so. They ran down people
instinctively. They were eminently literary men. They were also artistic
writers, and had even invented "artistic writing," but they had very
little in common with George Sand's attitude of mind. To her the theory
of art for the sake of art had always seemed a very hollow theory. She
wrote as well as she could, but she never dreamed of the profession of
writing having anything in common with an acrobatic display.

In September, 1863, the Goncourt brothers again speak of George Sand,
telling us about her life at Nohant, or rather putting the account they
give into the mouth of Theophile Gautier. He had just returned from
Nohant, and he was asked if it was amusing at George Sand's.

"Just as amusing as a monastery of the Moravian brotherhood," he
replies. "I arrived there in the evening, and the house is a long way
from the station. My trunk was put into a thicket, and on arriving
I entered by the farm in the midst of all the dogs, which gave me a
fright. . . ."

As a matter of fact, Gautier's arrival at Nohant had been quite a
dramatic poem, half tragic and half comic. Absolute freedom was the rule
of Nohant. Every one there read, wrote, or went to sleep according
to his own will and pleasure. Gautier arrived in that frame of mind
peculiar to the Parisian of former days. He considered that he had given
a proof of heroism in venturing outside the walls of Paris. He therefore
expected a hearty welcome. He was very much annoyed at his reception,
and was about to start back again immediately, when George Sand was
informed of his arrival. She was extremely vexed at what had happened,
and exclaimed, "But had not any one told him how stupid I am!"

The Goncourt brothers asked Gautier what life at Nohant was like.

"Luncheon is at ten," he replied, "and when the finger was on the hour,
we all took our seats. Madame Sand arrived, looking like a somnambulist,
and remained half asleep all through the meal. After luncheon we went
into the garden and played at _cochonnet_. This roused her, and she
would then sit down and begin to talk."

It would have been more exact to say that she listened, as she was not
a great talker herself. She had a horror of a certain kind of
conversation, of that futile, paradoxical and spasmodic kind which is
the speciality of "brilliant talkers." Sparkling conversation of this
sort disconcerted her and made her feel ill at ease. She did not
like the topic to be the literary