, the anti-clerical Les derniers abbés and the anti-imperial La satire du siècle, in which Pope Pius IX in Rome and Napoleon III in Paris, and the systems they presided over, received the full force of her ire and disgust.

Towards the end of 1869 she followed in Flaubert’s footsteps and made a lengthy trip to the Near East. The immediate occasion was the ceremonial opening of the Suez Canal. She accompanied a large party of dignitaries and journalists, after being appointed by the leftist paper Le Siècle, to report on this great achievement of French-led engineering. To receive this appointment should be considered a feat in itself: she was the only woman in the party and suffered all the privations of the difficult journey and inadequate accommodation with greater fortitude than many of her male counterparts. She found the physical squalor and moral laxity of Cairo deeply objectionable, unlike Flaubert twenty years earlier. After Egypt, she moved on to visit Greece and Istanbul, and it was there that she heard the news of Napoleon III’s defeat at Sedan, in September 1870, and the Prussian invasion of her homeland. Unable to return to a Paris under siege, she spent some time in Marseilles, where at the behest of the socialist Deputy Alphonse Esquiros, she delivered two public lectures to the women of the city. The reaction of outraged conservatives to Colet’s challenging speeches so upset her that she felt too ill to make any further attempt to return to Paris for some months. She spent the winter of 1870–71 in Marseilles, and when she was eventually able to regain her modest apartment, it was just in time to witness the outbreak of the popular revolt against the peace terms agreed between the Prussians and the exiled French government in Versailles.

The Paris Commune turned out to be one of the most shocking and blood-thirsty events in Parisian history, and Colet saw it all, from the initial enthusiasm of the Communards to their eventual defeat by Versailles troops and the bloody repercussions that followed. Her distress at all the destruction and killing was matched only by her revulsion at the cheerful forgetfulness of her fellow citizens, who seemed able to turn their backs on the whole tragic episode within a matter of months. She set about composing one of her final books, La vérité sur l’anarchie des esprits en France, then caused a public rumpus with a disobliging article on Sainte-Beuve after the critic’s death, and after two more years, finding herself increasingly isolated and unwell, retreated south once more. She visited Aix and Milan before settling in the low-key seaside resort of San Remo. After two years of insipid summers and rainy winters, marked by frequent bouts of feverish illness, Colet came home to Paris. She lived in various hotels, kept up her long-standing correspondence with Victor Hugo, made plans for the completion of a book on the Near East and worked long hours whenever her health permitted. By the end of 1875 it was deteriorating; and it was at the Paris apartment kept by her daughter Henriette, now respectably married, that Louise Colet died, aged 65, on 8th March 1876.

Despite Colet’s wishes, the pious and conventional Henriette Colet-Bissieu gave her mother a funeral with the full rites of the Catholic church and laid her to rest in the Bissieu family plot in Verneuil, Normandy.

George Sand, who might have been her ally in the feminist and socialist causes both women espoused, outlived her by only three months, dying aged 71 at her family property at Nohant in June 1876.

Gustave Flaubert, whose great novel she had helped bring into the world, achieved lasting fame and went on to publish Salammbô (1862), L’Education sentimentale (1869) and Trois Contes (1877). He died in 1880 aged 58 following a seizure.

Lui, The Novel

Louis Colet was a famously quick writer. She dashed off 58 stanzas on the Museum at Versailles to win her first Academy prize in three days, having dashed off to Versailles to see the thing itself only a week before the deadline. Such facility often won her as much criticism as admiration. Her writing reached too easily for obvious effects and overblown sentiment, critics complained, Flaubert among them.

The composition in a short space of time of her novel Lui is therefore a tour de force of organisation and sobriety. And although its composition is to some degree a piece of career opportunism, the result is a complex and fascinating book. Having known Alfred de Musset herself, having witnessed his weaknesses of character at first hand, she was well placed to offer a different perspective on the famous affair with George Sand. It is also a story about herself, for Colet was nothing if not a zealous self-promoter.

Lui contains two distinct narratives, the outer bracketing the inner. In the outer, a single mother of impeccable background, fallen on hard times, is wooed by the poet Albert de Lincel, now a dissolute and ageing shadow of his former self. The highly respectable Marquise Stéphanie de Rostan – a much-aggrandised Colet – has no wish to be wooed, for she has given her heart to the shadowy figure of Léonce, an as yet unpublished genius living in self-imposed seclusion in distant Normandy. He is young, handsome and lusty. His occasional visits to Stéphanie are the all too rare highlights of her existence. To keep herself financially afloat pending the settlement of a court case, she turns to literary translations and invokes the help of her circle of writer friends to find the best publishing deal. She gathers a council of war, alongside her most selfless supporter René Delmart (Antony Deschamps, with elements of his brother Emile), the distinguished Albert de Germiny (Alfred de Vigny) and the popular Duverger (Pierre-Jean Béranger). It is René Delmart who suggests they approach the redoubtable editor and publisher Frémont (François Buloz, director of the powerful Revue des deux mondes) through the agency of Albert de Lincel. René takes Stéphanie to visit Lincel, and the latter is at once smitten.

After weeks of fruitless pursuit, Lincel comes to the conclusion that the obstacle between them can only be his notorious association as a young man with the celebrated writer Antonia Back (George Sand). And one evening, in Stéphanie’s apartment, he reveals to her the full and true history of their intense but disastrous love affair.

So begins the second, inner narrative, a lengthy episode which includes far more of the known facts than Sand’s version of them in her novel Elle et Lui. It also includes some typical Colet extravagances in her descriptions of masked balls and complicated romantic alliances in Venice, where the real-life couple spent the winter of 1833–34. And although Colet is broadly accurate and even-handed in portraying Sand as devoted to her work while Musset flits about Venice seeking both diversion and inspiration, her sympathies clearly lie with Musset. When Lincel falls ill, Antonia Back sends for a local doctor, Tiberio Piacentini, and during the course of Back’s tireless nursing of the feverish Lincel, Dr Piacentini’s frequent appearances become something more than merely professional visits. The jealous and enraged Lincel’s behaviour is eventually too much for Back to endure. She confesses her love for the doctor, and a shattered Lincel returns alone to Paris. When Back and her new lover return to Paris themselves, Louise Colet is unsparing: Piacentini is a chump and Back a cold-hearted careerist. The Italian doctor is dismissed and retires, tail between his legs to Venice, and the Lincel-Back liaison is resumed. But the storms of Italy are repeated in France and after a number of abrasive encounters, the relationship finally collapses. Lincel appears as the more painfully damaged of the two; and only now, with the passage of many years, and after meeting the wonderful Stéphanie, can Lincel say that his heart is ready to love again.

The return to the outer narrative sees Stéphanie still unable to grant Lincel all he wishes. To convince him that she really does love another man, even if he is nowhere to be seen, she allows him to read some of Léonce’s letters to her. Lincel, interpreting Léonce’s character in a way Stéphanie’s blind passion cannot, launches into a dismantling of the distant genius’ morals and motives which leaves Stéphanie torn between loyalty and doubt. The climactic moment comes when Lincel pays her an unexpected call just as she is preparing for one of Léonce’s longed-for but rare visits. Lincel sees the preparations – vases of flowers, a table laid for two, Stéphanie’s especially alluring toilette – and curtly withdraws. The two men pass each other, unknown, in the courtyard below. Stéphanie rushes to her room, weeping. For reasons never gone into, Léonce turns out to be a cad, a vulgar lecher, a brute. The ending of her friendship with Lincel turns out to be the ending of her relationship with Léonce as well.

A saddened Marquise de Rostan is left even more alone than before, with only her dignity and pride, and her love for her young son, to sustain her. She sees Lincel once more, a few years later, when they meet by chance on the pont de la Concorde. The poet is looking even more ravaged than before. A brief, resigned conversation ensues, after which they part from opposite ends of the bridge. Not long after, Stéphanie hears of Lincel’s death. Too overcome to attend the funeral herself, she sends her young son and her faithful maid in her place. Only some months later, her hurts abating, and her boy appealing for balance to be restored to their lives, is Stéphanie able to love Lincel in death.

For all its highly Romantic sensibilities, the author of Lui – who had been so essential to the gestation of Madame Bovary, the first great realist novel – has constructed a subtle and serious work. Musset/Lincel’s charm flows easily off the page; his vulnerabilities and fecklessness are not suppressed; there is joy and good humour in the triple friendship between mother, son and raffish poet. George Sand, in the figure of Antonia Back, is by no means villainous, even if Colet cannot resist giving her a frosty stare from time to time. There is some heavy weather early on, as Colet, in the guise of the marquise, establishes her literary credentials, and the novel is peppered with learned references. Colet gives her Lincel a perhaps excessive interest in Lord Byron, his life and works, and her lengthy footnote on the subject is an undoubted self-indulgence. But the sense of life lived, of personalities attracting each other and clashing, of loyalties and principles put to the test, all this rings true.

Certain real events are bent to the author’s purpose without becoming discreditable distortions. The near miss, when her two lovers arrived at her apartment at the same time, did happen, but did not mark a crucial point in either relationship. The album of famous autographs, which Colet had been compiling ever since receiving signed letters of thanks from dignitaries to whom she had, with typical boldness, sent copies of her early works really did exist. Towards the end of Lui, when Lincel is heaping scorn on Léonce, this album becomes a cudgel to beat him with. Stéphanie had asked Léonce to make enquiries about its fate on a visit to England, where she had sent the volume in the hope of attracting a sale. Léonce’s inertia in the matter and his uncomplimentary remarks, when pointed out by Lincel, help the scales to fall from Stéphanie’s eyes. In point of fact, Colet had herself made a trip to London in July 1851 during which she tried and failed to find a buyer for this extravagant item. Its extravagance lay in the fact, as her friend and counsellor Béranger observed, that the penurious Colet had paid considerable sums – up to 1000 francs – to acquire the autographs of such luminaries as the composers Rossini and Meyerbeer and the Italian novelist Manzoni.

A further hurt, which Colet still felt sharply enough in 1859 to include in her novel, arose from an innocent remark she had made as long ago as the first enraptured weeks with Flaubert in 1846. She had declared, lying in bed with him, that she would not have exchanged her present happiness for all the fame and glory of Corneille. Flaubert’s angry retort, that to identify literary genius with fame and glory constituted a serious character defect, a mis-step by Colet to which he frequently returned in his letters to her, clearly wounded her deeply. Its reappearance in Lui contributes to the accusations that Flaubert was a man devoid of natural feelings, a man locked in intellectual arrogance, hypercritical of the least female effusion.

To note these instances is to see how, in calling her novel Lui, Louise Colet is doing more than simply addressing herself to George Sand’s portrayal of Alfred de Musset in Elle et Lui. Colet’s ‘him’ also includes Flaubert, and extends by implication to the male in general, and how his behaviour, whether self-indulgent or overbearing, is always to the disservice of women. It is remarkable how much these two women, Sand and Colet, had in common, even though they were personally on cool terms with each other. Both had unsatisfactory marriages early in their careers; both took plenty of lovers thereafter, whilst remaining steadfastly independent of men for any financial support; and both developed over the years a wider perspective that made them fully engaged contributors to the great social and political debates of their times.

It is interesting to note finally, how Colet may have woven into her narrative a borrowing from Sand. The subject of Sand’s 1842 novel, Consuelo, is a Venetian gypsy girl who becomes an opera star and whose success exposes the jealousies and rivalries in the narrow world of social and artistic elites. In Lui, Albert de Lincel’s discovery and promotion of a North African street dancer, who he sees performing in Saint Mark’s Square, becomes a key element in the discord between himself and Antonia Back. The young woman triumphs at a specially arranged performance at La Fenice, under the stage name which Lincel has casually thrust upon her, Négra (changed here out of respect for modern sensibilities to Maura). It seems less likely that this is intended as a dig at Sand than as a nod to a fellow woman writer at the unjust treatment meted out to powerless women, for Négra/Maura is ruthlessly dropped by Lincel once her life threatens to impinge on his own.

Lui, for all its wordiness, digressions, emphasis on the marquise’s (i.e., Colet’s) erudition, probity and dignity, is not only a remarkable piece, but a significant contribution to the claims of women writers of the period to be considered as the equals of their dominant male counterparts.

And although Louise Colet’s contemporary fame has now almost entirely evaporated, her life, her loves, her convictions, and this, perhaps her most lasting work, place her squarely among the sisterhood of France’s most radical female voices of the turbulent nineteenth century. The aim of this new publication is to restore to Louise Colet the position she deserves to hold alongside George Sand.

For interested readers, Sand’s Elle et Lui is also published by Dedalus Books, as This Woman, This Man, while Musset’s own account of the affair, La Confession d’un enfant du siècle, is available in translations elsewhere.

I

‘For people such as yourself, who write,’ the Marquise de Rostan said to me one evening, ‘I have a message.’ Stéphanie de Rostan was one of those rare and distinctive eighteenth-century spirits that seem to have leapt across the intervening years to land in this hesitant age of ours where good minds are in search of their direction, consciences of their morals and writers of their style. ‘I say to the writer: take care, when dealing with love, to avoid emotionalism. Love is a natural and simple feeling: do not, when dealing with this urgent and uncomplicated impulse that attracts people and also disconcerts them, do not hold forth in the language of metaphysics and mysticism. The reason heroines of modern novels are so dull, and in my opinion, so immoral is that they approach love in terms of religion and motherhood. They bury under completely irrelevant ideas that fine flame of youth, and now it no longer warms any hearts or colours any stories. Since Rousseau produced his Julie and Lamartine his Elvire,1 almost every woman has turned the subject of love into a sermon on philosophy or religion or socialism. And the result is that love has been stifled by high-minded and pretentious aspirations that have nothing to do with it except accidentally.’

‘Help me understand you better, marquise,’ I replied. ‘Give me a definition then, of what you understand by love.’

‘Define love, what are you thinking of? If I tried, I’d immediately sound as absurd as the women I criticise. I shall not define love. But I have experienced it, through the agencies of heart and mind and senses, to its deepest and widest degree, and I assure you it bears little resemblance to the descriptions offered by writers or to the hypocritical assertions of many women. Very few dare to be frank on the subject. They are afraid of appearing indecent. It is my belief – forgive me for sounding superior – that only the most honest people are qualified to tell the truth on this matter. Love is not a fall from grace, love is not about remorse or mourning. It can bring these things on, through the anguish of breaking up; but at the point when it is felt and shared, it is the highest expression of what it means to be a human being, it teaches the heart both joy and morality.’

‘So you don’t regret having loved?’ I said, ‘in spite of love leaving you grieving and empty?’

‘If it was possible to love again,’ she said warmly, ‘if a new and all-encompassing passion were to obliterate all traces of passions that have died, I would. But as that is not possible, and as we do not have the capacity to become young again or to forget, it is enough for me to savour the memory of what I have felt. I do not want anything less than complete fulfilment in love: I would always reject its mere approximation. But I am not so iced-over and mystical at forty that those shining hours of youth are a matter for repentance. They are still the best times, in spite of the trouble, the tears, and as you rightly say, the emptiness that they bring in their wake. Doesn’t the sailor who is driven by fate into the icy wastes of Greenland take pleasure in recalling a warm and beautiful flower-fringed beach in Cuba or the Antilles?’

‘Oh, marquise!’ I exclaimed. ‘You really must tell me your life story, or your impressions rather.’

‘I would find it painful to talk about myself,’ she replied. ‘I have found a serenity I do not wish to lose. And you, as someone who is fond of me, would not wish to stir sparks among the cold ashes or force tears from the polished rock on which I now walk at peace. But I will talk to you about a particular man, the famous friend that you came to know, a person all of society talks about and of whom so many lying things are said and written. And when I tell you how we met, how he loved me, how I remain devoted to him after his death, you will discover in my account of our friendship what he, the great poet, understood by love. And you will discover what I said to him about love, with the openness a more intimate relationship might perhaps have hindered but which was given free rein by the intelligent and brotherly empathy between us.’

This conversation took place in the garden of the Marquise de Rostan’s pretty house in rue de Bourgogne, one fine evening in May. We were sitting beside the white marble basin that formed its focal point. A Judas tree, just coming into flower, spread its delicate red branches above our heads; the sky was clear and calm; and the air so sweet it lulled us like some kindly potion. With her great gold-blonde crown of hair haloing that lovely expressive face and her marble-white neck, the marquise’s still slender figure, gracefully wrapped in the many folds of a double-skirted violet dress, appeared all the more striking amid all these delicate and softly silky stuffs. Her body, slightly arched, leant against the back of a wrought iron seat whilst her small hands clasped her folded knee. In this pose – that of Sappho in Pradier’s2 sculpture – her wide sleeves revealed to the elbow two arms of dazzling whiteness, perfect in their modelling. The warm breath of the magnificent spring evening lent her cheeks a pearl-pink sheen. She was delightful to look at, and I said to myself: she ought to be adored by someone still.

She seemed to guess my thoughts, for she suddenly declared: ‘Better not to be loved at all than be loved badly or only half-loved. For an ardent soul hesitation and anxiety are worse than being without hope. It is because I have learnt to be at peace that I am able to adore nature and to feel in a fine evening like this a sense of well-being.

‘No more talking about me. Let’s talk about him. It was on a day like this that he died, two years ago. I don’t like to disturb so soon the dear dust of the departed, and I would have liked the world to let his lie in peace for a few years yet. But the ashes of exceptional people can stir of their own accord. Their fame attracts the inquisitive gaze. Envy can strike at ghosts as much as it does at the living. And sometimes grave offence is caused when their loves are misrepresented. It is then that the duties of friendship demand the truth be told, for truth is the one eternal justice.’

II

Before I tell you how I came to know him and how our friendship developed, let me relate our first encounter, in 1836, when I saw him swirl past me in a waltz. The sudden apparition of the young man of genius who passed before me one day, blond head gracefully swaying, has always stayed with me like one of those scenes the memory preserves distinct in every detail. It was at the Arsenal,3 that salon which became such a concentration of wit and poetry every Sunday evening. The women of that time, those from the highest ranks of society, still loved and sought out the company of writers of genius. It was not permissible, as it is nowadays, to have read nothing, admired nothing, never to have felt anything great or beautiful, never to have loved anything of merit. One would have blushed to measure one’s life by the fullness of a dress or to see the stultifying effect, on a pretty head covered in diamonds, of this endless preoccupation with ruinous luxury. In those days women dressed with less show but kept more feelings in their hearts and more ideas in their heads. One might indulge in mild coquetry and make overtures to men and women of wit or of letters. Princes and princesses set the example.

It was therefore a great favour, even for a young marquise, to be received at those intimate Sundays at the Arsenal. Our eminent poets recited their verse; our famous composers gave us their music; then to finish the evening, the young women and girls danced to the piano.

I had been married for barely two months when I went, for the first time, to the Arsenal. My husband, a strange and jealous man, would not permit me to appear in society unless I wore high-necked dresses with long sleeves to hide the arms. I obeyed, quite indifferent then to anything not concerned with matters of the heart or mind. On that evening I was wearing a black velvet dress which encased me up to the chin. My hair, set in ringlets in the English style, fell in long flowing curls over my severely covered shoulders. From the chignon at my crown, streamers of white convolvulus trailed down behind. This arrangement might have been graceful if set off against bare skin; but piled as it was on the black velvet of my bodice, it looked merely strange. When I entered the great room where the salon was held, the readings and the music were over; a young woman at the piano was playing the introduction to a waltz. A great many eyes turned in my direction, for apart from the master of the house, who had known my father, I was, to everyone present a stranger. A young man, favourably remarked upon by several of the women, suddenly came up to me and asked me for this waltz.

I replied that I never waltzed.

He bowed, turned on his heel and I saw him, a minute later, swinging past me in a waltz; in his arms was a dark-haired young woman, the much-loved muse of that salon.

‘Why did you refuse to dance with Albert de Lincel, then?’ the master of the house asked me.

‘What, that was him? Him!’ I cried. ‘The man I especially wanted to meet!’

‘The very man! He’s dancing with my daughter at the moment.’

I began to study the dancer. He was slim and of medium height, and had dressed with considerable care, with a trace of affectation even. He was wearing a bronze green coat with metal buttons; a gold chain lay across his brown silk waistcoat; two onyx studs pinned to his chest the cambric ruffles of his shirt. A narrow cravat in black satin, pulled tight round his throat like a neck-iron made of jet, accentuated the tones of his matte complexion; his white gloves irreproachably illustrated the delicacy of his hands; but it was above all in the arrangement of his fine blond hair that a studied care was evident. In the manner of Lord Byron, he had lent to the crown which nature had set on inspiration’s brow a grace that was full of nobility. Curls broke in waves over his forehead and descended in clusters to the nape of his neck, and as the rapidly circling waltz brought him under the light from the chandelier, I was struck by the different tints of this multi-coloured head of hair. The first ringlets, hanging over his brow, were golden blond, the ones behind had an amber tint, and those that gathered thickly on the top changed by gradations from fair to dark. When I met him later he still had the same beautiful hair, with that same very unusual effect, which he kept, unaltered, until his death. In contrast to most fair-haired men, who have red side-whiskers, his were chestnut and his eyes almost black, which gave his features a more vigorous look, more fiery. He had the perfect straight Greek nose and his mouth, young and fresh then, revealed white teeth when he smiled. These aspects of his appearance, taken together, struck one with their aristocratic distinction, an effect illuminated by the light in his eyes and amplified in the ideal curve of his brow. It was a combination of genius and good breeding, with genius presiding. As he waltzed, his head, thrown back, presented itself to me in all its beauty. On two occasions the pauses in the rhythm of the waltz brought the dancers to within a few steps of the chair where I was sitting. On the first occasion, he looked at me and I heard him saying to his partner: ‘That blonde lady so conscientiously muffled up in her black velvet, she must be an Englishwoman, a Quaker perhaps?’

‘You are singularly mistaken,’ the young woman replied.

The second time, his partner informed him, tilting her head in my direction: ‘I assure you she is a daughter of sunny climes; and how can you wonder at her fairness, a man who has lived in Venice and seen Titian’s women in flesh and blood?’

He looked at her almost sadly.

She continued: ‘It is true that you only had eyes for brunettes in those days, it was the raven-haired girls that attracted you!’

‘As indeed today,’ he replied with a gallant smile for his dark-haired dancing partner. But it seemed to me that a cloud had passed over his face.

When the waltz ended, he collected his hat and left the salon.

III

Many years had gone by since that evening at the Arsenal. I had lost my husband and a disastrous law suit temporarily deprived me of my entire fortune. This fine building where I had been born, where my grandfather and my mother had lived, was put up for sale, and while waiting for it to find a purchaser, it was let fully furnished to a wealthy family. Trusting in a presentiment which did not deceive me and which told me that this property would one day be mine once more, I was determined not to abandon it and I rented, for myself, a small apartment laid out on the fourth floor, to which one gained access by a service staircase. Of the five rooms, two had formerly served my grandfather as study and laboratory: it was here, that with the great Lavoisier,4 he had carried out experiments in chemistry. The windows of my humble dwelling looked out over this garden where I had played as a child. If you raise your head you will see them up there, smiling under the roof. The tops of the trees we are sitting under brushed them with their branches.

I gathered round me there some precious relics, a few pieces of furniture and family portraits that had escaped the inventory. I retained as my servant a former kitchen maid, a good and elderly countrywoman named Marguerite whom I had originally brought from Picardy and who was devoted to me.

I was left with only two thousand francs by way of income; that was almost destitution after the fortune I had once had, but I possessed two great riches, two splendours, which rose above and illuminated any mean and vulgar troubles as a beautiful sun casts its rays over the plain. I had a magnificent child, a son of seven, surrounding me with laughter and activity, and I had in my heart a profound love, blind as hope and as fortifying as faith. This love meant everything to me, and I believed in it the way the pious believe in God! You can imagine how much I depended on it to give me the strength to live in what was considered to be poverty, and how indifferent I felt towards everything apart from this man and my joys as a mother. However, the person who inspired this love in me was something of a mythical figure to my friends. He was only ever seen in my home at rare intervals. He lived, far away in the country, wholly devoted to his art, working at what was to be a great book, he said. I was the confidante of this unknown genius. Every day his letters arrived, and every two months, when a portion of his task was complete, I became once more his beloved recompense, his radiant joy, the fleeting frenzy of his heart, which strangely was able to open and close to these powerful feelings at will.

I had had so many illusions swept away during the dismal years of my marriage; I had found myself, up to the age of thirty, in such a sad state of isolation that this love, when it arrived, became everything to me, and I thought it the affirmation of life I had so vainly longed for.

I was emerging from darkness; this flame dazzled and blinded me. It had shone on me at first as a forbidden happiness during my days of imprisonment; once free, I rushed towards it as if towards the hearth-place of all heat and all light. The telling of this story obliges me to touch on this image, which has turned to ashes, and to give it a body. I shall do so with discretion, for if it is sinister to call up the dead from their tombs, it is even more so to call up the dead from their lives.